Behaving Badly

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Why did you call her that then?’ asked Marcus, mystified.

  ‘Can’t you see the resemblance?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ he said judiciously. ‘The nose is slightly different—’ Lily looked offended.

  ‘No. Not the face. It’s the hair. It’s because she’s got long silky hair and because she’s worth it, aren’t you, poppet?’ Jennifer grunted. ‘And puppy’s name is Gwyneth Paltrow, for exactly the same reason.’

  ‘You can’t call her that,’ said Marcus. ‘Everyone knows Jennifer Aniston and Gwyneth Paltrow don’t get on.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Phyllis. ‘They fell out over Brad Pitt. Gwyneth Paltrow can’t stand Jennifer Lopez either,’ she added knowledgeably.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Jane. ‘She’s still furious about Ben Affleck apparently. Did you see that piece in Hello!?’

  ‘Look, can we please take this puppy party seriously?’ I said.

  ‘All right,’ said Marcus. ‘Anyway, I’m Marcus Longman and I work in the film industry.’

  ‘Oh really?’ they all said. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Are you a director?’ asked Lily.

  ‘No. I do stunt-work.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ she breathed. ‘So you’re a stuntman?’ He nodded. That made sense, he was very fit and muscular-looking, as though he worked out a lot. ‘We must do something on that in Moi!—what have you worked on recently? Anything famous?’

  ‘Land Ahoy!’ I felt sick.

  ‘I’ve heard that’s going to be splendid,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘It is—it’s brilliant,’ said Lily. My stomach turned over. ‘I’ve seen a preview tape.’

  ‘And why did you choose Twiglet, Marcus?’ I persisted, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘Because Jack Russells are intelligent, lively and brave. And because I thought we might be able to do some fun things together.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Parachuting, kayaking, a bit of hang-gliding, maybe.’

  Lily rolled her huge black eyes. ‘But dogs don’t do those kinds of things.’

  ‘They do. My last Jack Russell used to go surfing—he loved it—he had his own wetsuit. He used to go sky-diving with me too. Not solo obviously—we’d be strapped together. But then, sadly, last year, he had his accident.’

  ‘What happened?’ we all asked, bracing ourselves.

  ‘He twisted his back getting out of bed. In any case he was my girlfriend’s dog, and she kept him when she left. But that’s why I got Twiglet.’

  ‘Do you still see your old dog?’ asked Phyllis. ‘I do hope so. He must miss you.’

  ‘I get access visits. It’s not too bad.’

  ‘Can we please stop barking—I mean, talking,’ I said, trying to reassert my authority. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’

  A respectful hush fell, punctuated only by a solitary ‘yap’.

  ‘Now,’ I continued. ‘The purpose of these puppy parties is to socialize the puppies right from the start so that they’re not fazed by anything in later life. So what we’re going to do first is to play Pass the Puppy. I want you to pass your puppy one person to your left, and then I want you all to look in the puppy’s ears, just as the vet might do, and feel its paws; have a look in its mouth, and its eyes; generally feel its coat and rub its tummy, which is its most vulnerable part. By the time your puppy has been handled by nine strangers over a period of five weeks it’ll be well on its way to becoming a pleasant, responsible and well-adjusted canine citizen. So—pass the puppy please.’

  ‘—Oh isn’t it sweet!’

  ‘—No, please don’t hold her like that—like this.’

  ‘—Oow—sharp little teeth.’

  ‘—Careful! Don’t drop him!’

  ‘—I’m not dropping him.’

  ‘—Bye-bye, my little darling. See you soon!’

  Then we had a bite inhibition session followed by a general discussion about common behavioural problems and how to avoid them; then I talked about nutrition, and, finally, we had problem-sharing.

  ‘Is anyone having any particular difficulties?’ I asked.

  ‘The house-training’s not easy,’ said Sue with a sigh.

  ‘He won’t come when I call,’ said John.

  ‘I’m so exhausted from the nights,’ said Jane. ‘Sooty wakes at least three times.’

  ‘Bentley does that too.’

