Behaving Badly (16 page)

‘Yes, okay then.’ I saw the postman walk by.

‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got a wedding to organize,’ she added dismally. ‘The reception’s at the Savoy. A hundred for a sit-down. Six bridesmaids. Honeymoon in Galapagos. See you on Saturday night.’

I pulled three envelopes from the brass jaw of the letter-box. There was a council-tax demand and the
Animal Crackers
filming schedule, and finally the form I’d been promised by the police. I quickly filled it in, then posted it. How long was it now? Six weeks. I looked in my hand mirror—the bruising had gone and these days my ribs only ached if I coughed. I’d been very lucky in some ways, I thought—unlike David, who would bear
his
scars for the rest of his life.

I spent the morning with a shy hamster in Hampstead—the little boy was upset because it didn’t like being handled—then I went to see a distressed budgie called Tweetie in Crouch
Hill. It had plucked so many feathers from its chest it looked oven-ready.

‘Is he trying to commit suicide?’ the elderly man asked, visibly upset.

‘No, he’s just rather unhappy.’ Another tiny yellow plume fluttered down.

‘But he’s got a nice big cage there, and a cuttlefish, and lots of toys.’

‘Yes. But there’s something he needs much more than any of those things.’

‘What’s that then?’ He looked mystified.

‘Another budgie. Budgies should never be kept on their own. In the wild they’re flock birds, so they need company.’

‘Oh,’ he said, mystified. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘So I strongly recommend that you get him a friend as soon as possible and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t cheer up.’

‘Right.’

‘But please let me know what happens.’

‘Yes. I will. I’ll get myself down to the pet shop today. Now I must pay you.’ He got out his wallet.

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been here five minutes and I was in the neighbourhood anyway, and to be honest I could have told you this over the phone, but I was a little…distracted this morning.’ In fact, I’m distracted most of the time.

‘Oh well.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks very much. But I’d like to give you something.’ He went over to the sideboard, and opened the door.

‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘There’s no need.’ Then he produced a small, square book.

‘I published this myself a few years ago.’ He handed it to me. It was called
One-Minute Wisdom
. ‘It’s just a book of
maxims which have helped me through life. I didn’t sell that many, to be honest, so now I just give them away.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ I quickly flicked through it—it was full of home-spun wisdom and comforting clichés.
Expect the best, plan for the worst; self-knowledge is the first step towards contentment
. ‘It looks very consoling.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the idea.’

I went home, glad that I’d been able to help the man, but feeling cross with his pet shop for not giving him the budgie basics. As I parked, I glanced in the mirror behind me and again saw that strikingly pretty blonde girl walking out of the Mews. I’d seen her several times now and I couldn’t help wondering who she was. She had a sheet of white-blonde hair, pale skin and enormous blue eyes. In fact, she looked like the Timotei ad. I saw her so often I guessed she must work here, though she never smiled like the others did. I opened the door, and as Herman trotted up to greet me, his brows knitted in consternation as usual, I saw the answerphone flashing. I pressed play.

‘Hello, Miranda. Dad here.’ Although he uses American expressions, he still sounds
so
English. ‘I’ll be arriving on Sunday, but just to let you know that I’m going straight down to Sussex. But I’ll be coming to town in the next few days on club business so I hope to see you soon.’ Then, with a ‘whirr’, the tape spooled on.

‘Hi, Miranda,’ said an unknown male voice. Who was this? He was American. Maybe he was a new client. ‘This is David White here.’ My heart stopped. ‘I’m just calling to arrange the shoot for next week. I know you’re being interviewed Tuesday at four…’ He pronounced it ‘Toosday’. ‘So I’m hoping to drop by after that. Anyway, here are my contact numbers so please give me a call.’ He pronounced it
‘gimme’. I pressed play again, then again. By the time I’d listened to the message five times I knew that I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t the same David White—it couldn’t be. The David White I was looking for was definitely British. I felt disappointed, then suddenly relieved. I phoned the number he’d left and briefly spoke to him—he sounded pleasant, but slightly brusque.

‘See you six o’clock then,’ he said.

‘Hi!’ said Daisy, as she opened Nigel’s front door on Saturday evening. ‘You’re the first to arrive.’

‘Good—that’s why I’ve come early, so I could talk to you. He was the
wrong
one,’ I said quietly. ‘He’s American. Or maybe Canadian.’

