Behaving Badly (29 page)

‘Oh, no. Marcus is indestructible, Miranda. He’s such a
solid
person. The things he’s survived! We were asking him about his work in the pub afterwards.’

‘I just hope you never have to use what he’s taught you for real.’

‘I hope so too—but simply knowing
how
to defend myself makes me feel more confident. Do you promise you’ll come next week?’

‘I solemnly promise. And what are you doing this weekend? Are you seeing Nigel?’

‘I’m not…sure,’ she said vaguely. ‘He’s working all day tomorrow, then I’ve got to be at one of my parties in the evening. I’ll probably have to stay there till at least ten, so I’ll probably just go home and crash.’

‘What’s happening on Sunday? Maybe we could meet for tea?’

‘Sorry, but I won’t be around.’

‘You’ll be with Nigel, of course. Don’t worry. You need to spend some time with him as you’ve both been so busy lately.’

‘Oh no, it’s not that. I’m going microlighting.’

‘Microlighting?’

‘Yes. I’ve never done it before. It’s basically a big kite with a motorbike engine. Apparently it brings back the romance of the early days of aviation as you go phut, phut, phut around the sky. And recently I…got offered the opportunity to try it, so I thought, why not give it a go? I mean, life’s so
short
, Miranda,’ she went on expansively. ‘I feel you should take every chance you get. And what are you doing this weekend?’ she went on quickly.

‘Well, not very much. I’ve got a couple of clients on Saturday, then I’m looking forward to a relaxing Sunday.’

But this wasn’t to be.

It started quietly enough. I had breakfast at Primrose Patisserie, and was sitting outside in the sunshine, reading the
paper, when I saw Natalie float down the road. She looked as fragile and delicate as her glass jewellery. That seemed to be why Marcus liked her so much. Now she stopped, pulled up a chair at the next table, and ordered a cup of cranberry tea. I gave her a brief smile of semi-recognition but she seemed not to know me. Suddenly her mobile trilled out.

‘Oh hi, Marcus,’ she said. No doubt he was coming to meet her. ‘How’s Bedfordshire?’ No—he wasn’t. ‘Oh good. Excellent conditions? No, I don’t mind at all… I
know
I could have come. But I didn’t
want
to. It sounds
horribly
dangerous… This evening? Okay. But don’t book
anywhere
where they allow smoking. You
know
I can’t stand it… Well, I can’t… I don’t
care
if it’s a tall order, Marcus, I’m
not
having people smoking within fifty feet of me. I’m
very
asthmatic… Yes, I
have
told you that… Well, that’s
their
problem, isn’t it?’ And I was just wondering what Marcus was doing in Bedfordshire that was so ‘horribly dangerous’, when my phone rang. I’d diverted my calls.

‘Is that Miranda Sweet?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Keith Bigley, and I’m calling from Oxford about my rescue cat, Ali.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, basically, we think he’s insane. My wife and I are quite worried about him actually, and we saw you on that
Animal Crackers
, and we know it’s the weekend and everything, but we wondered if you’d come out.’ So much for my relaxing Sunday, I thought ruefully. Still, the money would be handy. I paid for my breakfast and left.

Keith had said that the cat ‘kept playing with water’. It had a ‘fatal attraction’ to it, he claimed. I had an inkling why this might be, but I had to see it to be certain. So I put Herman in the car, and set off.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ said Keith, as he opened the door an hour and a half later. ‘This cat is really freaking us out.’ We shut Herman in the dining room, then I followed Keith through to the kitchen, where his wife was washing up. Standing on the draining board, trying to dip its head under the stream of water, was a large ginger and white cat.

‘We’ve only had it four days,’ he explained. ‘We got it from the local rescue centre. But it’s got this
thing
about water. I was having a bath last night and it tried to get in with me. It tries to get into the loo as well. We’re worried that if we forget to put the lid down one day, it might drown.’ Suddenly the cat jumped off the draining board, ran into the garden, and leaped into the pond with a huge splash.

‘You see,’ said Keith’s wife. She shrugged. ‘
Weird
. We don’t like to leave the house, in case it gets into difficulties while we’re out.’

‘So you’re on lifeguard duty?’

She nodded. ‘We’ve ordered a pond cover,’ she explained, ‘but it won’t arrive for a week. Maybe we should get it some water-wings,’ she mused, as her husband and I went outside.

