by Isabel Wolff
‘I just wanted to see you. The last three days have been hell.’
I glanced at her left hand, and she saw me looking. ‘I’ve given it back.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not marrying him, Miranda. I decided on Tuesday.’
‘Christ,’ I said quietly. ‘Why? Because of the way he proposed?’
‘Yes,’ she sighed ‘in part. It was just so awful. I felt…humiliated. He couldn’t have made it less romantic if he’d tried. But also because I discovered that what Mary said was true. I pressed him about it on Monday night and, under duress, he virtually admitted it. But the main reason I’m not marrying Nigel is because it’s just plain…wrong—and I’ve known that for a very long time.’
‘Then why on earth…?’
She threw up her hands. ‘Because I’ve been such a wimp! Clinging to Nigel because I thought he was my best bet—and because I was afraid of starting again with someone else. I’d just got in the habit of being with him, that’s all—and he seemed so suitable and safe. But what have Nige and I got in common, Miranda? Zero!’ she went on before I could answer. ‘Less than zero actually, and you see, the point is…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘The point is…’ There were tears in her eyes now, and her chin trembled with distress. And, as I reached for the box of tissues, I suddenly remembered what it was I’d said to her a few weeks earlier, as we’d sat in her garden. If it doesn’t work out with Nigel, maybe it’s because it’s actually your destiny to meet someone else.
‘The point is…’ she tried again, then sank onto a chair. ‘That I’ve…’
‘Met someone else… You have, haven’t you? This is what this is really about.’ She nodded, then her head collapsed onto her chest. ‘Oh Daisy.’
‘I thought you might have guessed before,’ she wept. ‘It’s been pretty bloody obvious—but you’ve been so wrapped up in yourself.’
‘I know I have,’ I said as I handed her a tissue. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted by my own problems. But do you think it might…work out…with this guy?’
‘No! No—it won’t work out,’ she wailed.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s with someone—but that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve only known him just over a month, but in that time I’ve had ten times more fun with him than I’ve had in nearly six years with Nigel. And that made me finally face up to the fact that it would be wrong to marry Nige. Until that happened to me, I’d been happy to go along with the illusion that Nige was okay. That he’d “do” for me—but he won’t; because he took too long to make a commitment, and then did it for the wrong reasons—and that’s just not good enough, Miranda—I want more!’
‘It’s the guy you go microlighting with, isn’t it?’
She swallowed her tears. ‘Yes, it is. I did think you might have twigged before.’
‘Not really, because you’ve been doing these things for years, Daisy, with all sorts of people, so I didn’t attach any extra significance to him—especially as you’d just got engaged. But can’t you tell him how you feel?’
‘No!’ she wept. ‘It’s too embarrassing. He’s with someone. I’ve told you.’
‘For how long?’
‘About three months. But he’s totally besotted with her—that’s clear. But just the simple fact of meeting someone I’ve had such a strong feeling about, made me realize that I simply couldn’t marry Nigel.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve returned the wedding dress, by the way. They gave me back my money—minus ten per cent for the inconvenience.’
‘That was decent of them.’
‘I know. They obviously felt sorry for me. But that’s why I haven’t been at work. I’ve had things like that to do—collecting the ring, and returning it to Nigel. Taking back the dress. Seeing a few people… Plus I had to get my stuff from Nigel’s house—and that’s another thing—there was so little of mine there.’
‘I know. I’d always noticed that.’
‘Do you know what there was? My nightdress, my wash-bag, my tennis kit, and a few recipe books. After five and a half years, that’s all. He didn’t really want to share his life with me—until he thought it would be useful to do so. But he must have known how I felt.’
‘I’m sure he did. But you never pushed him into making a commitment to you.’
‘I know I didn’t—and what a fool! I let him get away with murder! But I was too…’ she sighed, ‘…too scared to have it out, in case it ended. But meeting this other guy made me feel brave. So, no. I’m not going to settle for Nigel. And as for children—that can wait. I’m only thirty-three—there’s still time. All I do know is I’m not going to marry someone who hasn’t made me feel that I’m…’ she paused, ‘…essential to his happiness. That he’d really miss me if I wasn’t there—and I don’t actually think Nigel would—or at least not for long. But this other guy… Oh, I’ve had such fun with him, Miranda. We’ve got so much in common—and he’s so full of life.’
