Authors: Isabel Wolff
I think that’s why I became ‘tricky’—because I had a lot of instability then. I didn’t smoke or take drugs, like some kids I knew; I didn’t pierce my eyebrows or dye my hair. Instead, I became fixated on animal issues. I went vegetarian, almost vegan—it drove Mum mad—and I joined every welfare organization there was. I played truant to go on live-export protests, and I went on anti-hunt demos too. That’s how I met Jimmy. I was standing by a fence one freezing December Saturday with a few other protesters as the hunt went by. I didn’t like to throw anything, as that’s not nice, and you might hurt a horse; so I just stood there, holding up a poster saying ‘Ban Hunting
Now
!!’ when this handsome man suddenly turned up. He looked like the Angel Gabriel with his thick, curly blond hair and pale beard. And he began chanting, very quietly, ‘It’s a bloody liberty, not a civil liberty! It’s
a bloody liberty, not a civil liberty!’ And his voice got a little louder, and then he motioned to us all to join in. And so we did.
‘It’s a bloody liberty! Not a civil liberty! It’s a
bloody
liberty! Not a
civil
liberty!’ And now he was waving his arms at us, as though he was conducting Beethoven’s Ninth.
‘IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!!
IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!!!
’
I was sixteen then, and Jimmy was twenty-one. It had taken five minutes for me to fall under his spell…
Tim reappeared, and snapped his phone shut.
‘I’m sorry about that. It was my editor. Where were we? Oh yes…’ he stared at his notes. ‘And are you single or married?’ he asked.
‘I’m…single.’ I prayed that he wouldn’t mention Alexander, but there was no reason for him to know.
‘And how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘I don’t mind at all. I’m thirty-two.’
‘And finally, a funny question, which I always ask everyone. What’s your deepest, darkest secret?’
‘My deepest, darkest secret?’
‘Yes. Don’t look so shocked. It’s not serious.’
‘Oh.’ He’d thrown me right off balance for a moment. ‘Well…’ He’d be horrified if I told him the truth. ‘I’ve…got a bit of a soft spot for Barry Manilow,’ I managed to say.
‘Barry… Manilow,’ he muttered. ‘That’s great.’ Then he said he thought he’d got enough material, and if he could just take a quick photo, he’d be off.
‘When’s the piece going in?’ I asked, as he opened his rucksack and pulled out a small camera.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That’s quick.’
‘We had an extra page to fill at the last minute as some advertising was pulled, so I’ve got to turn this around by two. All our photographers are busy today, so I’m going to take a quick digital snap. If you could just stand by the door, holding the dog, with the plaque just behind you.’ We stepped outside. I picked Herman up and smiled at Tim, squinting slightly.
Suddenly he lowered the camera. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you’ve got a bit of a bruise below your left eye—’
‘Have I?’ I felt myself stiffen. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Sorry to mention it, but I just thought you might not want it to show in the picture.’
‘Erm, no. No, I don’t. My make-up must have come off in the heat,’ I added. I went inside and looked in my small hand-mirror. He was right. It was a liverish yellow with a pale mauve outline, as if a black felt-tip had bled on my face. That was careless of me—I must have absent-mindedly rubbed off my concealer. I dabbed on some more Cover-Stick, then pressed on some powder.
‘Yes,’ he said appraisingly. ‘That’s fine. Did you have an accident?’ he asked.
My heart did a swallow dive. ‘No…it was…just one of those…things. I…walked into a lamp post…in the dark. They never look where they’re going, do they?’
He laughed. ‘Okay, then, hold it. Say cheese! Well, that was my last interview for the
Camden New Journal
,’ he announced as he put his camera away. ‘I’m going on to pastures new.’
‘Really? Where are you off to?’
‘The
Independent on Sunday
.’
‘That’s good. Which bit?’
‘The diary. It’s a start. But what I really want to get into is political reporting.’
‘Well, congratulations—I hope it goes well.’
‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Here.’ He handed me a card. ‘You never know, our paths might cross again. Keep in touch—especially if you happen to hear any interesting gossip.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I will.’
Within two hours of the interview appearing in the paper I had every reason to be grateful to Tim. Not only was it accurate and witty, but I’d already had six enquiries about the puppy parties and three new bookings—a chinchilla, a parakeet, and Joy the osteopath’s Bengal cat—which kept me busy for the rest of the week. I phoned Daisy a couple of times but she was busy with clients. But on Friday night she called back.
‘Sorry I haven’t rung you before, but I’ve been frantic. So tell me how it’s all going?’
‘Well, I’m actually quite busy—it’s picking up.’ I told her about the article in the
Camden New Journal
.
‘That sounds good. And what did you think of Lily Jago?’
I giggled at the memory. ‘As you said, a complete drama queen.’
‘And what about Caroline Mulholland? Did she ring you?’
‘Yes, she did. I went out to the house. She was nice.’
‘She’s as rich as Croesus, apparently—and married to this rather handsome MP.’
‘Ye-es,’ I said, ‘that’s right. I met him…briefly. In fact I’m going back there tomorrow—to judge their dog show.’
‘Really? How did that come about?’
