Behaving Badly (20 page)

‘I hope
not
,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we’ll keep
on
seeing him and I don’t
want
to, after what he did. If people only
knew
…’ she added crossly. ‘Ooh, it’s starting again…’

The storm was still raging and one of the mainsails tore in two, like a tissue, then a human figure dropped into the swell.

‘Man overboard!’ one of the sailors screamed. ‘Man overboard! Mr Fenton’s gone in!’

‘I
know
that chap,’ I said to Daisy. ‘That guy who just fell in the sea. He’s a stuntman. He comes to my puppy parties.’

‘Does he?’

‘He does self-defence classes too.’

‘Really? Well, we must go to them, Miranda. Shall we do that?’

‘Okay,’ I said absently. ‘Why not?’

And now the camera cut to Alexander, who was ripping off his coat and leaping into the sea to save his first mate.

‘Look at that!’ Daisy shrieked. ‘Alexander’s jumping in after him. Can you believe it!’

‘That’s not really Alexander. That’s a stuntman too.’

‘Well, obviously,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I can take this,’ she added as there was a close-up of Alexander thrashing about in the water. ‘I seriously think I might puke.’

‘It’s only a drama, Daisy,’ I said wearily.

‘I know
that
. Anyway, I’m turning him
off
.’

I managed to watch it to the end, and, as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, I remembered how thrilled I’d been when Alexander got the part. He very nearly didn’t get it because the producers were worried that he wasn’t a big enough name. He had five screen tests—the whole agonizing process took over a month. But the casting director—who’d spotted him in
The Tempest
—insisted that he was the one. And then, at long last, Alexander’s agent phoned him to say that he’d got it. I remember shrieking with joy.

I’d felt so relieved for him—it was the big break he’d been waiting for—and I felt terribly proud. I’d often imagined how we would watch
Land Ahoy!
together, on the night it was screened; we’d probably throw a small party, just for close friends. But here I was, watching it with Herman, not having laid eyes on Alexander for nearly two months.

‘And you can see the second episode of
Land Ahoy!
at the same time next week,’ said the announcer over the final bars of the theme tune. I switched it off.

‘No thanks.’ Once was enough.

The next day I went filming for
Animal Crackers
; I had to drive out to Oxfordshire to film a pair of aggressive guard geese—they were vile—one of them nearly broke my arm. But it was frustrating because there was a tractor in the next field and every time I tried to do my piece to camera it would start up. Anyway, Clare, the producer, had a copy of
The Times
, and while we were hanging about I read the TV review. It was captioned
Alexander the Great
.
Alexander Darke exuded heroism from every pore
, the reviewer declared. I felt ill. He was public property now.

We eventually got the geese done, then we all drove to Bicester to film this goat which was having an identity crisis. It had convinced itself it was a horse. Finally, at half past six, I got home with Herman, exhausted, and contemplated the evening ahead. I left a message for Daisy, telling her that I was seeing David. Then I opened the wardrobe. What should I wear? I opted for a simple white dress and a lime green cashmere cardigan, and put a little mousse in my hair. I got the tube, because I wanted to have a drink—if not several—the only kind of courage I’d have would be Dutch. I’d looked up the restaurant. It was near Farringdon. At seven forty, I pushed on the door.

David was already there, at the bar in smart jeans and a white tee shirt with a blue linen jacket. He saw me and waved. We had a glass of champagne—I drank mine pretty quickly—then we went through to the dining room. It was refectory style, with white painted walls and simple wooden tables.

‘So here we are,’ he said as we were seated.

‘Here we are,’ I repeated. ‘It’s nice.’ The waiter brought us the menus.

‘They have some quite amazing things here,’ David said, as
the waiter poured our mineral water. I glanced at the menu and felt suddenly sick.
Rolled pig’s spleen
. I read.
Braised sweet-breads…fried calves’ brains…black pudding…roast bone marrow…boiled ox-tail…

‘Seen anything you like?’ I heard him ask.

‘David—’

‘What are chitterlings?’ he enquired.

‘A pig’s small intestines. David—’

‘Hmm?’ he said, as he continued to peruse the menu.

‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

‘Yes?’ He looked up. ‘Is it serious?’

‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Oh. Oh
dear
. I’m so sorry,’ he added, pulling a face. ‘This is just about the worst place I could have brought you then.’

‘It’s not your fault. I should have warned you. But I didn’t know the restaurant was quite so meat-orientated. It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I mean, I used to be a vet. I’ve seen plenty of chitterlings and spleens in my time—but they were usually attached to live animals I was doing surgery on.’

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘No, it’s okay. I could just have…’ I glanced down the menu. ‘The Welsh rarebit.’

‘That’s not very much.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Well, I won’t have anything too ghastly. I’ll have the widgeon—that’s a duck, isn’t it, could you stand watching me eat that?’

‘Yes. In any case, I’m not that strict. Usually, going to a restaurant doesn’t bother me because there’s normally a pasta or rice dish I can have, but here it’s nearly all meat.’

‘It is—and their speciality’s unusual cuts. In fact, it’s absolutely
offal
,’ he quipped. I smiled. ‘Why did you go vegetarian?’
he asked as he caught the waiter’s eye. ‘Was it an animal welfare thing for you?’

I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

‘So you’re a veggie with a sausage dog!’

I smiled. The waiter came back and as David spoke to him I glanced again at his damaged hands, resting on the table, and had to fight the sudden urge to cry.

‘Is white wine okay for you, Miranda?’ I nodded. The waiter returned with a bottle of good Chablis. I had a large sip and began to relax. Then our first course arrived—mozzarella salad for me, and potted shrimp for him—and I noticed that David held his fork in a slightly odd way, as though he couldn’t grip it properly. Now he was asking me about my work. And that made the conversation go well because I always have lots of good stories. Then it was my turn to make enquiries about him.

‘Did you always want to be a photographer?’ I asked, my heart pounding.

‘No. I was going to be a doctor, actually.’

‘Really? You mean, you read medicine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where was that then?’

‘At Cambridge.’

‘You went to
Cambridge
?’ I said.
You went to Cambridge and you had to leave early—because of me
.

‘But I went off medicine,’ he explained as he put down his knife.

‘Oh,’ I said, innocently. ‘Why?’

‘Because, well, I had to leave university halfway through my course.’ Now I remembered his neighbour saying that he’d ‘left early’. ‘I had an…accident,’ he said. He nodded at his hands. ‘You probably noticed.’

‘No, I—’

‘So I had to take several months off. And the college were very understanding about it, and they told me I could do the year again. But by the time I was, well, better—if that’s the right word—I wasn’t sure about medicine any more.’

‘Why not?’ I asked quietly. I could feel my heart race.

‘Well, I just didn’t want to be a doctor after that. Maybe because I’d had to spend a lot of time in hospital. Having skin grafts. It takes ages—well, you’d know all about that,’ he added.

My breathing suddenly tightened. ‘How? How would I know?’

He looked slightly puzzled. ‘Well…because of being a vet.’

‘Oh…yes…of course.’

‘Anyway, that was quite a big…set-back. I had to adjust.’

I felt that I could look at his hands openly, now that he was talking about them. I wanted to take them in mine, and stroke them and make them better.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I murmured.
I’m so, so sorry
.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not
your
fault.’
But it is my fault
. ‘They’re not very pretty,’ he went on, ‘but at least they work. I hope it doesn’t, well…bother you,’ he added.
Yes, it does bother me
.

‘No, of course not,’ I said.

‘Anyway, it was ages ago now.’

‘Sixteen years.’

He blinked. ‘You’re good at maths.’ I looked at him, shocked. ‘You worked that out quickly.’

‘Oh…well…you said you were halfway through university, so you must have been about twenty then,’ I said, my heart banging, ‘and you said on Tuesday that you’re thirty-six.’

‘Did I?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember telling you that.’

‘Yes, I think you did… I’m pretty…sure that you did…’
Shut up, Miranda!

