by Isabel Wolff
‘Okay, everyone,’ I said after I’d done the roll call. ‘Welcome again, and let’s play Pass the Puppy.’
‘I can’t help feeling we should be doing this to music,’ said Lily as she passed Gwyneth, yapping, to her left.
‘—I say, Alfie’s grown.’
‘—I think Cosmo’s second teeth are coming through.’
‘—Bentley’s widdled on me!’
‘—He doesn’t usually do that.’
‘—Where’s the kitchen roll?’
We discussed the importance of identi-chipping and poop-scooping, then, finally, we had problem-sharing again.
‘And how are things going with Lola, Sue?’ I asked her.
‘Oh, it’s getting much better,’ she said. ‘I mean, I have my good days and my bad days…’ Everyone nodded sympathetically. ‘But I don’t feel nearly as stressed.’
‘You’ve got to get them in a routine,’ said Phyllis, bouncing Maisie on her lap. ‘That’s the key to it.’
‘That’s right,’ everyone murmured as they cradled their puppies. ‘You’ve got to get them in a routine.’
‘Okay, so, see you all next week then,’ I said.
‘Must dash,’ said Marcus, as he waved at everyone. He tucked Twiglet into his jumper. ‘Twiggers and I have got a hot date.’
‘Oh that sounds exciting,’ said Phyllis. ‘New girlfriend?’ Marcus nodded. ‘Oh good.’ He opened his wallet and showed her a snap. I didn’t want to appear nosey, so I didn’t look, though I was curious.
‘What do you think?’ I heard him say.
‘Well, she’s very pretty,’ said Phyllis approvingly.
‘She is. She’s gorgeous. She’s a jewellery designer,’ he explained as he put the photo back. ‘Glass necklaces. They’re made out of tiny little beads. She strings them herself,’ he added proudly.
‘Really?’
‘She’s very successful. She sells them in Liberty’s.’
‘I say. And how did you meet her?’
‘In the chemist’s by Chalk Farm tube. She was waiting for a prescription and I was buying some Strepsils and we got chatting.’
‘How romantic.’
‘It was. Because it wasn’t actually my local chemist, as I live in Camden. But I’d just dropped in there because I had a bit of a scratchy throat—and there she was. This vision.’
‘That’s a lovely story,’ Phyllis said. ‘Anyway, we mustn’t keep you, Marcus. Maisie, say bye-bye to Twiglet.’ Maisie emitted a cross between a squeak and a yap. Marcus left, then Lily came up to me.
‘I had no idea you’d been engaged to Alexander Darke,’ she whispered, her large brown eyes goggling. I nodded. ‘That’s absolutely brilliant,’ she said. I looked at her blankly. ‘I mean, for the piece. It’s fantastic copy.’
‘Oh. Good,’ I said dismally.
‘And how was the great D.J.?’
‘He was…fine.’
‘He can be notoriously tricky—the snappy snapper. Was he like that with you?’
‘A bit.’
‘I’ve met him a couple of times, but I found him so uncommunicative. You’d get more conversation out of a corpse. I think it’s something to do with what happened to him,’ she went on confidentially. ‘I’m sure you must have noticed his hands.’
‘I, no, not really, I…’
‘The poor darling had this dreadful experience. Years ago, his father was sent a letter-bomb by the animal rights crazies—not that I disagree with them on every issue—but anyway, D.J. opened it instead and Boom!’. Her eyes had opened as wide as windows. ‘Hence those awful scars. They say he’s never been the same.’ I felt sick. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be, would you?’ I wished she’d shut up. ‘They say that’s why his marriage didn’t last.’ I looked at her. ‘He was married to this Polish model.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely gorgeous—but she’d had enough after a year. She claimed he hardly ever talked to her. I can well imagine it. Anyway,’ she put Gwyneth in her puppy basket, and tugged on Jennifer’s lead. ‘My driver’s waiting, Miranda. Bye!’
That night I hardly slept. Lily’s words kept buzzing around my head like trapped bees bouncing against a windowpane: ‘never been the same—well you wouldn’t be, would you—never been the same—BOOM!’ I eventually fell asleep at about six and was woken by the phone—it was Daisy on her way to work.
