Behaving Badly

Behaving Badly
Isabel Wolff

The fifth novel from the hugely entertaining writer of RESCUING ROSE. Stylishly written, sophisticated but warmhearted and accessible, this is Isabel Wolff at her inimitable best.All men are beasts……or so Miranda Sweet believes. As an animal behaviourist, she can get inside the heads of deluded Dalmatians and introverted iguanas, but she can’t work out why the men in her life behave so badly. Animals are braver kinder and a lot more reliable. So Miranda’s given up on love to open her own clinic and work her magic on neurotic pets and their grateful owners.But can she keep the whole male species at bay for ever? Her best friend, Daisy, an incurably romantic wedding-planner, doesn’t think so. When a delicious photographer comes into her life, even Miranda starts to wonder if she’s been a bit hasty. But, just when she’s letting her guard down, her past starts to catch up with her. Now, she has to face up to her own behaviour, which hasn’t always been as sweet as she’d like to pretend…

BEHAVING BADLY

ISABEL WOLFF

For Greg

Courage is the price that life extracts for granting peace.

AMELIA EARHART

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u9d4c9a69-11d9-5a74-85c9-d905dc25c06e)

Title Page (#ucf4b2b9b-9aee-556e-a3d0-e1c305aa80a7)

Dedication (#u1750b202-3369-56e9-86ed-10464bd6d885)

Epigraph (#u1378a58f-1c9c-55c1-a713-34c520c0d784)

Chapter One (#u87a74be3-cd3a-5f46-bd7d-d26ca5c2a4f8)

Chapter Two (#ue8830b51-0ece-52f0-8780-92ad9177070d)

Chapter Three (#u71fd9b64-6997-550a-88e9-251e10d50c06)

Chapter Four (#ue97a52a4-e7a5-5924-919d-b59ba6bbd3bf)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Acclaim For Isabell Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_bfaae500-e64d-540d-8236-c99dc67dc674)

‘Will you be all right now, Miranda? Miranda…?’

I slowly surfaced from my reverie.

‘What?’

‘I said will you be all right now?’ repeated Clive, my builder.

Would I be all right now? I considered the question. I wasn’t at all sure that I would. ‘It’s just that I’ve got to be in Barnes by five,’ he explained, as he began to gather up his emulsion-spattered sheets. ‘So if it’s all the same with you…’ I banished painful thoughts and forced myself to concentrate.

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. You want to go.’ I glanced round my new workplace—my new workplace and my new home too. In three weeks Clive had transformed six St Michael’s Mews from a semi-derelict shell into a smart office with a small living space on the floor above. The estate agent had negotiated a reasonable rent—reasonable by Primrose Hill standards at least—on condition that I refurbish it myself.

‘Thanks, Clive,’ I said. ‘It looks wonderful.’

He pursed his lips judiciously, then pressed a crumpled hanky to his neck. ‘Yeah…well, I’m pretty pleased myself. I’ve checked the electrics,’ he added as I reached for my bag, ‘and I’ve been over the roof again and it’s sound. Is there anything else needing doing?’

I scribbled out the cheque, sinkingly aware that it represented the last of my savings. ‘No. I don’t think so. It all looks…great.’ I surveyed the newly egg-shelled walls and gleaming skirting boards, and flicked the downlighters on and off. I raised then lowered the green micro blind and tried the drawers in my new desk. I examined the joins in the new wooden flooring and made sure that the security locks on the windows all worked.

‘Have you got enough bookshelves?’ he asked as he packed away his paintbrushes. I nodded. ‘Well then, if you’re happy with it all, I’ll be off.’

I glanced again at my final checklist. ‘Actually there is one last thing—the sign.’ I picked up the ceramic plaque I’d had specially made and handed it to him. ‘Would you put it up for me?’

‘Sure.’ We stepped outside, shielding our eyes against the glare of the midsummer sun. ‘You can’t start your new business without this, can you?’ said Clive, affably. He pulled a pencil from behind his right ear and made rapid marks on the walls; then he began to drill, a slender avalanche of pink brick-dust drifting to the cobbled ground.

‘Got enough punters?’ he enquired as he screwed in the plate.

My stomach did a flick-flack. ‘Not quite.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured me. ‘You will. There. That’s it, then. All done.’ He took a step back as we appraised it. ‘Perfect Pets’, it announced, above a stylized drawing of a dog on a psychiatrist’s couch. Beneath, in smaller letters: ‘Miranda Sweet BVSc, Animal Behaviourist’.

Clive beeped open the doors of his van. ‘I know a few people who could do with your services,’ he said as he slung his equipment inside. ‘My neighbours for a start. They’ve got this Labrador. It’s lovely, but it’s barking mad.’ He shook his head. ‘Literally. Barking. That’s all it does, all day.’

‘Poor thing. It’s probably being left on its own for too long so what it’s doing is calling its humans back.’