She looked crestfallen. ‘Oh. Well, that’s the problem, it’s quite a common name.’

‘Plus the fact that the David White
I’m
looking for might not even
be
a photographer any more. That information is from
years
ago. He could be a pilot now, for all I know, or a personal trainer—or a concert pianist. No, probably not a concert pianist,’ I corrected myself bitterly.

Daisy winced. ‘Then we’ll have to try another approach. Maybe you could get a private detective to find him.’

‘It would be expensive and I don’t have the cash. Hi, Nigel!’ He’d suddenly come upstairs from the basement. He’s a bit taller than Daisy with short, fair hair—which is thinning on top—and pale blue eyes. He’s attractive, but a bit paunchy, or rather reassuringly ‘solid’.

‘How nice to see you,’ he said.

As I say, I like Nigel. I always have. But I’d like him more if he proposed to my friend. ‘Daisy would quite like to know whether or not you’re ever going to marry her,’ I ventured as he walked towards me. ‘After all, she’s been with you
five years. Five and a
half
years, actually, which is quite long enough, and it’s getting critical because she’d like to have kids. So if you
don’t
want to share the rest of your life with her it’d be kind of you to tell her because, sadly, she’s too romantic—and too scared—to ask.’

I didn’t really say that; I just said, ‘Nice to see you too, Nigel.’ He gave me a fraternal kiss.

We went downstairs into the large basement kitchen, with its limed wood units and terracotta tiles, and its smart conservatory dining extension in which a variety of bonsai trees were displayed. As Daisy prepared the Pimm’s, I politely admired them. Nigel smiled with an almost paternal pride.

‘I must say they
are
doing well,’ he said. ‘I’m particularly proud of this Cedar of Lebanon.’ I looked at it. It was perfect—with its black-green foliage and graceful low boughs—and it was about ten inches tall.

I felt sad. ‘
Multum in parvo
, I suppose,’ I said ruefully, remembering a phrase I’d read in
One-Minute Wisdom
.

‘Oh, pre
cisely
. That’s the appeal. It looks
exactly
like it would in nature, except that it’s been…’

‘Stunted,’ I said. I couldn’t help it.

‘Miniaturized.’

‘And how old is it?’

He smiled. ‘Well, actually, it’s not polite to ask the age of a bonsai tree.’

‘
Isn’t
it?’

‘But, as it’s you—thirty-three.’

‘Gosh, that’s how old
we
are,’ Daisy snorted as she sliced a cucumber.

‘I’ve had it since I was seven.’

‘Tell me how you get them to grow like that,’ I said.

Nigel pushed his glasses up his nose as he prepared to expatiate upon his favourite subject. ‘The key is to keep them
in a state of partial stress. That’s why I put them here, in the conservatory, because strong sunlight restricts leaf size.’

‘Oh.’ I felt sorry for them. ‘I see.’

‘Bonsai trees grown in bright ultraviolet tend to dwarf better,’ Nigel went on enthusiastically, as Daisy went outside to collect some mint. ‘It’s about controlling their development, you see. By using a variety of techniques—giving them barely enough water, for example—slightly depriving them of what they need—you subtly get the tree to do what
you
want.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘The main thing is to avoid luxuriant growth. Now, this Chinese elm has been a particular success…’ And as Nigel rhapsodized about ‘root-pruning’ and ‘pinching’ and ‘correcting design’, I thought, he’s stunting Daisy too—stopping
her
growing. Keeping
her
in a state of partial stress.

By now the doorbell was ringing as Nigel’s friends arrived. He’d invited about fifteen people—some old friends, his neighbours, and a few other lawyers. We stood chatting on the lawn in the pretty walled garden and, as the barbecue began to smoke, and the Pimm’s flowed, we all began to relax. One or two of them asked me about
Animal Crackers
, so I told them about the previous day’s filming; I’d had to sort out a cat which leaped on its owner’s head, claws extended, every time she came home.

‘It descended on her like a Fokker,’ I said.

‘Which is probably what she called it!’ someone hooted.

‘What it does,’ I explained, ‘is to sit on top of the hall cupboard, waiting for her, then it pounces. She’d taken to wearing a crash helmet when she walked through the door.’

‘And why was it doing it?’

