Authors: Isabel Wolff
‘James, this is Miranda Sweet.’ Now he looked at me directly, with nothing more than polite curiosity, his face a pleasant, inscrutable mask. But in his grey eyes, unmistakably, was a spark of recognition. In that instant, sixteen years fell away.
‘Miranda’s just worked wonders with Trigger,’ I heard Caroline say warmly. ‘Now don’t blush,’ she laughed. ‘It’s quite true.’ My face
was
aflame; but not out of modesty. ‘Thanks to Miranda, I now know how to stop his bad behaviour, darling.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s…great.’
‘He’s got a dominance problem, apparently,’ she said with a giggle.
‘Has he now?’
‘He’s got to have his status reduced.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ve got to make him feel less secure.’
‘Is that so?’
‘No more being top dog.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well… I’ve got…another appointment to get to,’ I lied, my heart banging so loudly I was afraid they could hear it. ‘I’d better be on my way.’
‘Thank you so much for coming out,’ Caroline said, as I fumbled in my bag for my keys. ‘So we’ll see you on Saturday, then?’ I felt my insides twist. ‘Miranda’s going to judge the dog show for us, James. She’s stepped in because Trinny and Susannah from
What Not To Wear
had to cancel. Isn’t that nice of her?’ Now I bitterly,
bitterly
regretted having agreed to do it.
‘Oh… Yes,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘That’s great.’
‘About two o’clock, then,’ Caroline repeated cheerily, as I got in my car. She waved at me; I gave her a feeble wave back, then, sick to my heart, I drove slowly away.
My hands trembled like winter leaves as they clutched the steering wheel.
Jimmy
. Jimmy
Smith
—not James Mulholland. He’d changed his name. As for his appearance—he was
transformed
. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him in the wedding photo. I could have passed him in the street and not known. The mass of blond curls and the light beard he’d had at twenty-one had gone, and he was now clean-shaven, receding, and grey. His frame had filled out, and the frayed jeans and jumpers had become Savile Row suits and striped shirts. Only the voice was the same: the smooth, pleasant voice, and the insolent expression in the pale granite eyes.
As I turned out of the gates, my heart still beating so erratically that I felt dizzy, I recalled Daisy’s words: ‘This is the start of a
new
phase in your life, and I just know it’s going to be
good
.’ But how could it be, I thought sourly—how
could
it be—when I’d just been ambushed by my past? And now I was oblivious to the colours of the landscape as I cast my mind back with a deep sense of shame.
It was half my lifetime ago, but it had remained seared on my mind like a brand. I still remembered every detail of that spring morning with photographic clarity, though as the years had gone by, I’d thought of it less. There was nothing I could do about it, and no-one I could tell; so I’d simply suppressed it, and tried to move on. The fact that I’d had to study so hard had helped in blocking out the pain—even so, it had haunted me for years, and still does. And, strangely, I’d been wondering about Jimmy recently, almost obsessively—and now, out of the blue, here he was. Here he was, the epitome, apparently, of affluent respectability. I laughed a bitter little laugh. As I drove through the grey terraces of North London, I wondered what he did. Probably something crooked, I reasoned—how else could he have become so rich? I thought about his wife, and wondered whether he’d ever confessed to her the awful thing that he—no,
we
—had once done.
When I got back to the Mews, Herman was happy to see me—I knew this because his whippety tail was wagging and he wasn’t actively looking anxious. His pointy little face was in neutral gear. I took him out for his walk, and as we walked up the hill, stopping for the usual friendly exchanges with other dog-owners—‘Ooh, look, a sausage dog!’ ‘Sweet!’ ‘Does he speak German?’—I decided what I would do. I’d ring Caroline and tell her that I was sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to help with the fete after all. I hated letting her down, not least because I’d liked her, but there was now no way I’d be able to go. And as I unlocked the front door, trying to work out which of my three excuses—mum ill/dog ill/ car problems—would sound most convincing, I saw the light flashing on the answerphone. I pressed ‘Play’.
‘You have. Three. Messages,’ intoned the robotic female voice. ‘First message sent. Today at. Four. Forty-five. P.M.’
‘Hello, darling!’ It was Mum. ‘Just ringing for a chat. But don’t ring me back as I’ll be busy with the boys. I’ll try you again later.’ Click.
