Behaving Badly

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘That’s why you’re like this, Daisy. Because however much you’ve wanted it emotionally, you know, rationally, that marriage entails a loss of freedom. Hence your ambivalent feelings. Here—’ I handed her the sheaf of photos from the night before. She quickly flicked through them, frowning slightly.

  ‘You look so happy with David,’ she said wistfully. ‘You look happier than I do with Nigel.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’ As she finished with each photo I glanced at it again and I saw that Daisy did look tense and preoccupied, as though something was troubling her. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  ‘Miranda—’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miranda…’ She was staring at me with an intensity which took me aback.

  ‘What is it, Daisy?’

  ‘Well, I just wanted to ask you something, actually, I, er…’

  Suddenly the phone rang again. It was David to say he’d got to Paris. ‘I’m sorry about that, Daisy, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Well, I just wondered…’ She stared at me again. ‘I just wondered…’

  ‘Is there something the matter? If there is, you can tell me, Daisy—you know that.’

  She seemed to hesitate, then shook her head. ‘No. Nothing’s the matter.’ She heaved a painful sigh. ‘I just wondered when you’re going to tell David, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’ She made it sound so wonderfully simple. ‘This weekend. Definitely. I’ve decided. But I thought I’d told you that.’

  ‘You did. But which day? Saturday, or Sunday?’ What an odd question.

  ‘On Sunday,’ I replied. ‘He’s working on Saturday, so Sunday will be easier.’

  She nodded. ‘Well I think he’ll be fine. Now that I’ve actually met him, and seen you with him, I don’t think you have to worry. The apprehension of something difficult is always much worse than the thing itself, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It’s like a difficult test that you’ve got to pass. So how will you broach it?’ she added.

  ‘I’ll just sit him down after breakfast, and quietly tell him the whole story.’

  ‘And will you tell him that it was Jimmy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m hoping to avoid it.’

  ‘But David will want to know. And he’ll have the right to know, Miranda.’

  ‘I suppose so. But it would make me look vindictive—plus, I don’t want to hurt Caroline—and in any case this isn’t actually about Jimmy—it’s about me. My aim is simply to get it off my chest. The bigger problem I have is that David will want to know why Jimmy did it—and I won’t be able to tell him—because I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Welcome to Question Time,’ said David Dimbleby on Thursday. ‘Which this week comes to you, live, from the West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds. And our distinguished panellists this week are; the Shadow Secretary of State for Health, Liam Fox, the Independent MP, Martin Bell; the Bishop of London, Richard Charteris; the comedienne, Jenny Eclair; and finally, the Minister of State for Education, James Mulholland, MP. A warm welcome to you all.’ A floor manager in headphones held her hands aloft in a mock-clap and we produced a round of obedient applause.

  ‘And our first question is from Mrs Kay Spring, a retired biology teacher.’ I saw the microphone arm swing over our heads until it came to rest above Mrs Spring in the row behind.

  ‘Does the panel believe that the Government has badly misjudged public opinion on GM food?’ she asked.

  ‘Does the panel believe that the Government has badly misjudged public opinion on GM food,’ Dimbleby repeated. He peered over his half-moon glasses at Liam Fox. ‘Dr Fox? Will you please give us your views on this.’

  As Liam Fox began to hold forth, I stared at Jimmy, sitting on the right-hand side of the desk, hands clasped firmly in front, immaculate in his bespoke suit and yellow silk tie. From time to time he made the odd note, or took a sip of water, or narrowed his eyes in judicious fashion as he gave consideration to Fox’s views. I knew that he hadn’t spotted me, as I’d made certain to sit behind someone tall. As I glanced at the question card in my trembling hands, I mentally thanked Daisy for ringing her friend, Jo, a researcher, and making sure I got on the show.

  ‘Extreme caution needed…’ I heard Liam Fox say. ‘Scientific jury still out… Potential hazards yet to be identified…’ I saw Jimmy shake his head. Then we clapped Liam Fox and it was the turn of the Bishop, who expressed his disquiet at the idea of ‘Frankenstein foods’ and ‘corporate greed’—as indeed did all the panellists, with minor variations. Then it was Jimmy’s turn.

