Authors: Isabel Wolff
‘The profiles on the Net say he became a local radio journalist in York. He seems to have done that for at least five years.’
‘So he wasn’t planning to go into politics then?’
‘No. If he’d been actively planning a political career, he would
never
have done what he did—
far
too risky—however much he loathed Derek White. The political career seems to have happened by chance when he interviewed Jack Straw and got offered a job as his parliamentary researcher, and then things took off from there.’
‘So he went into politics knowing that he had this awful skeleton in his closet.
God
.’ she breathed. ‘He must have been
terrified
of it ever coming to light.’
‘Yes. He admitted that just now.’
‘And he must have prayed never to see
you
again.’
‘He probably hoped I was
dead
.’ I took the cassette out of the tiny tape recorder, labelled it, and tucked it carefully into my bag.
‘Don’t lose it,’ said Daisy.
‘I won’t.’
‘And are you going to play it to David?’
‘I’m not…sure.’
‘But it proves that you were telling the truth.’
‘But my problem is that Jimmy names himself on it, so I don’t want to. I’ll have a think.’ I handed the recorder back to her. ‘Thanks.
Thanks
, Daisy—for everything.’
‘It’s a real pleasure.’ She screwed up her sandwich wrapper and threw it into the bin. ‘I’d
love
to see Jimmy brought low.’
‘I guess I would too—but I feel that it’s not for me to do—it’s for David. We’ll have to see what he does.’
‘So still no word from him?’
My heart sank. ‘No. But how are
you
?’ I asked, as Daisy passed me a Mars Bar, then unwrapped one for herself. ‘What about the llama hen party? My mum’s dead keen to do it.’
‘I know she is, but I’m just not sure…’
‘Aren’t you going to have one then?’
‘I guess so,’ she said absently. She still wasn’t wearing her engagement ring.
‘And have you decided which church?’
‘Oh. No. At least…not yet,’ she said vaguely. ‘Nigel wants me to decide, but… I don’t know…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘What’s the matter, Daisy?’ She didn’t reply. ‘This isn’t just post-engagement stress, is it?’ I said softly.
‘Well, I…’ She sighed, and Herman trotted up to her with a sympathetic expression on his face. ‘I just feel a bit…distracted, that’s all.’ She picked him up and cuddled him. ‘So I’m finding it hard to plan the wedding.’
‘How odd, when you’re so brilliant at planning other people’s.’
‘I know. But it’s as you said—I can’t quite take in the fact I’m engaged. It makes me feel strangely…flat. Plus…’
‘Plus what?’
‘Well, something
happened
yesterday, Miranda. Something I really didn’t like. I would have mentioned it last night, but you were too upset about David.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Well, at lunch, Mary was there. In the pub.’
‘Yes. You told me she would be. And…?’
‘Someone mentioned the wedding, and she said to Nigel, “Well, you should get your Equity Partnership now.” She said it in this jokey, inoffensive way, but the underlying meaning was clear. That Nigel would gain professionally by getting married.’
‘That’s bollocks! It makes
no
difference these days.’
‘But Bloomfields is a traditional firm, so it might.’
‘Yes, but they can’t not promote someone just because they disapprove of their lifestyle.’
‘But his new head of department is very old school. And Nige has been trying to get Equity Partnership for quite a
while now—that’s why he’s been working so hard. And I suspect that if it came down to a choice between Nigel and another similar candidate who was married with kids, then the married one would win out. And Nigel’s very ambitious, as you know, so he’s twigged this. That’s what Mary was implying.’
‘I wouldn’t pay the slightest attention to what she said—she’d like to spoil things for you because Nigel was never interested in her.’
‘But when she said it, he blushed and instantly changed the subject.’
‘Look, Nigel loves you, Daisy, and that’s why he wants to marry you. I really think that’s all there is to it.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. But in any case it isn’t
just
that. It’s…something bigger, actually.’ She heaved a deep, painful sigh, which caused Herman to emit a compassionate whimper. ‘Oh Christ, Miranda, I feel so
silly
even saying it, but…’
‘What?’