‘At last I can talk to you,’ she said over the dull rumble of the rush hour. ‘I’ve been so frantic—we’re doing a Bollywood ball and I’ve been trying to find a couple of elephants. So how’s it all going? The search?’
‘I’ve found him,’ I said.
‘You’ve found him?’
‘Yes. That photographer—the one I said wasn’t the right one.’ I hauled myself into a sitting position. ‘Well, it turns out he is. The reason why he sounds American is because he grew up in the States.’
‘Christ,’ she exclaimed. ‘You must have got a shock when you realized.’
‘I did—about ten million volts.’
‘And what was he like?’
‘He was a bit…difficult,’ I said. ‘But then it was a very stressful encounter—not that he would have understood why.’ On my bedside table was his business card. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. ‘But I also thought he was…nice.’
‘What does he look like?’ she said as I heard a bicycle bell tinkling aggressively in the background. I described him to her.
‘Gosh, he sounds rather attractive.’
‘He…is. Though he’s very brooding and watchful—he doesn’t exactly put you at your ease.’
‘And was it weird, being photographed by him?’
‘It was terrifying. I gibbered like a maniac to begin with. But then, somehow, once he was behind the camera, this change came over him and he seemed to relax. As though he was able to talk to me then.’
‘How long was he with you?’
I pulled up the blind and my room filled with sunlight. ‘About an hour.’
‘And was it…obvious…?’ she asked tactfully.
‘Oh yes. There are scars. You can see. But Christ, Daisy…’ I looked out of the window and my vision blurred with sudden tears, ‘he could have lost fingers—or worse. He could have been blinded. That’s always been part of the nightmare for me—not knowing how seriously he’d been hurt. As it is, his hands are okay, but they’re just,’ my throat was aching, ‘…scarred. And I did that to him,’ I wept. ‘And it was such a huge shock—actually seeing it—seeing the damage I’d caused.’
‘So you obviously didn’t…tell him then.’
I wiped my eyes with the cuff of my nightshirt. ‘No. Not yet. But I will. Now that I’ve met him I can’t possibly not tell him. So I’m going to call him soon. Very soon. But I’ve just got to steel myself first. It isn’t going to be easy,’ I sniffed. ‘In fact it’s going to be very hard.’
‘You sound a bit like me,’ she said ruefully, ‘with Nigel.’
‘So you still haven’t spoken to him?’
‘No. As I say, I’ve been busy and so has he. He had his advanced bonsai cultivation on Monday, and I had indoor climbing on Tuesday, then last night I was at the Trail to Timbuktu extravaganza and he was working late because he really wants to get Equity Partnership soon. But I will speak to him. Definitely. Any day now…’
‘Hmm.’
‘But you ring David. In your own time. When you feel absolutely ready, Miranda—you ring him.’
I didn’t have to, because, to my great surprise—he phoned me.
I was with a client down in Kingston later that day—a lop-eared house-rabbit.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked his owner, as she passed me a biscuit. She brushed a crumb off her twin-set.
‘Bob.’
‘Short for Bobtail?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No. Robert.’
‘Oh, of course.’ I opened my pad and began to take notes. ‘Bob the bunny,’ I scribbled. ‘And he’s four months old?’
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‘He is. And most of the time he’s a very pleasant and well-mannered young rabbit,’ she said approvingly as she sipped her tea. ‘But recently he’s become extremely demanding, haven’t you, Bob?’ She wagged an admonitory finger at him as he sat next to her on the sofa, washing his face.
‘In what way?’ I asked as he did his toilette. He licked his forepaws then wiped them several times over his eyes and nose.
‘Well, during the day he has the run of the house,’ she explained. ‘He’s litter-trained. But he sleeps in his play-pen at night. And when I come downstairs in the morning I usually feed him before I do anything else, and give him a bit of fuss. But lately I’ve noticed that if it isn’t convenient for me to do that right away because the phone rings, or my little girl needs me, he goes totally berserk.’ I looked at Bob. He was washing his ears now, carefully pulling them down over his face.