  ‘James,’ said David Dimbleby. ‘You studied science at university, didn’t you?’ Jimmy nodded. ‘In fact, my notes tell me you got a first-class degree.’ Jimmy modestly blushed. ‘So what’s your view on this?’

  ‘My view is that there is still not one shred of evidence to support the idea that genetically modified foods are harmful,’ he began confidently. ‘Indeed, opponents of GM, living in the rich West, choose to overlook the many benefits to the developing world that GM presents. Rice implanted with a gene enabling it to be grown in salt water; potatoes given a gene to make them resistant to blight; wheat implanted with a gene to prevent river blindness…’ His Master’s Voice, I remembered from the Guardian profile as Jimmy loyally spouted the Government’s line. He spoke with passion and moral indignation—as though he believed what he was saying—and maybe he did. But I knew that if the official line had been hostile to GM, he would have denounced it with equal zeal.

  Jimmy got a respectful round of applause, which prompted in him a slightly sorrowful half-smile, as though it had pained him to have to apprise the dimwits in the audience of these simple, but incontrovertible, facts.

  My mouth began to feel dry as the panellists took the next question—should the Congestion Charge be extended to other cities? Then there were questions on prisons, on asylum and crime. There was a question about civil liberties in the face of the terror threat. Then, heart pounding, I knew it was me.

  ‘And our final question is from Miranda Sweet, an animal behaviourist. Where are you, Miranda?’ David Dimbleby enquired as he peered into the audience. ‘Oh there you are, behind that very tall gentleman in the blue jumper.’ I saw the sound engineer coming towards me with the microphone and was aware, behind him, of Jimmy running a nervous finger under his collar. I took a deep breath.

  ‘And your question is about live exports?’ Dimbleby began as he glanced at his script. I was aware of the camera closing in on me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not. It was going to be, but I’d like to ask another question, if you don’t mind.’ Dimbleby was frowning, but I wasn’t going to be deflected.

  ‘Well, okay, go ahead.’

  ‘I’d like to ask James Mulholland why, in March 1987, as a recent science graduate, he sent a letter-bomb to Derek White, Professor of Biochemistry at Sussex University, causing grievous bodily harm to the Professor’s son, David?’

  A gasp rippled round the studio, like a Mexican wave. The other panellists were all staring at Jimmy, dumbfounded. Jimmy had gone deathly white.

  ‘Well, this is rather irregular,’ said Dimbleby. ‘But as we have three minutes left perhaps you could try to answer the question, James.’

  ‘Yes, answer the question,’ said Jenny Eclair.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Bishop. ‘We’d all like to know why you did such a terrible thing—if indeed you did do it.’

  ‘Oh, he did!’ I called out. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Then how did he ever become an MP?’ someone enquired from three rows in front of me.

  ‘—Yes—how did he become an MP?’

  ‘—What a shocking thing to do!’ I heard someone behind me say.

  ‘—Absolutely dreadful!’

  ‘—You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?’

  ‘—No, he looks so nice.’

  ‘Quiet please,’ said Dimbleby.
‘Please let James answer the question.’

  ‘Well…’ Jimmy began. I could see beads of sweat spangling his brow. ‘Well, I, er…deny absolutely Miss Sweet’s outrageous accusation.’

  ‘There’s no point denying it!’ I yelled. ‘Because I’m willing to swear an affidavit that you did it—because I was there at the time—as I’m quite sure you remember, Jimmy.’

  ‘My name is James,’ he said. ‘And this is an entirely uncorroborated allegation. I shall sue you for libel, Miranda!’

  ‘Go on then—you won’t win!’

  ‘But we want to know if it’s true,’ said Liam Fox, as he stared at Jimmy.

  ‘We certainly do,’ insisted Martin Bell. ‘What you did—if true—was a dreadful crime.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ I yelled. ‘He’s got away with it for sixteen years, but he’s not going to get away with it now. So come on, Jimmy, just answer the question and tell us all why you did it.’ In the background I was aware of a bell ringing.