  ‘I feel so inadequate to the task,’ Sue sniffed. There were suddenly tears in her eyes. ‘I feel so helpless. The awful responsibility of it all. This tiny little thing who depends on me, and who I love so much,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel totally—uh-uh—overwhelmed.’

  ‘You’ve got post-puppy depression,’ said Lily as she handed Sue a tissue. ‘I had that with Jennifer. It doesn’t last. Maybe you should see your doctor,’ she added helpfully.

  ‘It’s because it’s your first one,’ said John. ‘Most people feel like that with their first,’ he added sympathetically.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Phyllis said. ‘Don’t worry, Sue. I’m sure you’ll be a very good mother.’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry,’ they all said. ‘You’ll be great.’

  At nine they all began to drift away, with promises of puppy play-dates with each other.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Marcus warmly. ‘Twiglet loved it, didn’t you Twiggers?’

  I smiled. Marcus might be a bit annoying but he was very friendly. He was also rather attractive.

  ‘So, who did you stand in for on Land Ahoy!?’ Lily enquired. ‘Was it Alexander Darke? He’s rather gorgeous.’

  ‘No. I doubled for Joe Fenton—the guy who plays first mate. I spent most of the shoot being thrown overboard—into the North Sea, unfortunately, rather than the Caribbean. Still, that’s what I get paid to do.’ He handed me an A5-sized flyer. You CAN Defend Yourself! it announced.

  ‘What’s this, Marcus?’

  ‘I’m going to be running some short self-defence courses from next month in a church hall near Tottenham Court Road. So if you know anyone who’d be interested in coming along, then maybe you’d help spread the word?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I will.’

  ‘Anyway, I’d better be off.’ He tucked Twiglet into the top of his jumper again. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘See you,’ said Lily. She went to the window and watched him cycle away. ‘What a charming man,’ she said, as I began to fold up the chairs. ‘He’s quite good-looking too. Apart from the broken nose. I really must do something on stuntmen,’ she added as she opened her bag. ‘And when can we do you, Miranda?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘The interview for Moi!’ She whipped out her diary.

  ‘I didn’t think you were serious.’

  ‘Of course I’m serious. I’d write it myself only I haven’t got time. What day?’

  ‘Oh. Well…’ I was thrilled. ‘Any day, really—except Friday, as that’s the day I go filming.’

  ‘How about next Tuesday then?’

  I glanced at my calendar. ‘Tuesday would be great. Could we make it after four though, as I’ve got my last appointment at two thirty.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Lily scribbled it down. ‘I’ll tell India Carr to come up here at four thirty, then I’ll get the photographer to give you a call. Now who shall I get? Let’s see…’ She bounced the end of her pen against her teeth. ‘Johnny van der Veldt? Hmm, I think he’s away. Jake Green? Too pricey. Hamish Cassell? No—he’s been working for Vogue, the treacherous little beast.’

  I stopped folding the chairs. ‘You want a photographer?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was just thinking aloud. Don’t worry,’ she put her diary away. ‘The picture editor will sort it out.’ I looked at her. ‘We’ll be off then—my driver’s waiting—and I’ve got to get this little baby into her bed.’ She snapped on Jennifer’s diamanté-studded lead, then smiled. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘Can I make a suggestion, Lily?’ She turned round. ‘For a photographer
?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  Adrenaline surged through my veins like fire. ‘How about… David White?’

  ‘David White?’ she repeated. She blinked twice.

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘You mean D.J. White? That David White?’

  ‘Erm, yes,’ I said uncertainly. ‘Him.’

  ‘This one?’ She’d picked up my copy of the Guardian G2 section. On the front was a photo of a Pakistani boy—he looked no more than five years old—working at a carpet loom. In the top right-hand corner I read, Photo: D.J. White. ‘But he’s a photojournalist,’ said Lily. ‘This is the kind of thing he does.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course. Oh well—never mind. I don’t know much about photographers, actually,’ I said. ‘In fact I don’t know anything about them at all, but I just happened to have heard his name recently so I thought, you know, why not mention him just in case it was a helpful suggestion and—’

  ‘But it is!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘It’s a very helpful suggestion, actually. In fact—it’s absolutely brilliant. Yes. D.J. White, distinguished photojournalist, doing portraits for a fashion mag. That might give it a bit of an edge. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. D.J. White doing the glossies. Very edgy. Did I tell you you’re a genius, Miranda?’ she added casually.

