Authors: Isabel Wolff
There was another knock at the door, and a rather lively, good-looking man called Marcus came in with his equally lively Jack Russell puppy tucked into his jumper; then an English setter with a woman called Sue. By ten past seven there were puppies play-biting, ear-chewing, chasing and paddling in the water bowl, while their ‘parents’ indulgently smiled.
‘Had all the jabs?’ I heard someone enquire above the Mickey Mouse yapping.
‘Oh yes. She didn’t cry at all. She’s
very
brave.’
‘Mine’s already house-trained.’
‘Really? That’s amazing.’
‘Well, he’s a quick learner. Both ends.’
At a quarter past seven I did the roll call.
‘Roxy?’ I called out.
‘Here.’
‘Alfie?’
‘Here.’
‘Lola?’
‘Present, Miss,’ her owner giggled.
‘Maisie? Yes, you’re here. Sooty? Is Sooty here? Oh there you are, Sooty.’ They’d just arrived. ‘And Twiglet?’
‘Yep.’
‘Cosmo?’
‘He’s here.’
‘And finally… Bentley. Oh hi, Lily.’ She’d arrived in a cloud of scent, clasping the puppy to her with one bejewelled hand, trailing Jennifer with the other. ‘Do take a seat. Now I’d like you all to introduce yourselves, and to say why you’ve chosen the puppy you have. You go first, Sally, then carry on round the circle.’
‘Okay. Hi, everyone,’ she began, ‘my name’s Sally and I work in PR, and my puppy, Roxy, is a Labrador because, well, they’re just so adorable, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, they’re labradorable,’ said Marcus. Everyone giggled.
‘Next person, please,’ I said.
‘My name’s John and I’m in IT, and I chose Alfie here because I’ve always liked gun dogs.’
‘What’s the pointer that?’ quipped Marcus again. Oh well. At least he helped break the ice.
‘My name’s Susan and this is Lola,’ said a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes. She looked confused. ‘Or is it the other way round? No. I’m definitely Susan and I teach yoga and well, I’ve always loved English setters because they—’
‘Setter good example,’ Marcus snorted. He was that slightly irritating thing—a live wire.
‘My name’s Jane and this is Sooty. And I grew up on a farm, and so I knew I’d just have to have a Border collie one day.’
‘I’m Ian, I’m an interior designer, and this is my pug, Bentley.’
‘I’m Lily Jago. I edit
Moi!
magazine, and my little puppy’s a shih-tzu—’
‘Bless you!’ said Marcus. There were more giggles. Lily gave him a frigid stare.
‘She’s a shih.
Tzu
,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Like her doting aunt here, Jennifer Aniston.’
‘Why did you call her that then?’ asked Marcus, mystified.
‘Can’t you see the resemblance?’
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ he said judiciously. ‘The nose is slightly different—’ Lily looked offended.
‘No. Not the face. It’s the
hair
. It’s because she’s got long silky hair and because she’s worth it, aren’t you, poppet?’ Jennifer grunted. ‘And puppy’s name is Gwyneth Paltrow, for exactly the same reason.’
‘You can’t call her
that
,’ said Marcus. ‘Everyone knows Jennifer Aniston and Gwyneth Paltrow don’t get on.’
‘That’s right,’ said Phyllis. ‘They fell out over Brad Pitt. Gwyneth Paltrow can’t stand Jennifer Lopez either,’ she added knowledgeably.
‘That’s true,’ said Jane. ‘She’s still furious about Ben Affleck apparently. Did you see that piece in
Hello!
?’
‘Look, can we please take this puppy party seriously?’ I said.
‘All right,’ said Marcus. ‘Anyway, I’m Marcus Longman and I work in the film industry.’
‘Oh
really
?’ they all said. ‘What do you do?’
‘Are you a director?’ asked Lily.
‘No. I do stunt-work.’
‘How
fascinating
,’ she breathed. ‘So you’re a stuntman?’ He nodded. That made sense, he was very fit and muscular-looking, as though he worked out a lot. ‘We must do something on that in
Moi!
—what have you worked on recently? Anything famous?’
‘Land Ahoy!’
I felt sick.
‘I’ve heard that’s going to be
splendid
,’ said Phyllis.
‘It is—it’s
brilliant
,’ said Lily. My stomach turned over. ‘I’ve seen a preview tape.’
‘And why did you choose Twiglet, Marcus?’ I persisted, desperate to change the subject.
‘Because Jack Russells are intelligent, lively and brave. And because I thought we might be able to do some fun things together.’