  ‘And I’m afraid that bell brings us to the end of this week’s edition of Question Time,’ said David Dimbleby smoothly. Oddly, the bell was still ringing. Except that it wasn’t a bell, I now realized—it was a phone. Why on earth didn’t someone pick it up? ‘So do join us again at the same time next week, when the programme comes from Swansea. Until then, goodbye.’

  The phone was still ringing—I couldn’t stand it. I reached out my left hand, my head swimming as I surfaced now from my dream. I felt disturbed by it, but also curiously happy. If only I could expose Jimmy like that in real life.

  ‘Hello,’ I croaked into the mouthpiece, my mouth as dry as sandpaper.

  ‘Is that Miss Sweet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cooper here from CID. I’m sorry to ring you so early.’ I looked at the clock—it was eight thirty. ‘But there’s been a development with your case.’

  I pushed off the duvet. ‘What’s happened? Have you caught them?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But I believe we’ve found your engagement ring.’

  ‘Really?’ I swung my legs out of bed. ‘Where?’

  ‘In a pawnbroker’s in Kilburn.’

  ‘And are you sure it’s mine?’

  ‘Quite sure. It’s a solitaire diamond, with an eighteen-carat gold band. And inside is the inscription, Admired Miranda!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I breathed. ‘That’s my ring.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be very pleased to have it back,’ he said. ‘You can come and collect it whenever you want. Would you like to call in today?’

  I released the blind, then stared out of the window. ‘No.’

  ‘How about tomorrow, then?’

  ‘No. Not tomorrow either. In fact, I won’t be coming at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I don’t want the ring back.’

  ‘You don’t want it back?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But it’s very valuable, Miss Sweet.’

  Not to me. ‘I daresay.’

  ‘Well, what should be done with it then?’

  ‘I’d like you to send it to my former fiancé, Alexander Darke. I’ll write you a letter authorizing you to do this and confirming his name and address, which I believe you already have from the statement he gave you.’

  ‘Well, all right, Miss Sweet. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am sure. But thank you for letting me know.’

  I had no wish to see the ring again, with its bitter associations. Alexander could have the inscription erased and sell it—or he could give it to someone else. Admired Miranda! I thought bitterly. I’d been anything but admirable. As David was about to find out.

  The next two days passed slowly. I had a number of calls from David in between shoots, then on Wednesday was the fifth and final puppy party. I’ll miss the group, I thought, as I put round the chairs—they’re one of the nicest I’ve ever had. I left the front door ajar, as I usually do, so that they could just come straight in without knocking, when the phone rang. It was Mum, sounding happier than usual.

  ‘Darling, I’m so thrilled about Daisy’s engagement, and I just wanted you to pass on a message to her. I thought she might like to have a llama trek hen party—don’t you think that would be fun? I’ve just thought of it.’

  ‘It does sound quite novel.’

  ‘It would be free, of course—I’ll do the picnic—all she’d have to provide is the champagne. But I’m thinking about developing it as a commercial idea so will you ask her if she’d like to do a test drive?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Maybe I could get something in Brides magazine,’ she mused. ‘Or even Harpers and Queen. By the way, what’s the name of that chap you mentioned, at the Independent on Sunday?’

  ‘Tim…hang on.’ I groped for his card in my desk drawer. ‘Tim Charlton. He’s working on the diary but he’ll point you in the right direction for feature coverage.’ I heard her scribble it down.

  ‘And the other thing I thought of, on the wedding front, is that Daisy might want to borrow Carlos for the big day. He’d make the most perfect usher. Tell her he’ll stand outside the church before the service and after, with a garland of flowers round his neck, looking very sweet and nuptial. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Well, it could look lovely, especially as he’s white, but—’ I felt a sudden breeze on the back of my legs as the door was pushed open, ‘—Daisy’s probably getting married in December, Mum.’ I turned and saw Marcus standing there with Twiglet, and waved at them. ‘Yes, that’s right. So if it’s wet, Carlos might end up looking less than pristine. But I’ll tell her you suggested it, okay? Anyway, I can’t chat now, my puppy party’s starting… Yes, all right…hmm… I’ll speak to you soon.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Marcus. He was looking at me in a slightly odd way. ‘Are you okay?’ I said to him.