  ‘Er, you did, actually.’

  ‘Good.’ She swept out. ‘Because you are.’

  CHAPTER 6

  But was it the same David White? The next morning, heart pounding, I phoned the two other photographers of the same name. Although they sounded slightly suspicious at being contacted, they both told me that, no, they’d never lived in Brighton.

  ‘It is him,’ I said to Herman as I replaced the handset after the second call. ‘It’s got to be. He’s the right one. The White one,’ I quipped frivolously. I felt curiously happy.

  ‘So you engineered the introduction,’ said Daisy when she phoned me on her way to work ten minutes later. I could hear her heels snapping on the pavement. ‘That was bold.’

  ‘I just decided to go for it, in case he was the same one and, as it turns out, he must be.’

  ‘It’ll make the whole thing much easier,’ she said above the rumble of the traffic. ‘The fact that he’s got to take your picture first will mean that there’ll be a connection between you, which is far less awkward than phoning him up cold. Can you get any more info on him before Tuesday?’

  ‘I’ve looked at his website and there’s no personal stuff. It just says that he was born in 1967—which fits, age-wise; that he trained at the City Poly, and that he worked for Reuters for ten years before going freelance.’

  ‘And how do you feel about meeting him?’ Meeting him. My stomach did a somersault.

  ‘Sick. But I also feel strangely cheerful,’ I added. ‘Excited, almost.’

  ‘That’s because you know you’re doing the right thing.’

  I wondered what the consequences of doing the right thing might be—they could well be catastrophic—but I couldn’t worry about that now. ‘And what about Nigel?’ I asked. I could hear the shrill beeps of the pelican crossing.

  ‘He came back from Bonn last night. Obviously I didn’t want to have any delicate discussions with him then, as he was tired. But I will. Soon,’ she said. ‘Definitely. I’ve just got to get him in the right mood.’

  ‘Hmm. Of course.’

  ‘But I’m not going to ask him this weekend as he’s decided to have a barbecue while the weather holds—in fact, will you come? That’s my main reason for ringing.’

  ‘Yes, okay then.’ I saw the postman walk by.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got a wedding to organize,’ she added dismally. ‘The reception’s at the Savoy. A hundred for a sit-down. Six bridesmaids. Honeymoon in Galapagos. See you on Saturday night.’

  I pulled three envelopes from the brass jaw of the letter-box. There was a council-tax demand and the Animal Crackers filming schedule, and finally the form I’d been promised by the police. I quickly filled it in, then posted it. How long was it now? Six weeks. I looked in my hand mirror—the bruising had gone and these days my ribs only ached if I coughed. I’d been very lucky in some ways, I thought—unlike David, who would bear his scars for the rest of his life.

  I spent the morning with a shy hamster in Hampstead—the little boy was upset because it didn’t like being handled—then I went to see a distressed budgie called Tweetie in Crouch Hill. It had plucked so many feathers from its chest it looked oven-ready.

  ‘Is he trying to commit suicide?’ the elderly man asked, visibly upset.

  ‘No, he’s just rather unhappy.’ Another tiny yellow plume fluttered down.

  ‘But he’s got a nice big cage there, and a cuttlefish, and lots of toys.’

  ‘Yes. But there’s something he needs much more than any of those things.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ He looked mystified.

  ‘Another budgie. Budgies should never be kept on their own. In the wild they’re flock birds, so they need company.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, mystified. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘So I strongly recommend that you get him a friend as soon as possible and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t cheer up.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But please let me know what happens.’

  ‘Yes. I will. I’ll get myself down to the pet shop today. Now I must pay you.’ He got out his wallet.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been here five minutes and I was in the neighbourhood anyway, and to be honest I could have told you this over the phone, but I was a little…distracted this morning.’ In fact, I’m distracted most of the time.