Whirr
. The machine spooled on. ‘Hi, Miranda!’ My heart sank. ‘Caroline here. I just want to thank you again, for helping us out with the dog show—you’ve saved my bacon. But I also wanted to let you know that I’ve just told two of my friends that you’re doing the judging, and they’d both heard of you, from
Animal Crackers
. So you shouldn’t be so modest—you obviously
are
a bit of a celebrity. Anyway, we’re all
really
looking forward to seeing you here on Saturday. Bye for now!’ Click.
Damn
. ‘Hello, Miss Sweet,’ said a male voice. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Cooper here.’ Detective Sergeant? I panicked wildly for a split second, adrenaline flooding my veins, then remembered who he was and calmed down. ‘Just to let you know we’ll be sending you those forms I mentioned—I do apologize for the delay—you should get them by the end of the week.’ Oh. Right. The forms. I’d completely forgotten.
‘This is too much,’ I muttered to Herman, as I opened the back door and let the early evening sunlight flood the kitchen. ‘I’ve more than enough pain without this.’ I sat down, and breathed very deeply to calm myself, but this only gave me a sharp twinge in my rib. Then I went to my computer, waited impatiently while it connected to the Net, and then typed ‘James Mulholland’ into Google. A whole slew of entries came up.
‘Welcome to James Mulholland’s Website,’ I read. ‘James Mulholland has been MP for Billington since May 1997…’ Good
God
—he was an MP! I felt as though I’d been struck by lightning. At the top of the page I read, ‘Links | Fighting for Billington | Billington Labour Party | News | James Mulholland was born in 1965 and was educated at Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough…’
As I read on my heart was racing—there was a photo of Jimmy, smiling smoothly. ‘Click here to find out the latest on James Mulholland.’ I clicked again.
‘James Mulholland has been MP for Billington since 1997. During the 1997–2001 Parliament he was a member of the Education and Employment Committee and the Social Security Committee. He is now Minister of State for Education (Lifelong Learning).’ Christ, he was a Junior Minister! My eyes skimmed down the page. ‘Before going into politics, James was a local radio producer and reporter…’ So
that’s
what he’d done. ‘He was educated at Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough and Sussex University…where he gained a First in Biochemistry.’ In ‘real life’, I read, ‘James enjoys walking in the Hertfordshire countryside, and relaxing at home with his wife, Caroline, and their three dogs.’
But where did the amazing house come from? He’d been a journalist, not a banker, and MPs aren’t loaded. I scrolled through the other entries—mostly promotional guff—then clicked on the
Guardian Unlimited
site. There was an anonymous profile. Entitled ‘His Master’s Voice’, it wasn’t exactly flattering.
‘Son of an insurance salesman…early years provide little evidence of his later ambition… Walton Comprehensive, Peterborough… Sussex University…1987 joined Radio York…in 1993 he interviewed Jack Straw…so impressed, he invited him to be his parliamentary researcher…quickly rose through the ranks. At 37, Mulholland is on the fast track…good looks, charm, communication skills…“on message”…journey from radical left to centre right. In 1995 Press spokesman to Alan Milburn, then selected to fight the safe seat of Billington in Lancashire… In the summer of 2000 married the Hon. Caroline Horbury, heir to the Horbury property fortune…’
Ah
. ‘…frequently entertain at their grand country
pile…smart townhouse in Billington…elegant apartment in Westminster…he now puts her money where his mouth is…’
So that explained Little Gateley Manor. He hadn’t made money—he’d married it. It all made sense. As for the journey ‘from radical left to centre right’—that fitted too. I remembered again the Jimmy I’d known, and tried to square it with the suave pillar-of-the-establishment exterior I’d encountered today. I remembered too how charismatic I’d found him, and, ironically, how principled. That’s what had drawn me to him—his passionate beliefs. How misguided I was, I thought bitterly. What a dupe. And though I was only sixteen, and he was five years older, I was, at best, culpably naïve. Now I wondered whether he’d ever felt the slightest pang of conscience about the terrible thing that he’d done.
I’d always known that he’d escaped prosecution, because if he’d been arrested he would have named me. I remembered his voice on that awful March morning, as I’d stood in his flat, hyperventilating from exertion—I’d run all the way—and from shock.
‘I’ve just…found out,’ I gasped. ‘I’ve just found
out
.’ I could feel my face twisting with rage. ‘I overheard someone talking about it at the bus stop. How
could
you!!’ I croaked, my throat aching. ‘How
could
you! You…you…
hypocrite
.’ I burst into tears.