I suddenly noticed the short white hairs on her jumper again. And now, I realized with a jolt that they were Twiglet’s. How could I have been so blind? ‘It’s Marcus,’ I said quietly.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well done, Sherlock.’
‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t…think. I’ve been in a sort of tunnel lately—and to be fair, Daisy, you didn’t say.’
‘That’s because I felt such an idiot. There I was, having hankered after Nigel for so long, and I finally get engaged to him—and what happens? I instantly get a massive crush on someone else—someone who isn’t even free! I know we’re best friends, Miranda, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you what was going on because I felt such a fool! And I was in a real quandary, because I did feel, for a while, that Marcus liked me—when I was doing the self-defence classes.’
‘So that’s why you sounded so enthusiastic about them.’
‘Well, yes, it was such a lot of fun. And because you never came, I had to work with him, as all the others were in pairs. And I did feel then, that he…liked me. But then, to my amazement—Nigel proposed. He proposed—just when I didn’t actually want him to. It was all such a mess. But now, well, it doesn’t matter. But, if you ever see Marcus again, you won’t say a thing, will you?’ She put her head in her hands. ‘It makes me feel utterly…absurd.’
‘No. Of course I won’t. But what has he said about his girlfriend?’
Daisy sighed. ‘Not very much. I only know her name, and that she makes jewellery, and that she’s successful and very beautiful. Other than that he’s hardly discussed her.’
‘So he’s never said anything negative about her, then?’
‘Gosh, no.’ Daisy looked shocked.
‘What a nice man he is. He’s very loyal. I wouldn’t worry about Natalie, Daisy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. Forget about her, and carry on seeing Marcus.’
‘But that’s the problem,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t. Because the self-defence classes are over now, and he suddenly said that he didn’t have time to take me microlighting any more.’
I suddenly remembered Marcus’s odd reaction to Daisy’s engagement. He’d liked her. Of course. He’d been in a quandary himself. ‘I think that if you tell him you’re no longer engaged—he will.’ She looked at me curiously. ‘That’s all I’m going to say, Daisy. Just…forget about Natalie. Make friends with Marcus, as you’ve been doing. After all, you’re free to do whatever you like now—with whoever you like.’
‘Yes,’ she said, with a relieved sigh. ‘I am.’
On Saturday I spent the morning dealing with my e-mails. There was one from Lily thanking me for the flowers, accompanied by a ‘formal pawtrait’ of Jennifer and Gwyneth; then there was another one from the man with the budgie, saying that the provision of a companion had greatly improved Tweetie’s mood. There was also one from the Greens, the owners of the Red setter I’d seen in late June. ‘This is to let you know that a fortnight ago we had Sinead mated with a nice
Irish setter called Fergus—and she’s now a very happy mum-to-be.’ I smiled. ‘And so,’ I read on, ‘am I! When we came to see you, I had no idea that I was actually four weeks pregnant, naturally as it happens, and I’ve just had my three month scan.’ I e-mailed back to say how thrilled I was for them. Things often work out in quite oblique ways, I thought, as I worked through the rest of my mail.
‘Every time I try to kiss my girlfriend, her dog attacks me—please help!’ ‘Do you think my Peke is a pervert? It keeps trying to make love to the cat.’ There was another e-mail from the man whose rabbit wouldn’t breed. ‘She’s a very pretty little Angora—and we’ve had her introduced to three bucks now, all of them eminently suitable in our view—but absolutely nothing’s happened. Do you think she’s too fussy—or are we doing something wrong?’ I messaged him back, advising patience. ‘Rabbits are individuals…’ I typed. And I was just going to go into some detail about the sexual psychology of the receptive doe, when the phone went. It was my mother—on her mobile.
‘Darling, you’ve got to watch the early evening news. We’re on!’
‘Mum, I can’t believe the opening of a golf club is a national news story.’
‘Just watch it, Miranda—they’ve been interviewing us all morning—and, oh, sorry, can’t chat—the man from London Tonight is waving at me.’