  ‘Oh well.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks very much. But I’d like to give you something.’ He went over to the sideboard, and opened the door.

  ‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘There’s no need.’ Then he produced a small, square book.

  ‘I published this myself a few years ago.’ He handed it to me. It was called One-Minute Wisdom. ‘It’s just a book of maxims which have helped me through life. I didn’t sell that many, to be honest, so now I just give them away.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ I quickly flicked through it—it was full of home-spun wisdom and comforting clichés. Expect the best, plan for the worst; self-knowledge is the first step towards contentment. ‘It looks very consoling.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the idea.’

  I went home, glad that I’d been able to help the man, but feeling cross with his pet shop for not giving him the budgie basics. As I parked, I glanced in the mirror behind me and again saw that strikingly pretty blonde girl walking out of the Mews. I’d seen her several times now and I couldn’t help wondering who she was. She had a sheet of white-blonde hair, pale skin and enormous blue eyes. In fact, she looked like the Timotei ad. I saw her so often I guessed she must work here, though she never smiled like the others did. I opened the door, and as Herman trotted up to greet me, his brows knitted in consternation as usual, I saw the answerphone flashing. I pressed play.

  ‘Hello, Miranda. Dad here.’ Although he uses American expressions, he still sounds so English. ‘I’ll be arriving on Sunday, but just to let you know that I’m going straight down to Sussex. But I’ll be coming to town in the next few days on club business so I hope to see you soon.’ Then, with a ‘whirr’, the tape spooled on.

  ‘Hi, Miranda,’ said an unknown male voice. Who was this? He was American. Maybe he was a new client. ‘This is David White here.’ My heart stopped. ‘I’m just calling to arrange the shoot for next week. I know you’re being interviewed Tuesday at four…’ He pronounced it ‘Toosday’. ‘So I’m hoping to drop by after that. Anyway, here are my contact numbers so please give me a call.’ He pronounced it ‘gimme’. I pressed play again, then again. By the time I’d listened to the message five times I knew that I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t the same David White—it couldn’t be. The David White I was looking
for was definitely British. I felt disappointed, then suddenly relieved. I phoned the number he’d left and briefly spoke to him—he sounded pleasant, but slightly brusque.

  ‘See you six o’clock then,’ he said.

  ‘Hi!’ said Daisy, as she opened Nigel’s front door on Saturday evening. ‘You’re the first to arrive.’

  ‘Good—that’s why I’ve come early, so I could talk to you. He was the wrong one,’ I said quietly. ‘He’s American. Or maybe Canadian.’

  She looked crestfallen. ‘Oh. Well, that’s the problem, it’s quite a common name.’

  ‘Plus the fact that the David White I’m looking for might not even be a photographer any more. That information is from years ago. He could be a pilot now, for all I know, or a personal trainer—or a concert pianist. No, probably not a concert pianist,’ I corrected myself bitterly.

  Daisy winced. ‘Then we’ll have to try another approach. Maybe you could get a private detective to find him.’

  ‘It would be expensive and I don’t have the cash. Hi, Nigel!’ He’d suddenly come upstairs from the basement. He’s a bit taller than Daisy with short, fair hair—which is thinning on top—and pale blue eyes. He’s attractive, but a bit paunchy, or rather reassuringly ‘solid’.

  ‘How nice to see you,’ he said.

  As I say, I like Nigel. I always have. But I’d like him more if he proposed to my friend. ‘Daisy would quite like to know whether or not you’re ever going to marry her,’ I ventured as he walked towards me. ‘After all, she’s been with you five years. Five and a half years, actually, which is quite long enough, and it’s getting critical because she’d like to have kids. So if you don’t want to share the rest of your life with her it’d be kind of you to tell her because, sadly, she’s too romantic—and too scared—to ask.’

  I didn’t really say that; I just said, ‘Nice to see you too, Nigel.’ He gave me a fraternal kiss.

  We went downstairs into the large basement kitchen, with its limed wood units and terracotta tiles, and its smart conservatory dining extension in which a variety of bonsai trees were displayed. As Daisy prepared the Pimm’s, I politely admired them. Nigel smiled with an almost paternal pride.