‘What sort of things?’ Lily asked.
‘Parachuting, kayaking, a bit of hang-gliding, maybe.’
Lily rolled her huge black eyes. ‘But dogs don’t
do
those kinds of things.’
‘They do. My last Jack Russell used to go surfing—he
loved
it—he had his own wetsuit. He used to go sky-diving with me too. Not solo obviously—we’d be strapped together. But then, sadly, last year, he had his accident.’
‘What
happened
?’ we all asked, bracing ourselves.
‘He twisted his back getting out of bed. In any case he was my girlfriend’s dog, and she kept him when she left. But that’s why I got Twiglet.’
‘Do you still see your old dog?’ asked Phyllis. ‘I do hope so. He must miss you.’
‘I get access visits. It’s not too bad.’
‘Can we
please
stop barking—I mean, talking,’ I said, trying to reassert my authority. ‘We’ve got a
lot
to do.’
A respectful hush fell, punctuated only by a solitary ‘yap’.
‘Now,’ I continued. ‘The purpose of these puppy parties is to socialize the puppies right from the start so that they’re not fazed by anything in later life. So what we’re going to do first is to play Pass the Puppy. I want you to pass your puppy one person to your left, and then I want you all to look in the puppy’s ears, just as the vet might do, and feel its paws; have a look in its mouth, and its eyes; generally feel its coat and rub its tummy, which is its most vulnerable part. By the time your puppy has been handled by nine strangers over a period of five weeks it’ll be well on its way to becoming a pleasant,
responsible and well-adjusted canine citizen. So—pass the puppy please.’
‘—Oh isn’t it sweet!’
‘—No, please don’t hold her like that—like this.’
‘—Oow—sharp little teeth.’
‘—Careful! Don’t drop him!’
‘—I’m
not
dropping him.’
‘—Bye-bye, my little darling. See you soon!’
Then we had a bite inhibition session followed by a general discussion about common behavioural problems and how to avoid them; then I talked about nutrition, and, finally, we had problem-sharing.
‘Is anyone having any particular difficulties?’ I asked.
‘The house-training’s not easy,’ said Sue with a sigh.
‘He won’t come when I call,’ said John.
‘I’m so exhausted from the nights,’ said Jane. ‘Sooty wakes at least three times.’
‘Bentley does that too.’
‘I feel so inadequate to the task,’ Sue sniffed. There were suddenly tears in her eyes. ‘I feel so helpless. The awful responsibility of it all. This tiny little thing who depends on me, and who I love so much,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel totally—uh-uh—over
whelmed
.’
‘You’ve got post-puppy depression,’ said Lily as she handed Sue a tissue. ‘I had that with Jennifer. It doesn’t last. Maybe you should see your doctor,’ she added helpfully.
‘It’s because it’s your first one,’ said John. ‘Most people feel like that with their first,’ he added sympathetically.
‘Yes,
I
did,’ Phyllis said. ‘Don’t worry, Sue. I’m sure you’ll be a
very
good mother.’
‘Yes, don’t worry,’ they all said. ‘You’ll be
great
.’
At nine they all began to drift away, with promises of puppy play-dates with each other.
‘That was fun,’ said Marcus warmly. ‘Twiglet loved it, didn’t you Twiggers?’
I smiled. Marcus might be a bit annoying but he was very friendly. He was also rather attractive.
‘So, who did you stand in for on
Land Ahoy!
?’ Lily enquired. ‘Was it Alexander Darke? He’s rather gorgeous.’
‘No. I doubled for Joe Fenton—the guy who plays first mate. I spent most of the shoot being thrown overboard—into the North Sea, unfortunately, rather than the Caribbean. Still, that’s what I get paid to do.’ He handed me an A5-sized flyer.
You CAN Defend Yourself!
it announced.
‘What’s this, Marcus?’
‘I’m going to be running some short self-defence courses from next month in a church hall near Tottenham Court Road. So if you know anyone who’d be interested in coming along, then maybe you’d help spread the word?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I will.’
‘Anyway, I’d better be off.’ He tucked Twiglet into the top of his jumper again. ‘See you next week.’
‘See you,’ said Lily. She went to the window and watched him cycle away. ‘What a charming man,’ she said, as I began to fold up the chairs. ‘He’s quite good-looking too. Apart from the broken nose. I really
must
do something on stuntmen,’ she added as she opened her bag. ‘And when can we do
you
, Miranda?’
‘Do what?’
‘The interview for
Moi!