‘Well, do you remember when we were chatting in my garden a few weeks ago, and I said that I felt that I could tell you anything—anything at all—and that you’d never judge me?’
‘Yes. Of course I do.’
‘Well, there is something that’s really bothering me, actually, and I
would
love to tell you about it, even though it’ll sound totally bananas, and I know you’ll think I’ve
completely
lost it…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘You can tell me, Daisy. What
is
it?’
‘Well, I kept thinking about what you said—that day.’ She fiddled with her pen-pot. ‘Recently, it’s obsessed me.’
‘Really? And what did I say?’
‘You said that, maybe, if it didn’t work out with Nigel, it was because—’ Suddenly my mobile trilled out.
‘Oh,
sorry
, Daisy, let me just get that. I’ll tell them to go away.’ I rummaged in my bag. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Miranda Sweet?’ said an unfamiliar female voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Karen Hall here.’
Who?
‘From the Pet Slimmer of the Year competition.’
‘Oh
shit
!’ I leapt to my feet. ‘It’s today, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It is. Where
are
you?’
‘I’m
so
sorry!’ I gasped. I was panicking so much I thought I was going to have a heart attack.
‘We’ve been expecting you since half past eleven. The lunch is almost over.’ In the background I could hear the gentle clink of cutlery and the babble of voices.
‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I repeated. ‘It slipped my mind.’
‘We guessed that’s what might have happened, but we couldn’t find your mobile phone number, then someone looked it up on your website. But could you
please
make your way over as soon as possible, as you have to announce the result at two fifteen and the press are all here.’ I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past one.
‘I’ll jump in a cab. Where is it again?’
‘At the Meridien Hotel on Piccadilly,’ she said, with a justifiably exasperated air.
‘I’m on my way.’ I flipped the phone shut and tucked Herman under my arm. ‘Christ, I’m just
so
distracted at the moment, Daisy—I’d forgotten I’ve got to announce the Pet Slimmer of the Year. I can’t seem to focus on anything except my own problems at the moment.’
‘I had noticed,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s been
such
a tricky time. And, oh God,
we’ll finish this conversation later on, okay—but I’ve got to race over there
now
.’
Thank heavens I was smartly dressed, I realized, as I ran outside and hailed a taxi. As we sped through Soho I tried to remember what I knew about the competition. They’d sent me loads of bumph about dieting Dalmatians and fat cats, but I hadn’t read it. I’d just have to busk it. As we bumped down Charing Cross Road I jotted down a few notes for my speech. ‘A fat pet is not a happy pet…better to be perky than porky…regular exercise…importance of sound nutrition…the many health risks of being overweight.’ At last. I’d arrived. Heart pounding, I paid the driver and ran inside, where I was directed upstairs to the Edwardian Suite. I finger-combed my hair, took a couple of deep breaths, put a smile on my face, and went in.
Karen Hall saw me arrive, and stood up. I made my way over to her table, where coffee was being served.
‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I whispered as I sat down. My face was aflame. She handed me the press pack I’d been sent before, but had neglected to study.
‘We have the five regional finalists here,’ she explained. ‘In your absence, I’ve already picked the winner, but if you could announce it, as the journalists are expecting it to be you.’
‘Of course.’ I couldn’t have cared less which of them got it, I realized, as I quickly scanned through the blurb. There was Dixie, a dachshund from Stratford-upon-Avon, who had reduced his weight from a monstrous three stone to two. I looked at the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos. He’d been so fat his stomach had scraped the ground, but now he looked lean and svelte. Then there was Delilah the Labrador—or rather Flabrador—who’d been a massive six stone, but who had lost twenty-one pounds. Then there was a Persian cat called
Sweetie, which had slimmed down from just over two stone to a very creditable thirteen pounds. Fourth was a vast rabbit called Fluffy, who had weighed an incredible one and a half stone and had to be pushed round the garden in a wheelbarrow before losing twelve pounds. Finally there was a mouse called Maurice, which had managed to get its weight down from a gross six ounces to a very sleek two ounces.
The press release recounted the trials and tribulations all the animals had faced in their quest to reduce. Delilah the Labrador had been making great progress when, in a moment of weakness, she stole a leg of lamb from the kitchen table and scoffed the whole thing.