At five o’clock I put the TV on. We trawled through the main stories, and then it came to the ‘and finally’ bit.
‘And finally,’ said Trevor McDonald. ‘A new golf club opened in East Sussex today. Nothing particularly startling about that, you may think. But the Lower Chalvington Golf Club near Alfriston in East Sussex offers members an absolutely unique service, as our reporter, Lucy Bowles, has been finding out.’
The film opened with a wide shot of the course and clubhouse—it did look attractive—then cut to a player teeing off.
‘Lower Chalvington founder member Tom Williams tees off…’ I heard the reporter say. Now the camera pulled back to a wide shot—and I gasped. ‘With the help of a warm, fuzzy friend.’ For there, standing patiently behind the player, his fleece rippling in the gentle breeze, was Pedro, carrying the man’s clubs. ‘Meet Tom Williams’s golf caddy—Pedro the llama.’ They’d actually done it. I hadn’t really believed they could be serious. I thought the whole thing was a joke.
‘Llamas have been pack animals in the Andes for thousands of years,’ Lucy Bowles explained as Tom Williams led Pedro to the next hole. ‘But within the past fifteen years or so, they’ve begun to attract a small but passionate following in the UK. Most llamas are kept as pets, but Pedro and his fellow llamas like to work. They take walkers on treks over the South Downs at weekends, they do hospital visits, and the occasional advertising campaign. But from now on they’ll spend their weekdays caddying for the members of the Lower Chalvington. The llamas belong to Alice Ingram. She says that not only are they up to the job—they’re perfect for it.’
The camera cut to Mum, looking thrilled.
‘They really are perfect,’ she said. ‘Llamas are very light-footed—they don’t have hooves—so they don’t mark the greens. They’re also scrupulously clean—they only use communal latrines—so they don’t make a mess. They’re also very patient, sensitive, sweet-tempered animals. They’ll stand there, quite happily, for as long as the shot takes, just thinking nice thoughts and enjoying the view.’
Now there was a shot of Tom Williams at the third green.
‘So what do you think of Pedro’s caddying skills?’ the reporter asked him with a smile.
‘Well, he’s rather good,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been playing with him all morning, and he’s certainly better than a lot of human caddies I’ve had. For a start, he doesn’t complain about carrying the clubs; and he doesn’t make any negative comments if I don’t play the shot very well. He also makes me feel curiously calm, which enables me to play better. He’s not too good at club selection,’ Williams added. ‘But then you can’t have everything, can you? C’mon, Pedro.’ He gave Pedro a carrot, then led him off. Then the camera cut back to Lucy.
‘The llama caddies are the brainchild of the club’s general manager, Ted Sweet,’ she explained. And now there was Dad, smiling broadly. ‘So what gave you the idea?’
‘Well, I’ve managed golf clubs in the States for over twenty years,’ he began. ‘And I knew that there was one club in North Carolina which had a couple of llamas on the payroll, and I happened to mention this, in passing, to Mrs Ingram about a month ago. And, to my surprise, she suggested that we tried it here. So we then had to put our plan into action—at extremely short notice. We placed a rush order for the specially customized golf club bags which the llamas wear. They only arrived yesterday, just in time for today’s opening, and the llamas have taken to them very well. They carry two bags, one on each side, so that they’re nicely balanced.’
‘Isn’t it just a gimmick?’ the reporter suggested amiably.
‘Maybe it is. But as a new club we were looking for something really show-stopping—and that’s what the llamas are—show-stoppers. On a more practical note, they also help to keep down the rough.’
‘So are these the first llama golf caddies in the UK?’
‘They are. In fact, we believe they’re the only ones in the whole of Europe.’ And now the camera pulled back for a wide shot in which you could see all the other llamas, gently tramping round the course, or standing by the holes, and then there was Trevor McDonald again.
‘Whatever next?’ he said with a smile. ‘Llama football referees? From me and the early evening news team—goodbye.’
‘Brilliant,’ I breathed. ‘Just brilliant.’ So that’s why Mum had warmed to Dad so much—she’d seen a good business opportunity there for the llamas. If the club took off she’d be quids in. And I was just trying to call her—her mobile was constantly engaged—when there was a knock at the door.