  ‘Er, yes. I’m…fine. I’m er…sorry… I didn’t mean to eavesdrop just now, but it was difficult not to overhear. Did I…did I hear you say that, erm… Daisy’s getting married?’

  ‘Yes. She’s just got engaged.’

  He nodded slowly, as though he found the news disconcerting, somehow. ‘Oh. She didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t know last Thursday,’ I explained. ‘It only happened on Saturday so she wouldn’t have had a chance to mention it yet.’

  ‘On Saturday?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’ His face expressed a mixture of puzzlement and disappointment. ‘So she got engaged on Saturday?’

  ‘Hmm. Saturday night.’

  ‘To, er, Nigel?’

  ‘That’s…right. She obviously mentioned him to you.’

  ‘Yes…she did.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure she’ll tell you herself at the self-defence class. Speaking of which, I won’t be coming along again tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry, but I feel it’s a bit silly for me to do the last one when I haven’t done the first three. Perhaps you’ll do another course,’ I went on as I put down the water bowl.

  ‘Yes,’ he said absently. ‘Maybe. I mean, probably.’

  ‘I’ll come to the next one, then. Daisy says the classes are wonderful.’

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes—she’s absolutely adored them.’

  This seemed to cheer him momentarily. ‘Well…just let me know.’

  Then Lily swept in, and Sue and Lola, and by ten past seven we were passing the puppies as usual.

  ‘—It’s not quite so easy now, is it?’

  ‘—No, they’ve really grown.’

  ‘—Bentley’s doubled in size.’

  ‘—And Roxy’s quite a little porker—aren’t you, darling?’

  ‘—Don’t worry—it’s just puppy fat.’

  ‘You’ve been a wonderful group,’ I said at the end. ‘I’ll miss seeing you here on Wednesday evenings.’

  ‘Well, we’l
l miss coming,’ said Phyllis. ‘I know Maisie will be very sad, but she’s got to go to big school now, haven’t you, Maisie?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve all got to go to big school,’ everyone said.

  ‘That’s right. But we’ll have Puppy Olympics on Primrose Hill for them after Christmas, so we’ll all catch up again then. But please do knock on the door, any time you’re round here.’

  ‘See you, Marcus,’ I said as he put Twiglet’s lead on. ‘Well, I probably will see you, won’t I?’

  He looked at me non-comprehendingly. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Yes. Because of your…girlfriend. I’m sure I’ll bump into you again round here.’

  ‘Oh. Yes…’ he said vaguely. ‘That’s right.’

  Later that night I phoned Daisy and gave her my mother’s message about the llama hen party.

  ‘Marcus was a bit strange this evening,’ I added.

  ‘In what…way?’

  ‘Well, he overheard me talking to Mum about your wedding, and he was quite…funny about it actually.’

  There was an odd little silence. ‘Was he?’ she whispered.

  ‘I do like him, but I thought that was odd.’

  ‘Miranda…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Miranda? I know you’re very distracted at the moment, but do you remember when we were talking in my garden about a month ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there was something you said to me then which I’ve been thinking about recently; I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot actually; I just can’t get it out of my head… Oh, sorry, Nigel’s just arriving. Can’t talk. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  But she didn’t. She didn’t call me after the self-defence class either. And then Friday came and I still hadn’t heard. I left a message for her, then packed my weekend bag, my stomach churning and lurching like a tumble-dryer. David was to pick me up at six. By ten past I was beginning to feel slightly anxious. At six fifteen, he phoned.

  ‘This is a real drag,’ he said. My heart sank and I braced myself. The weekend was cancelled. ‘But I can’t get my car to start. I’ve got the horrible feeling it’s something electrical. We couldn’t go in yours, could we?’