That was a very bad moment
, said her owner, Brenda.
She gained two and a half pounds and got a real talking to after that!
Sweetie, the porky Persian, had gained weight when her owner’s five-year-old daughter kept feeding her sardines on the sly.
It was touch and go as to whether or not she’d reach her goal in time
, said her relieved owner, Julia.
But the family are very proud of her now
.
We should applaud the willpower and determination of all our contestants
, the press release concluded.
They are a shining example to us all of what can be achieved when you really try!
I gulped down my coffee, as Karen Hall got to her feet.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has now arrived.’ There were a couple of excited barks from the back of the room. ‘And here, to announce the 2003 PetWise Pet Slimmer of the Year, is Miranda Sweet from TV’s very popular
Animal Crackers
programme!’
I got to my feet, my knees trembling. I hate public speaking.
‘Thank you all for coming today,’ I began. ‘And I’d just like to say, before I open the gold envelope, that
all
the pets here today are winners. Their determination to diet is
very
impressive and shows what willpower can do—along with carefully controlled feeding, of course. But now, without further ado…’ I ran my right thumb under the flap of the envelope, ‘…it is my very great pleasure to announce that the PetWise Pet Slimmer of the Year for 2003
is
… Fluffy the rabbit!’
There was polite applause as Fluffy was carried up to the podium in his owner’s arms. Onto the screen behind me appeared a photo of Fluffy as he was before. He was so fat you could hardly see his eyes. He looked like the Incredible Hulk.
The flashbulbs popped as I handed the slimline Fluffy and his owner their prize—a year’s free insurance cover with Pet-Wise, and a year’s supply of dried food.
‘—This way please, Fluffy!’ shouted a photographer.
‘—No don’t look at him, look at me.’
‘—Big smile, Fluffy. Show us your teeth.’
‘—Miranda—give him a kiss!’
I didn’t realize that there’d be so much publicity—the paparazzi were out in some force. But now, as they snapped away, I could hear that there was a dispute developing amongst the other contestants.
‘—Okay the rabbit was fat, granted,’ said the owner of the Persian. ‘But Sweetie got so huge her cat flap had to be widened—by
ten inches!
’
‘—Well, Delilah was a right lardarse—and look at her now. Like Kate Moss!’
‘—
I
don’t think it’s fair to make the competition interspecies.’
‘—Maurice lost
four ounces
. That’s sixty-six per cent of his body weight.’
‘—Really? Well, maybe
he
should have won…’
I discreetly rolled my eyes—this is what I hate about competitions of this kind. The discontented losers. As I cast my eye over the room, I spotted the journalist, Tim Charlton, who’d interviewed me for the
Camden New Journal
. He was obviously doing a diary piece for the
Independent on Sunday
. He caught my eye and I smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said, as I stepped off the podium.
‘Hi, Tim. How’s it going at the Sindie?’
‘It’s going well, thanks. Can I get a quote from you?’
‘Of course.’ We concocted some story about Britain’s pets being a nation of furry fatties.
‘Maybe Fluffy should put out a fitness video,’ I added. ‘I mean, if Vanessa Feltz can, then why can’t he?’
‘That’s perfectly reasonable,’ he said seriously, as he scribbled it down. ‘Actually, there was something else I wanted to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, you know I want to get into political reporting?’
‘Yes, I remember you saying.’
‘So I’ve been writing one or two anonymous profiles lately for the op ed page. And I saw you at the Photographers’ Gallery last month—at Arnie Noble’s exhibition.’
‘Did you? I didn’t realize you were there.’
‘Well, it was very crowded, but I was. And I couldn’t help noticing that you were chatting to James Mulholland’s wife, Caroline Horbury.’
‘Ye-es,’ I said slowly. ‘That’s right.’
‘And this morning the editor asked me to write a profile of James Mulholland for this Sunday’s paper, as he’s been tipped for the Cabinet at the next reshuffle.’
‘Really?’ I said faintly.
‘So I wondered whether you might have any interesting
little titbits that I might be able to use—it doesn’t matter how trivial—just to liven the piece up.’