‘Berserk?’ I repeated. ‘How?’
‘He throws a huge wobbly. He grabs the bars of his cage and shakes them, or he goes over to his pile of toys and throws them about. He’s got some wooden bricks and he hurls them all over the place. It’s quite frightening, actually.’
‘Hmm, I can imagine.’ I visualized a notice outside the house—Beware of the Rabbit.
‘It’s a sort of hysteria,’ she observed. ‘Sometimes I think it’s like he’s going through the “terrible twos”.’
‘Well, you’re not far off the mark. He is having toddler tantrums—or the lapine equivalent of them—because he’s just learning, to his horror, that the world doesn’t always go according to his plan. He’s shocked to find that he can’t have a carrot or a cuddle exactly when he wants it—so he sulks, or he vents his frustration in physical ways. It’s what we call “redirected aggression”.’
‘I see.’
And I was just explaining that he’d almost certainly grow out of it, and it was nothing to worry about, when my mobile rang.
‘Miranda?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s David here.’ My stomach did a somersault. ‘Miranda? Are you there?’
‘Ye-es. Yes. Hello.’
‘Are you busy at the moment?’
‘Well, a bit—I’m with a client.’ I glanced at the woman, who was now hunting for her handbag, Bob dangling under her left arm.
‘What species?’
‘Erm—oryctolagus cuniculus.’
‘Wabbit,’ he said.
‘Very good,’ I laughed.
‘I had one when I was a kid. I used to pride myself on being able to say that.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘So…have they come out well?’ I asked. ‘The photographs?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t printed them yet. That’s not why I’m ringing.’
‘Oh.’
‘No, I was just phoning you…’
There was another tiny silence. ‘Yes?’
‘Well… I was…sorry that I didn’t have that beer with you on Tuesday.’
Oh. ‘Oh, well, don’t worry, David—that’s fine.’
‘So, I just…wondered if you’d like to come out for a beer with me?’
He’s asking me out? My heart did a swallow dive. ‘O-kay…’
‘In fact, I was wondering if you were free tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘But I guess you’re busy,’ he added casually. ‘It’s such short notice and you probably have plans.’
‘No, I’m not doing anything. That would be…nice. Um, where did you have in mind?’
‘Well, we could go somewhere near you, or, if you don’t mind coming over to Clerkenwell, there’s the St John restaurant. They’ve got a very good menu.’
‘Yes, I could come over there. So you mean dinner, then?’ I added uncertainly.
‘I guess I do mean that. You do eat dinner, I hope?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. Dinner’s fine.’ Then, over pudding, I’ll tell you the terrible truth about myself…
‘That’s great then.’
And you’ll loathe me for the rest of your life.
‘I’ll book the table,’ I heard him say, ‘and I’ll only ring you back if I can’t get one, otherwise I’ll meet you there at, what, seven thirty? It’s at 26 St John Street.’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Great. See you there.’
The thought of seeing David had an odd effect on me. I felt relieved on one level—filled with terror on another—but at least it distracted me from Land Ahoy! I’d been dreading the first episode for weeks, but, as it was, I felt able to watch. That night I lay on my bed, with my tiny portable perched on the chest of drawers, clutching one of Herman’s wrinkly paws. As the opening music played, the name ‘Alexander Darke’ appeared, in a curlicued script, virtually filling the screen. He was playing the ship’s commander, Francis Flavell. And now there he was. There was Alexander. I felt my heart-rate increase as the camera panned in for a close-up. He looked so dignified as he strode about the quarterdeck in a gale, barking orders, his face streaming with spray and rain.
‘How does she steer, Mr Tree?’
‘Holding steady, Sir!’
‘Take her to windward, Mr Tree! To windward I say!’
And now the ship was creaking and listing as the sailors pulled on the rigging.
‘She’s run aground, Sir!’
‘Man the decks!’
During the commercial break, Daisy phoned me. ‘Are you watching it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said bleakly.
‘Do you feel okay?’
‘I feel…strange. I keep thinking, I was going to marry that man.’
‘Well, I must say I’m glad that you’re not. Anyway, what do you think?’