‘What’s
wrong
with it?’ her husband asked, as we stood by the pond watching it doing a vigorous breaststroke amongst the lily pads. ‘Is it crazy? Maybe it’s got a brain tumour or something?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it at all,’ I replied.

‘But what sort of cat goes for a swim?’

‘A Turkish Van,’ I replied.

‘A what?’

‘It’s a Turkish Van,’ I explained, as it hauled itself out of the pond and shook itself. ‘They come from South-East Turkey, near Lake Van, and they have this unusual fascination with water. I thought that’s probably what it was when you phoned me, but I needed to see it to be sure. I think it’s
a cross breed…’ I looked at it, as it lay on the grass, purring like a tractor and licking the water off its fur. ‘But it’s got most of the Van characteristics—the high ears, the ginger and white colouring, and the long, broad body.’

‘I thought he was a big fella.’

‘They are. They can reach three feet in length—and they’re very clever. You can teach them tricks and take them for walks, like a dog. How long had it been in the rescue centre?’

‘Only five days. Someone had dumped it there. The staff didn’t seem to know what it was. They just described it as a tortoiseshell.’

‘Well, that’s because it’s not a pure-breed—it’s got these brown patches on its tummy. And if it had been kept in an ordinary pen, they wouldn’t have seen it in action, so they wouldn’t have known what it was. It must have been thrilled to come here and have a good splash.’

‘So what should we do?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Don’t cover the pond—except in winter, because of ice. Don’t keep fish, for obvious reasons. Oh, and don’t let it go swimming on a full stomach in case it gets cramp.’

He looked at me. ‘Oh. Right. Is that it, then?’

I nodded. ‘That’s it. You don’t have an insane cat—just an unusual one,’ I added as we went inside.

‘Maybe we should take it to the beach,’ his wife said.

As I was driving back, David called me from his hotel in Stockholm. He talked about the shoot, then I told him about my client.

‘They’re known as swimming cats,’ I explained. ‘They’re very rare. I’ve never seen one before.’

‘How bizarre. And are there any dogs that climb trees?’

‘Not to my knowledge, though Staffordshire bull terriers practically do, because they love sticks so much.’

‘So you’ve been having an interesting day?’

‘I have. And now I’m going to have a quiet evening, and catch up with my paperwork, maybe watch a bit of TV, and…’

‘Think about me?’ he said with a laugh.

‘Yes. Think about you. I
do
think about you, David.’

‘Nice things?’

‘
Very
nice things.’
And things which you could never guess at
.

‘Now, before I go, have you got anything serious to confess?’ he asked in a mock-serious tone. ‘You usually do.’

‘No. I haven’t, David.’
At least, not today
.

‘Well, there’s something
I’d
like to confess to
you
.’

‘What?’

‘That… I miss you. Do you think I’ve got separation anxiety?’

I smiled. ‘It sounds like you might have.’

‘Then you’re the perfect person to cure me of it. In fact, you’re the only person who can. I hope I’ll always know you,’ he added. My heart turned over.

‘
I
hope you will too,’ I replied.

Animal Crackers
aired again on Tuesday, and the following morning I got a call from a researcher at London F.M. asking me to take part in a phone-in on animal behaviour.

‘We’re calling it “Pets Behaving Madly”,’ he said. ‘It’s on tomorrow night, seven until eight. I’m sorry it’s such short notice.’

I agreed to do it, though I felt bad at having to miss the self-defence class yet again, but I knew the show would generate work. I phoned Daisy, but she didn’t sound too upset, in fact she sounded slightly distracted; but then she clearly had a
lot on her mind. I asked her about the microlighting and she said it was ‘blissful’.

‘It was
so
romantic,’ she said. ‘You just buzz about in the sky, with the earth beneath you. It’s so liberating—I felt
free
.’

‘How high up did you go?’

‘Not that high. Only a thousand feet or so.’

‘It sounds terrifying.’

‘No—they’re safe, because if the engine cuts out you just glide. The landing was a
little
bit hairy,’ she went on. ‘You have to head straight for the ground, nose down, then pull up at the very last minute. Apparently, the trick is to get the thing down without burying it.’

‘You weren’t flying
solo
, were you, Daisy?’

‘Oh. No. I wasn’t.’

‘You had an experienced instructor with you, I hope?’

