Behaving Badly

‘And what do you think it’s about?’ He took a pack of Gitanes out of his pocket, and offered me one. I shook my head. What was the play about? And why did my opinion matter? Again, I felt taken aback.

‘Well,’ I began carefully as he tapped the cigarette on the side of the box. ‘It’s about penance and reconciliation, isn’t it? It’s about the search for forgiveness. It’s about the hope we all have that we’ll be redeemed.’ He nodded slowly at that.

The next thing I knew we were all going for a drink—I remember the delicious scent of his cigarette as we strolled through the park; and although there were quite a lot of us I somehow found myself sitting next to Alexander in the pub. We talked about the play some more, and he told me that Shakespeare actually invented the name ‘Miranda’ specifically for The Tempest, something I’d never known. I’d always known what it means—‘admirable’ from the Latin mirare, to wonder at—but that piece of information was new. And as Alexander and I sipped our beer, oblivious by now to the rest of the party, he asked me lots of other things about my work and my family and he told me a bit about his; that his parents were both doctors, semi-retired, and that his grandfather, like me, had been a vet. By the time we left, an hour and a half later, I felt as though I’d been talking to Alexander for days. And as he walked me to the tube—I lived in Stockwell then—he asked me for my card.

‘He’ll never ring,’ I told myself sternly as I rattled southwards. ‘Forget it. He was just being friendly.’ But he did. Two days later he rang to ask me if I’d like to have dinner with him that Sunday, at Joe Allen’s, and, to my amazement, things went on from there.

And yes, of course I was physically attracted to Alexander, and yes, flattered by his attention, but the truth is I really liked him as well. He was so easy to be with, and so intelligent, and, more importantly, he made me laugh. He was thirty-five, he’d read history at Oxford, then he’d done a postgraduate year at drama school. He’d started out spear-carrying at Stratford, then he’d done ten years in rep, as well as a number of small roles on TV.

‘But I’ve never hit the big time,’ he said modestly. ‘Unlike some of my contemporaries, like James Purefoy—he’s done brilliantly. So has Paul Rhys. They never stop working, while I’m still paddling in the shallows of fame.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do very well too.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows…?’

‘All you need is one really good break.’

‘That’s true. Have you ever been married, Miranda?’ he asked suddenly. A small jolt ran the length of my spine.

‘Er…No. Not yet. I mean, not ever. I mean, never.’ He smiled. ‘Have you?’

He shook his head. He explained that his last relationship had ended three months before but that he was still ‘on good terms’ with his ex. And when, heart racing, I asked him why it had ended, he just shrugged and said ‘it hadn’t worked out’.

By the end of that first date I was stratospheric; I was on Cloud Nine—no, Cloud Ninety-Nine—as we strolled down the Strand to the tube. I felt so absurdly happy, I was smiling at strangers; and Alexander said he’d call me again—and he did. As time went on I realized that I simply loved being with him. I loved his warmth, and his sense of fun. And I liked the fact that he was a good talker; there were no strained silences—he always had plenty to say. He wasn’t egotistical or ‘actorish’, though he did have a whimsical side. He could be slightly impetuous—a creature of instinct—he’d suddenly say, or do, surprising things. For example, the first time he told me he loved me was when we were at the dairy counter in Sainsbury’s. I’d just reached for a tub of Greek yoghurt when I suddenly heard him say, ‘I love you, Miranda. Did you know that?’

‘Really?’ I looked at him in amazement.

He smiled. ‘Yes. Really.’ I was thrilled, of course—but what a strange place to tell me. ‘You’re wonderful—you live up to your name.’ And when we got engaged, not long afterwards, he had the ring engraved with, Admired Miranda! But I don’t have it any more…

‘And what about the clients?’ I heard Daisy ask now, as she broke two brown eggs into the Pyrex bowl. ‘You’re opening tomorrow, so have you got any bookings?’

‘Only two.’

‘Why so few?’

‘Because I haven’t had time to spread the word that I’m in new premises—the practice will take time to build.’

‘I see.’

‘But I’ve got a depressed Irish setter coming in the morning—and then this woman called Lily Jago got in touch—’

‘Oh yes,’ Daisy interjected, her eyes widening. ‘The editor of Moi! magazine. Looks like Naomi Campbell, and often behaves like her too. A friend of mine worked for her once—it took her six months to recover.’