‘Well, I must have done. Anyway, I took some time off to convalesce. And I went to San Francisco to stay with this friend of mine whose parents had moved there—I told you we lived in the States when I was a kid?’ I nodded. ‘And this guy’s big sister was a photographer on the
San Francisco Examiner
. And I remember how amazing I thought she was. She’d go out and get these incredible photos, and she’d work half the night to develop them—she was so passionate about it—then we’d see them in the paper the next day. And I had time to kill, so she showed me how the camera worked, and she’d let me come into the dark room and watch her develop them, and so, to cut a long story short, I got the bug. So I decided to leave Cambridge…’

‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘You left Cambridge early.’

‘Well, there was no point in going back. So I went to the City Poly to study photography, and luckily my hands were healing by then. And I got some financial compensation for my injuries, a sort of insurance payout. So I bought this really good second-hand Leica—the one I used to take your photo the other day. And, luckily, I was fine holding it. The grip on the left hand’s not great—there was tendon damage—but it’s the right one that matters more. I don’t think I could have done it—at least not then—if I’d had problems with the focussing and winding on. Anyway, I got my diploma, then I became an assistant photographer for a couple of years, then I got taken on at Reuters, which was a really good break.’

‘So you became a photojournalist?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you want to be, say, a landscape photographer, or a fashion photographer?’

‘Well, I do love taking landscapes actually, and I did wonder about doing that; but the fact is I’d suddenly become
more interested in politics. I wasn’t before, when I was a teenager, but in my early twenties, I became…’ he shrugged, ‘…more politicized, I guess.’ I knew exactly why that was. ‘You know, you’re so easy to talk to,’ he said, with an air of surprise. ‘I’m usually a pretty poor conversationalist, but I feel I could talk to you for hours—I’m not sure why. I think it’s because you seem to be a very sympathetic person.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. You seem to be very…compassionate. I mean, the way you reacted just now when I told you about my…accident. I found that very touching.’ And I was just wondering what on earth to say, when the waiter appeared and took our plates. ‘I wasn’t sure that you’d agree to come out this evening,’ David added. ‘I was worried that you thought I was rude.’

‘I was worried that you thought I was
mad
.’

‘We did get off on the wrong foot, didn’t we?’ I nodded. Then a silence descended. ‘Shall I tell you why I asked you out?’ he said suddenly. I looked into his eyes, and noticed that they had amber and green flecks.

‘Okay,’ I murmured. ‘Why did you?’

‘Because you looked
so
crestfallen when I couldn’t stay for a beer.’ He fiddled with his spoon. ‘It was really sweet. Your expression. You seemed so…disappointed, if I’m not flattering myself, which I probably am. In fact, you looked quite upset. And I was really touched by that, so I decided that I’d ask
you
.’ He suddenly smiled. And as he did so the tiny crescent-moon-shaped scar—which I had almost certainly caused too—disappeared in his laughter lines.

Now, over the main course, the conversation became more personal. And I realized with happiness, and a kind of horror, that he
liked
me—he wouldn’t for long. He told me that he was divorced.

‘How long were you married?’ I asked disingenuously.

‘Just over a year.’

‘Not long then.’

He shook his head. ‘It was a mistake. We didn’t have enough in common,’ he went on. ‘Plus I travelled a hell of a lot, and so did she.’

‘What did she do?’ I asked innocently.

‘She’s a model. Lots of photographers date models,’ he said. ‘We seem to move in the same circles so it’s easy to meet, and we both have these high pressure lives. And Katya and I were very attracted to each other, but we made the mistake of getting married when it should only have been a fling.’

‘Did you break up with her?’

‘No. She left me. She said I didn’t treat her well, which is probably true. She said I didn’t talk to her enough and that I was selfish—which I guess I am. Photographers often are selfish, because we’re so driven.’ He poured me some more wine. ‘And what about you, Miranda? You’re single, aren’t you?’ I nodded. ‘And has there ever been a Mr Miranda?’

‘No. Or rather, not…quite.’

‘Not quite?’

I fiddled with my wineglass. ‘I was engaged for a while.’

‘Really? When?’

‘It ended in May.’

‘Not long ago then. I’m sorry. That must have been very hard.’

‘It was. It still is, actually.’ I chewed on my lip. ‘But I know it’s for the best.’

‘Why? Was he…?’

‘Unfaithful? No.’ I absently smoothed my napkin. ‘He wasn’t.’

‘Were you…incompatible then?’