‘Er, yes. Yes, I did. He says he’ll help me get my licence—you only need to clock up twenty-five hours. Anyway, how was
Animal Crackers
?’ she went on quickly. ‘I meant to watch you, but I forgot.’

‘Oh. That’s okay. It was fine.’

‘I thought
Animal Crackers
was
great
,’ said Dad, when he phoned me later that day for his weekly chat. ‘The way you handled that hyperactive tortoise.’

‘He
was
rather temperamental.’

‘And those aggressive rabbits. Starsky and Hutch.’

‘Stropski and Bitch, more like. Those bunnies really were
very
bad-tempered. Speaking of which, are you ready for your rendezvous with Mum tomorrow?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ll go armed with some flowers, and I’ll just
talk
to her, Miranda. I haven’t talked to her properly for years. Have you got any tips?’

‘Yes. Take an extravagant interest in the llamas. Just tell
her how beautiful, sensitive and intelligent they are, etcetera, etcetera, and she’ll be eating out of your hand.’

On Thursday morning I braced myself for a furious phone call from my mother—but, to my surprise, I didn’t hear a thing. Then I had a couple of appointments to go to and didn’t get back until five. I thought she might have left an angry message on my answerphone, but there was nothing. There was still no message when I left for London F.M. I tried calling Dad from the taxi, but his phone was switched off. Maybe he’d actually survived the whole day. Or maybe Mum had murdered him and was busy disposing of the body.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ said the producer, Wesley, when he met me at reception at a quarter to seven. ‘The show’s an hour long,’ he explained as he signed me in. ‘And we’ll be filtering the calls, which we’d like to be a mixture of behavioural problems, plus any pet stories which the listeners want to share. We’d like to keep it informative but light-hearted,’ he added as he called the lift.

‘I’ll do my best.’

In the studio, the presenter, Minty Malone, greeted me warmly, then I put on my headphones, the studio manager took level, and at three minutes past seven, the phone-in began.

‘Now…’ said Minty as she leaned into the microphone. ‘Is your borzoi unbalanced? Is your iguana introverted? Are your tropical fish psychologically fragile? If so, then do call us this evening, because our subject tonight is pets—and their peculiarities. And our special guest is animal behaviourist, Miranda Sweet, from TV’s
Animal Crackers
. Miranda, a warm welcome to the show.’

Minty spent a couple of minutes chatting to me, then she took the first question.

‘On Line One is Pam from Penge, and Pam wants to know why her cat sleeps so much.’

‘That’s right,’ said Pam. ‘It does—it sleeps all the time. And it’s only five, so it’s not old age. What I want to know
is
, has it got urban stress—or is it being a lazy little git?’

‘Neither,’ I replied. ‘It’s simply behaving like the predator it is. The reason cats—like lions—sleep so much—up to sixteen hours a day, is because they’re conserving energy in order to have maximum strength for the hunt.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Pam. ‘I won’t worry then. Thanks.’

‘Thanks for calling in, Pam,’ said Minty. ‘And now we have Patrick, who’s got a question about his sheepdog, Murphy, who’s car crazy. Will you tell us what he does, Patrick?’

‘Well, he’s a
super
dog, but he’s very excitable,’ Patrick replied. ‘He really is. Very excitable.
Very
excitable.’ Patrick sounded pretty excitable himself. ‘He likes to sit in the back with his head
right
out the window.’

‘That’s
not
a good idea,’ I interrupted. ‘I wouldn’t let him do that.’

‘But the
really
annoying thing is the way he keeps saying, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” All the way. It drives me round the bloody twist, I can tell you.’ Minty was making circling gestures by her temple.

‘Well…that…would be annoying,’ I said.

‘And now we have Mrs Edith Witherspoon on Line Three, who’s concerned about her bulldog, Archie.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Mrs Witherspoon. ‘I really am
most
concerned. He behaves in a very…’ she hesitated. ‘Unsavoury way.’ Minty’s eyes had widened but I knew what was coming.

‘So what exactly is the problem?’ I said.

‘Well…he’s fine when I’m on my own. But if I have my
friends round for tea—or it’s my turn to host the Women’s Institute—he behaves
so
badly. I put him out, but then he barks to be let in. So I relent. But if I then
ignore
him and
dare
to talk to my friends he…he…oh dear… I can hardly
bear
to tell you.’