‘Well, objectively, I think he looks fantastic. There’s no doubt about it, Daisy,’ I added flatly. ‘This is going to make him a star.’
‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we’ll keep on seeing him and I don’t want to, after what he did. If people only knew…’ she added crossly. ‘Ooh, it’s starting again…’
The storm was still raging and one of the mainsails tore in two, like a tissue, then a human figure dropped into the swell.
‘Man overboard!’ one of the sailors screamed. ‘Man overboard! Mr Fenton’s gone in!’
‘I know that chap,’ I said to Daisy. ‘That guy who just fell in the sea. He’s a stuntman. He comes to my puppy parties.’
‘Does he?’
‘He does self-defence classes too.’
‘Really? Well, we must go to them, Miranda. Shall we do that?’
‘Okay,’ I said absently. ‘Why not?’
And now the camera cut to Alexander, who was ripping off his coat and leaping into the sea to save his first mate.
‘Look at that!’ Daisy shrieked. ‘Alexander’s jumping in after him. Can you believe it!’
‘That’s not really Alexander. That’s a stuntman too.’
‘Well, obviously,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I can take this,’ she added as there was a close-up of Alexander thrashing about in the water. ‘I seriously think I might puke.’
‘It’s only a drama, Daisy,’ I said wearily.
‘I know that. Anyway, I’m turning him off.’
I managed to watch it to the end, and, as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, I remembered how thrilled I’d been when Alexander got the part. He very nearly didn’t get it because the producers were worried that he wasn’t a big enough name. He had five screen tests—the whole agonizing process took over a month. But the casting director—who’d spotted him in The Tempest—insisted that he was the one. And then, at long last, Alexander’s agent phoned him to say that he’d got it. I remember shrieking with joy.
I’d felt so relieved for him—it was the big break he’d been waiting for—and I felt terribly proud. I’d often imagined how we would watch Land Ahoy! together, on the night it was screened; we’d probably throw a small party, just for close friends. But here I was, watching it with Herman, not having laid eyes on Alexander for nearly two months.
‘And you can see the second episode of Land Ahoy! at the same time next week,’ said the announcer over the final bars of the theme tune. I switched it off.
‘No thanks.’ Once was enough.
The next day I went filming for Animal Crackers; I had to drive out to Oxfordshire to film a pair of aggressive guard geese—they were vile—one of them nearly broke my arm. But it was frustrating because there was a tractor in the next field and every time I tried to do my piece to camera it would start up. Anyway, Clare, the producer, had a copy of The Times, and while we were hanging about I read the TV review. It was captioned Alexander the Great. Alexander Darke exuded heroism from every pore, the reviewer declared. I felt ill. He was public property now.
We eventually got the geese done, then we all drove to Bicester to film this goat which was having an identity crisis. It had convinced itself it was a horse. Finally, at half past six, I got home with Herman, exhausted, and contemplated the evening ahead. I left a message for Daisy, telling her that I was seeing David. Then I opened the wardrobe. What should I wear? I opted for a simple white dress and a lime green cashmere cardigan, and put a little mousse in my hair. I got the tube, because I wanted to have a drink—if not several—the only kind of courage I’d have would be Dutch. I’d looked up the restaurant. It was near Farringdon. At seven forty, I pushed on the door.
David was already there, at the bar in smart jeans and a white tee shirt with a blue linen jacket. He saw me and waved. We had a glass of champagne—I drank mine pretty quickly—then we went through to the dining room. It was refectory style, with white painted walls and simple wooden tables.
‘So here we are,’ he said as we were seated.
‘Here we are,’ I repeated. ‘It’s nice.’ The waiter brought us the menus.
‘They have some quite amazing things here,’ David said, as the waiter poured our mineral water. I glanced at the menu and felt suddenly sick. Rolled pig’s spleen. I read. Braised sweet-breads…fried calves’ brains…black pudding…roast bone marrow…boiled ox-tail…
‘Seen anything you like?’ I heard him ask.
‘David—’
‘What are chitterlings?’ he enquired.
‘A pig’s small intestines. David—’