’ She whipped out her diary.
‘I didn’t think you were serious.’
‘Of course I’m serious. I’d write it myself only I haven’t got time. What day?’
‘Oh. Well…’ I was thrilled. ‘Any day, really—except Friday, as that’s the day I go filming.’
‘How about next Tuesday then?’
I glanced at my calendar. ‘Tuesday would be great. Could we make it after four though, as I’ve got my last appointment at two thirty.’
‘That’s fine.’ Lily scribbled it down. ‘I’ll tell India Carr to come up here at four thirty, then I’ll get the photographer to give you a call. Now who shall I get? Let’s see…’ She bounced the end of her pen against her teeth. ‘Johnny van der Veldt? Hmm, I think he’s away. Jake Green? Too pricey. Hamish Cassell? No—he’s been working for
Vogue
, the treacherous little beast.’
I stopped folding the chairs. ‘You want a photographer?’
‘Yes, sorry, I was just thinking aloud. Don’t worry,’ she put her diary away. ‘The picture editor will sort it out.’ I looked at her. ‘We’ll be off then—my driver’s waiting—and I’ve got to get this little baby into her bed.’ She snapped on Jennifer’s diamanté-studded lead, then smiled. ‘See you next week.’
‘Can I make a suggestion, Lily?’ She turned round. ‘For a photographer?’
‘Yes, okay.’
Adrenaline surged through my veins like fire. ‘How about… David White?’
‘David White?’ she repeated. She blinked twice.
‘Ye-es.’
‘You mean D.J. White?
That
David White?’
‘Erm, yes,’ I said uncertainly. ‘Him.’
‘
This
one?’ She’d picked up my copy of the
Guardian G2
section. On the front was a photo of a Pakistani boy—he looked no more than five years old—working at a carpet loom. In the top right-hand corner I read,
Photo: D.J. White
. ‘But he’s a photojournalist,’ said Lily. ‘This is the kind of thing he does.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Oh well—never mind. I don’t know
much about photographers, actually,’ I said. ‘In fact I don’t know anything about them at all, but I just happened to have heard his name recently so I thought, you know, why not mention him just in case it was a helpful suggestion and—’
‘But it
is
!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘It’s a very helpful suggestion, actually. In fact—it’s absolutely
brilliant
. Yes. D.J. White, distinguished photojournalist, doing portraits for a fashion mag. That might give it a bit of an
edge
. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. D.J. White doing the glossies.
Very
edgy. Did I tell you you’re a genius, Miranda?’ she added casually.
‘Er, you did, actually.’
‘Good.’ She swept out. ‘Because you
are
.’
CHAPTER 6
But was it the
same
David White? The next morning, heart pounding, I phoned the two other photographers of the same name. Although they sounded slightly suspicious at being contacted, they both told me that, no, they’d never lived in Brighton.
‘It
is
him,’ I said to Herman as I replaced the handset after the second call. ‘It’s got to be. He’s the right one. The White one,’ I quipped frivolously. I felt curiously happy.
‘So you engineered the introduction,’ said Daisy when she phoned me on her way to work ten minutes later. I could hear her heels snapping on the pavement. ‘That was bold.’
‘I just decided to go for it, in case he
was
the same one and, as it turns out, he must be.’
‘It’ll make the whole thing much easier,’ she said above the rumble of the traffic. ‘The fact that he’s got to take your picture first will mean that there’ll be a connection between you, which is far less awkward than phoning him up cold. Can you get any more info on him before Tuesday?’
‘I’ve looked at his website and there’s no personal stuff. It just says that he was born in 1967—which fits, age-wise; that he trained at the City Poly, and that he worked for Reuters for ten years before going freelance.’
‘And how do you feel about meeting him?’
Meeting him
. My stomach did a somersault.
‘
Sick
. But I also feel strangely cheerful,’ I added. ‘Excited, almost.’
‘That’s because you know you’re doing the right thing.’
I wondered what the consequences of doing the right thing might be—they could well be catastrophic—but I couldn’t worry about that now. ‘And what about Nigel?’ I asked. I could hear the shrill beeps of the pelican crossing.
‘He came back from Bonn last night. Obviously I didn’t want to have any delicate discussions with him then, as he was tired. But I will. Soon,’ she said. ‘Definitely. I’ve just got to get him in the right mood.’
‘Hmm. Of course.’
‘But I’m not going to ask him this weekend as he’s decided to have a barbecue while the weather holds—in fact, will you come? That’s my main reason for ringing.’