‘That’s the one. Anyway, she sent me a hysterical e-mail about her shih-tzu—she says it’s having a “nervous breakdown”—so I’m going round there on Tuesday afternoon, but that’s all I’ve got in the diary so far.’

‘It’s a pity animal psychiatry isn’t like human psychiatry,’ Daisy added as she began whisking the eggs. I nodded. If only it were. Humans go to their shrinks for months, if not years, but with animals it’s not the same. They don’t come to me week in week out and lie there staring at the ceiling while I evaluate the state of their id and their ego and then quiz them about their mum. I simply observe them, identify the problem and advise remedial action, which means I usually only see them the once.

‘What are you going to charge?’ Daisy asked as she lit the hob.

‘A hundred pounds per one-and-a-half-hour consultation here, and if I go to them, it’ll be a hundred and thirty, to compensate for the travelling time. I’ll continue giving free advice by e-mail as that creates goodwill and doesn’t take long. And I’m going to have puppy parties,’ I added, ‘so that should help, but I need lots of new cases to make it all pay. Especially as I’m opening nearly a month late.’

‘Well, you needed time to…recover,’ Daisy said. That was true. ‘And it’ll pick up when the next series of Animal Crackers goes out, won’t it?’

‘With any luck—but that’s not for three weeks.’

‘Actually, I might have a new client for you,’ Daisy said as she opened a carton of milk. ‘Someone I met the other day at a charity do. Caroline…what was her name? Oh yes, Mulholland. She was complaining about her Weimaraner. Said it was behaving like an “absolute moron”. As I didn’t know your new number I told her to contact you through your website.’

‘Thanks. I hope she does. And how are things with you on the work front?’ I asked as I unpacked my plates.

‘Oh frantic,’ she said gaily as she got out a small saucepan. ‘I’ve got an Abba Tribute hen night in Hammersmith on Wednesday, a Siberian Soiree birthday bash with Cossack dancers on Saturday, and I’m desperately trying to find a couple of contortionists for a Trail to Timbuktu extravaganza in Thames Ditton next month. Plus all the weddings!’ she wailed. ‘We’ve got six, and three of them have fallen to me. I’ve just had to find some biodegradable confetti for this wedding in Holland Park in September,’ she went on, as she beat the eggs. ‘I managed to track some down on the Net. Dried delphinium petals in five colours, absolutely gorgeous. I’ve got to enclose a sachet with each invitation—two hundred. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?’ she murmured wistfully. ‘Two hundred guests…Holland Park…dried delphinium petals…’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It does.’

‘Sorry, Miranda,’ she said, collecting herself. ‘That was tactless of me.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘I was actually thinking of myself.’

‘I know. Hasn’t he said anything?’ She shook her head. ‘Not even a hint?’

‘No,’ she said bitterly. ‘Not so much as a cough.’

‘Well, why don’t you propose to him then?’

She stopped beating, her brown eyes widening in amazement. ‘Because it’s so unromantic.’

‘So is not being asked.’

‘Yes,’ she said crossly. ‘I know.’ She picked up the pepper grinder and gave it several vicious twists.

‘Don’t you ever discuss it with him?’ I asked as I sat at the table.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to destabilize things.’

‘I see.’

‘And I suppose I’m worried I might not get the answer I’m hoping for, so I’d rather keep things nice and smooth. But he does definitely love me,’ she added optimistically. ‘I say to him, “You do love me, Nigel, don’t you?” and he always replies, “Yes, Daisy, of course I do.”’

‘He should bloody well prove it then. It’s been long enough.’

‘Mmm. That’s just what my mum says. I mean, Alexander didn’t hang around, did he?’

I sighed. ‘No. It was quite quick.’

It was also, as proposals go, rather unusual; but, as I say, Alexander is an impulsive man. We’d been together nine months and we were very happy; I’d just moved in with him, and it was going well. And we were both in the bathroom one Saturday morning, cleaning our teeth together at the basin, smiling at each other in the mirror, when he suddenly paused in mid-brush, and, still looking at me in the glass, said, ‘anda, ill oo arry ‘e?’

‘What?’