‘Miss Sweet?’
‘Yes?’
A man was standing there with a huge bouquet. ‘These are for you. Please sign.’
I stared at the huge bouquet of roses and tiger lilies. Who had sent me these? As I opened the small white envelope with a shaking hand, I hoped, yes, I really hoped that they might be from David. But surely I should be sending flowers to him. I did also think they might be from Alexander, for my birthday tomorrow. But, to my surprise, they were from Tim. I read the card. That was some ‘titbit’, Miranda—I’ll never be able to thank you enough!
On Sunday I was woken by Mum at half-seven.
‘Happy Birthday, darling.’
‘Thanks,’ I croaked. ‘Isn’t it a bit early?’
‘Sorry. I’ve been up since six. And did you see your dad and me last night?’
‘I did. It was great.’ I threw off the duvet, then yawned. ‘I’m sorry I ever doubted you.’
‘Well, we’ve got some wonderful coverage in the newspapers too. Go and get the Sunday Independent—we’re on page four—it’s huge.’
I quickly dressed and went round the corner to the newsagent. But when I saw the Independent, I gasped. ‘MULHOLLAND’S FIRST-CLASS LIE!’ it thundered, and beneath: ‘EDUCATION MINISTER’S DEGREE DECEPTION.’ It was labelled ‘Exclusive’, but the other papers had picked up on it too. ‘EDUCATION MINISTER IS AN EXAM CHEAT’ trumpeted the Sunday Telegraph above a huge photo of Jimmy. ‘NOT QUALIFIED FOR THE JOB!’ admonished the Mail. As I read the Independent’s front page, which had Tim Charlton’s by-line on it, in huge capitals, I was so transfixed that I nearly walked out of the shop without paying. I blindly handed over the money, then, eyes still glued to the story, walked home, trying not to bump into lamp posts. Then, hands trembling, I sat at my desk.
Education Minister James Mulholland, hitherto tipped for the top, has just taken a steep career tumble. An investigation by this paper reveals that the ‘first-class degree’ he claims to have gained from Sussex University in Biochemistry in 1986, was, in fact, only a third. This blatant untruth—which even features on
his website—has gone unchallenged for years. The Minister, on holiday in Scotland, claimed, when telephoned by us, that it was merely a ‘misunderstanding’, although he later corrected this to a ‘mistake’. His colleagues have pronounced themselves shocked, and there’s said to be ‘disappointment’ in his constituency, Billington. There has been no endorsement, so far, from the Prime Minister, and, far from being promoted in the autumn reshuffle, it is now predicted that the ambitious Mr Mulholland will be sent right to the back of the class.
Inside was another full-page piece, headed: The Rise and Fall of James Mulholland, which also included the fact that he had changed his name. There was an excoriating leader about him as well. As Minister with special responsibility for ‘Lifelong Learning’, Mr Mulholland has now learned two important lessons himself: a) that honesty is always the best policy, and b) that the truth, invariably, will out. His ministerial ambitions are now in shreds, it concluded. I put the paper down, feeling a smile spread across my face. Jimmy’s political career was ruined. And I rejoiced.
‘Thank you, Daisy,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you for working that one out—you clever, clever girl.’ I called her, but there was no reply and her mobile was turned off. Maybe she was with her mum. Then I turned to page four of the paper, every inch of which was devoted to the boys:
A herd of llamas have been recruited to work as golf caddies for a Sussex golf club…brainchild of Ted Sweet and his ex-wife, Alice Ingram…eight llamas…special golf bag backpacks…sensitivity and intelligence makes them suitable for the job, according to Mr Sweet. The club, which had been struggling to attract new members, has received hundreds of new enquiries since word began to get out last week.
Occupying the top half of the page was a photo of Henry with his golf bags, captioned, Henry Kissinger.
‘The great thing about Henry,’ said one member, Sarah Penrose, ‘is that you get a kiss from him every time you play a shot—whether or not it was any good!’
‘But don’t llamas spit?’ the reporter asked. ‘No,’ Mum replied. ‘Or only, occasionally, at each other—if they’re arguing.’ And why do they hum? ‘That’s easy,’ Dad replied. ‘Llamas hum because they don’t know the words.’