He folded his arms, then turned and looked out of the window onto the street below. I could see a muscle in his jaw tense and flex. ‘I should keep quiet if I were you,’ he said.
I was amazed at his self-possession. ‘Keep quiet?’ I wept. ‘Keep
quiet
?’ I was crying so much that my ears hurt. ‘No. I
won’t
bloody well keep quiet! I’m going to tell
everyone
what you did!’
He turned and faced me. ‘No, Miranda. What
you
did. It
was
you after all. Wasn’t it?’ he said quietly.
‘No. It
wasn’t
—because I didn’t
know
.’
He gave me an indolent smile. ‘The police won’t care about a detail like that. In any case they’ve already got your number, Miranda. Haven’t they? After your trip to the butchers a few months ago. And then there was your little adventure at the fur coat shop. They won’t believe you. Will they?’ I felt sick. ‘In any case,’ he went on smoothly. ‘If you name me, I’ll tell them that you
did
know. I’ll say we did it together. So I really do suggest that it’s in both our interests for you to keep your sweet little trap firmly shut. Unless you
want
to go to Holloway, of course.’
It was as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice water, and I saw, with dreadful clarity, that he was right. So I did keep quiet—for sixteen years—to my shame, and never saw him again. Until today…
I lay on my bed for more than an hour—Herman lying beside me, like a tiny bolster—just staring through the skylight as the hot blue of the evening sky turned pink, then mauve, now deepening to liquid indigo, and a kind of plan began to form in my mind. I
would
go to Little Gateley this Saturday—and I’d find some opportunity to speak to Jimmy alone. I’d quietly confront him and I’d get him to acknowledge me, and to admit—at
last
—that he’d done something terribly wrong. And I’d make him apologize to me, for what he did—because he’d damaged a part of my youth. God knows what other, physical, damage he’d caused, I thought bitterly. I’d never been brave enough to find out. And so, Alexander quite driven from my mind, I went to sleep, dreaming of fire.
CHAPTER 3
The next day I was booked to see Lily Jago and her shih-tzu, Jennifer Aniston. I read the e-mail again. ‘
Not allowed to take her to work any more…she’s clearly having a nervous breakdown…wreaking havoc at home…can’t cope… Help!!!!
’ It sounded like a pretty straightforward case of separation anxiety. The appointment was at half past four. So I pushed away the negativity which had paralysed me for the previous twenty-four hours and forced myself to work. I spent the morning writing a flyer to send to local vets. I also called the
Camden New Journal
to see whether they might be interested in doing a short piece about me—anything to get the clients rolling in. I wrote my follow-up report to send to the Greens about their Irish setter, then Clare, the producer of
Animal Crackers
, rang. She wanted to arrange the next filming schedule and told me that the new series had just got a good advance preview in
TV Life!
. I went down to the shop and bought it, and there was a photo of the presenter, Kate Laurie, with a Shetland pony, and, inset, a small one of me.
We love our pets, but do we drive them crazy?
it asked.
That’s what Kate Laurie will be finding out in the new series of
Animal Crackers
with help from our resident ‘pet psychiatrist’, Miranda Sweet
. It had a five star rating and was described as ‘compulsive
viewing’. I felt pleased and relieved. I idly flicked through the rest of the magazine and suddenly saw Alexander’s face. It loomed out of the ‘Hot New Talent’ slot on page eight. I caught my breath. He looked heartbreakingly handsome in his eighteenth-century naval uniform.
Alexander Darke in the new swashbuckling drama
, Land Ahoy!, announced the caption. A shard of glass pierced my heart.
Alexander Darke possesses a beguiling blend of old-fashioned charm and courtesy
, the piece began.
Unused to being interviewed, he responds to questions with polite enquiries of his own. But he will have to get used to the media spotlight, for, after twelve years of ‘treading water more than boards’, as he modestly puts it
, Land Ahoy!
is set to make him a star
. It was obvious that the journalist had fancied him. She rhapsodized about his
Byronic looks…like a young Richard Chamberlain
, and his athletic physique. I felt another sharp pang.
This gorgeous Darke horse seems inspired casting as the brave yet unemotional seafaring man
, she gushed. Well, the ‘Darke horse’ part of it was certainly true. Land Ahoy!
’s female lead is the luscious Tilly Bishop, 25, who recently starred in the hit romantic comedy
, Reality Cheque. I felt sick.