I explained.
‘Oh you’ll do it
much
better than Trinny and Susannah,’
she snorted. ‘Can you imagine how rude they’d be! “What
does
that Border collie think it’s got on?” she said, imitating Trinny. “Makes it look like a scrubber! And that Old English sheepdog looks naff in those pink leggings, doesn’t it, Susannah?” “Oh
yes
, Trinny, a complete dog’s dinner, and that springer’s arse is
far
too big for that skirt.” You’ll be much more tactful,’ Daisy giggled.
‘I’ll try. But I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘You’ll probably pick up some new clients,’ she said. ‘It’s worth going just for that.’
‘That’s the main reason why I’m doing it,’ I lied. ‘Plus the fact that it’s in a good cause. So what treats are in store for you this weekend?’
‘Well, I’ve got a blissful day tomorrow. In the morning I’m going Tyrolean traversing.’
‘You’re going where?’
‘Tyrolean traversing. It’s a method mountain climbers use for crossing crevasses, but a small group of us are just going to do it above an old stone quarry in Kent.’
‘From what height?’
‘Oh, only about a hundred feet or so.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are—you’re crazy, Daisy. I’ve often said it.’
‘But apparently it’s
really
good fun. Basically, you suspend cables across the gap, with a sort of pulley thing, then you take a running jump off the edge—’
‘You do
what
?’
‘But then your harness takes the strain and instead of plummeting to the ground you find yourself bouncing along the wire like a puppet on a string. It’ll be
fabulous
.’
‘Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.’
‘And it’s supposed to be much more fun than abseiling
because it gives you that
lovely
feeling of falling into empty space.’
‘Uhhhh.’
‘Then on Saturday night, Nigel’s taking me out,
but
—’ there was a theatrical pause, ‘—he won’t tell me
where
. He says it’s going to be a “very special evening”. Very special,’ she added happily. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Do you think it might…mean something?’
‘Well, yes, I really think that it
might
. Anyway, enjoy your fete,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I shall do my best,’ I replied.
The next morning I awoke feeling awful, having slept very badly. I’d had this really weird dream. In it, I was in a theatre somewhere—I don’t know which one, but it seemed to be quite big—and the curtain had just gone up. And I seemed to be playing Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
for some reason, with Herman as Toto, and Daisy as the good witch Glinda, and my mother as Auntie Em. And Alexander was in it too. He was the Lion.
‘
My goodness, what a fuss you’re making. Why you’re nothing but a great big coward!
’
‘
You’re right. I am a coward. I haven’t any courage at all. I even scare myself
.’
And then Nigel appeared as the Tin Man.
‘Don’t you think that the Wizard could help him too?’
‘I don’t see why not. Why don’t you come with us? We’re on our way to see the Wizard of Oz to get him a heart, and him a brain, and I’m sure he could give you some courage.’
So we did go to see the Wizard, who, to my amazement, was played by my dad. And then I suddenly realized that it wasn’t Alexander playing the Lion any more, it was Jimmy, which confused me. And I was wondering, in the dream,
where Alexander had gone, and whether he minded being replaced by Jimmy, because the Lion’s a really good part; and I was hoping that the audience wouldn’t notice, and I was beginning to feel quite stressed about it all—and that’s when I woke up. With my head full of Jimmy. The thought of speaking to him at the fete made me feel sick. To distract myself I spent the morning answering e-mails—I’m constantly amazed at the things people ask.
‘I’m wondering if my cat is obsessive-compulsive as it constantly washes itself,’ said the first. No it’s not—that’s what cats do. ‘How can I get my tarantula to be more friendly?’
asked another. I’m afraid that’s just tarantula behaviour—you can’t.
‘My African Grey parrot keeps telling me to “Fuck off!” Do you think it really means it?’
No.
Sometimes people like to tell me the ‘funny’ thing their animals do. ‘
My donkey brays backwards—it goes Haw-Hee.’ ‘My horse can count up to ten.’ ‘My Persian cat plays the piano—it runs up and down the keyboard.’ ‘My mynah bird can sing “Heartbreak Hotel”
.’ Suddenly another e-mail arrived—from my dad. It contained the usual stuff about the weather in Palm Springs (great), the celebrities he’d seen playing golf (lots), and the Hollywood gossip he’d overheard (scandalous). He said he hoped that my new practice had got off to a good start. Then I got to the final sentence and gasped.
‘I also want to tell you that a few days ago I made a decision which will no doubt come as quite a surprise to you—to return to the UK. I’ve been offered a very challenging job in East Sussex—’
East Sussex!!
‘—running a brand new golf club which, as luck, or Fate, would have it, is located very near Alfriston.’
Alfriston? Mum would go
mad
. ‘
So I’d be grateful if you could break this tragic news to your mother as gently as possible, Miranda.’
I e-mailed him back.
‘I’ll try!’
At half past one I put Herman on the lead, my head still
reeling from the news about my father, then we left for Little Gateley. The journey was easier this time as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying
Summer Fete!
There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.
‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger!
Don’t
do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’
‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.
‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’
‘Is he?’ I said.
‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least the
weather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’
By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.
‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.