‘Boredom—because it was kept inside all day. It was simply trying to fulfil its hunting instinct. That’s the thing
about so many behavioural problems,’ I went on. ‘In most cases, the animal doesn’t have a behavioural problem at all, it’s just being itself in a way which its humans don’t like.’

‘So what was the answer?’

‘A kitty gym with ropes and scratching posts and things to play with—so she’s having one built. We’ll be filming it again in a couple of weeks to see if it’s worked.’

Then the conversation turned to the law. This chap Alan, a criminal barrister, who’d been at school with Nigel, was prosecuting someone for GBH.

‘But the interesting thing,’ he said, ‘was that the offence was actually committed twelve years ago. It was impossible to prove at the time, but now we’ve got him through DNA. Twelve years,’ he repeated wonderingly as he chewed on a chicken leg.

‘Gosh,’ I said, my heart banging. ‘How fascinating. And…is it true that there’s…no limit on how long after a crime the perpetrator can be prosecuted?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Of course, it has to be a serious crime for the police to reopen the case.’

‘How serious?’

‘Well, murder, obviously; attempted murder, arson, or any serious assault.’ My stomach turned over. ‘But even if the police decide not to prosecute, the victims themselves can pursue their assailant through the civil courts.’

‘Really?’ I lowered my vegetarian kebab. I’d never thought about that. ‘And what would they hope to gain?’

‘Financial compensation, or just emotional satisfaction—a sense of closure. That’s usually the most important thing.’ Now, as the conversation continued, I wondered dismally if David—if I did ever find him—would decide to sue me. Perhaps he would. In which case he’d have to sue Jimmy as well. I was about to open a Pandora’s box.

Don’t go there
, a small voice told me.
Let it lie. Let it lie
.

No
, said my conscience.
Tell the truth
.
Tell the truth and get closure at last. Then you’ll be able to restart your life
.

As I resurfaced I realized that the topic of conversation had now changed. Nigel’s colleague, Mary, had joined us; a thin, sharp-faced blonde woman about his age. I knew from Daisy that she worked in the same department as him—commercial litigation. I also knew that Mary had liked Nigel, but that it hadn’t really been mutual.

‘It’s Nigel’s fortieth soon, isn’t it?’ she said, as her fork hovered over her plate.

‘It is,’ said Alan. ‘Let’s hope he has a party.’

‘Yes, let’s hope he has a party!’ said another of his friends, Jon. ‘Let’s make
sure
he has one!’

‘Let’s hope he has a
wedding
,’ said someone else. At this there was a collective guffaw. I glanced round for Daisy but she was in the conservatory, just out of earshot.

‘A wedding?’ Alan exclaimed. ‘
Nigel
? Come off it, you guys!’ Jon was snorting with laughter.

‘I know,’ Mary concurred with a satisfied smirk. ‘I’ve seen them
all
come and go,’ she went on with ostentatious weariness. ‘He’s
very
naughty like that. I suppose Daisy’ll go off too, in the end. I mean, Nigel’s a darling, but really…’ she shrugged her sloping shoulders, ‘…who could blame her? Especially after so
long
.’

Right. ‘Daisy doesn’t want to get married,’ I said. ‘She’s quite happy as she is.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because she’s my best friend.’

‘Oh,
so
sorry,’ said Mary with exaggerated contrition. She gave me a hard, false smile. ‘I guess it’s a bit of a tricky subject.’

‘Not in the least,’ I replied.

I walked away, my face burning. Daisy was clearly the object of amused pity. And as I watched her coming out of the house with another jug of Pimm’s, chatting gaily to everyone, laughing and joking, making Nigel’s evening go well, I felt incredibly angry with him. How
mean
of him to keep her dangling, encouraging her just enough to make her stay with him, but never making her feel secure. And how
silly
of her to let him do so, I thought. She’s Crazy Daisy in more ways than one. I wondered what would get him to budge. I didn’t believe that Daisy really would ‘pin him down’; she’s still clinging to her hope that he’ll get down on one knee. But he clearly isn’t going to, because he doesn’t have to—plus, I don’t believe he wants to share his life. And what if she left him? What would happen then? Probably not very much. Nigel would be out of sorts for a while, but then he’d meet someone else, and do exactly the same thing with her. Now Daisy was pouring Pimm’s into his glass, looking at him raptly.