Behaving Badly (17 page)

‘Say when, Nige,’ I heard her say.

Yes, Nige, I thought crossly. Say
when
.

The rest of the weekend passed pleasantly, although I felt like throwing up when I listened to
The Westminster Hour
on Sunday and heard Jimmy. He was talking about some House of Commons report into university funding. I had to turn the radio off. I was busy all day on Monday, then on Tuesday I waited for Lily’s star reporter, India Carr, to arrive. I knew she wrote well—I’d read some of her articles—and when she turned up she seemed friendly and nice. First she took notes about the house, then she asked me about my work—about the most difficult case I’d ever had to deal with; then the easiest; the most interesting one; the commonest mistakes people make with their pets. We talked about the growth in
animal psychiatry, then she came to the personal stuff. She wanted to know who my favourite designer was.

I laughed. ‘I
never
buy designer gear. I wear jeans most days, and the odd vintage jacket if I feel like adding a bit of sophistication, but I’m no clothes horse—or rather Shetland pony!’ I quipped.

‘You
are
quite tiny,’ she said with a smile. ‘What size are you?’

‘At the moment I think I’m a six. I buy children’s clothes sometimes—it’s the one advantage of being so small—with kids’ stuff there’s no VAT.’

‘And on the romantic front,’ she said. ‘You’re single. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, shifting slightly. ‘I am. Not that it’s particularly relevant,’ I added with studied casualness.

‘Well, I think it
is
relevant.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were engaged to Alexander Darke.’ Oh
shit
. Her large green eyes were staring into me. ‘Weren’t you?’ she said.

I sighed. ‘You’ve obviously done your homework.’

‘Of course I have—that’s my job.’

‘Well, I’d rather not discuss my private life, if you don’t mind.’

‘But it’s something I have to ask.’

‘Why?’ I stared at the floor. ‘Who’s going to be interested?’

‘Quite a lot of people, I’d say. Because by the time this article comes out in August, Alexander Darke will be a big name. So it would look odd if I hadn’t mentioned your connection with him.’ I glanced out of the window. ‘So what happened?’ she enquired. I felt ill. She checked that the cassette
in her tiny tape recorder was still running. ‘What happened?’ she repeated gently.

I could have stopped the interview, but I needed the publicity. ‘It just…’—I sighed—‘…didn’t…work out.’ I picked Herman up, so that India wouldn’t see my hands shaking.

‘There must be more to it than that?’

‘There
isn’t
! I mean…there isn’t,’ I said. ‘Really. There’s nothing to say.’

‘But a friend of Alexander’s told me…’—oh
no
—‘…that the engagement had ended very abruptly. I just wondered why that was. He said that Alexander never really explained.’ I
bet
he didn’t. ‘He just told them you’d had “second thoughts”. He said that they were all quite mystified as you’d seemed so happy. I’m sure the readers would love to know why the relationship came unstuck.’

I realized, reluctantly, that I would have to say
something
. ‘Well,’ I began, ‘I
did
have second thoughts—that’s true. Because I’d come to the…very sad…conclusion that it wasn’t going to work out between us, long term.’

India gave me a sceptical look. ‘Why not?’ I did my best to remain calm. If I got upset, she’d sniff a story, and in my present state I might crack.

‘I discovered that we were…incompatible. That we had…different values.’ Oh God, that sounded so judgemental.

‘Was he unfaithful?’ she asked. ‘Is that what you mean? There
were
rumours about his co-star, Tilly Bishop.’

A spasm of jealousy squeezed my heart. ‘No, really, there was no one else involved. By “different values” I simply mean…that we didn’t have quite the same attitudes to life. Sometimes these things can take a while to find out,’ I went on reasonably, recovering now. ‘And it’s better not to go ahead if that’s the case.’

‘So no hard feelings then?’

‘No hard feelings,’ I lied.

‘And do you remain friends with him?’

If I said ‘no’, she’d only want to know why. ‘Yes,’ I lied again. ‘We remain friends. Alexander’s…great. He’s a brilliant actor, his career’s obviously taking off…and so I…wish him well.’

She seemed satisfied with this, and in any case it was all she was getting. I wasn’t going to tell her the truth. And although what he’d done was, as Daisy had often pointed out, ‘unforgivable’, I didn’t want to appear vindictive, or look like a victim. Worse, I knew that if it did ever get out, the ensuing media coverage would link him to me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t be ‘Miranda Sweet, animal behaviourist’ any more; I’d be ‘Miranda Sweet, that poor woman who was treated so badly by TV star, Alexander Darke’. I was determined to protect myself.

‘Well, I guess that’s it then,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘I’m sure you’ve got enough material now. In any case the photographer will be here in a moment.’

She switched off the tape recorder and put it in her bag. ‘Oh yes, you’ve got D.J. White. Lily told me she’d booked him. Well, good luck!’ she exclaimed as she picked up her pad.

I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I met him once—he’s rather hard work.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s a bit of an awkward sod. He’s good-looking, mind you—and brilliant at what he does—but…’ she pulled a face. ‘He’s just…awkward.’

‘Oh well,’ I shrugged. ‘He can be as awkward as he likes. It’s not as though I’ll be seeing him again.’

As she left, and I cleared away the coffee cups, I felt relieved that it wasn’t the right David White. The thought of
being photographed by
him
made me feel ill. Suddenly, the phone rang. And I was just explaining to a potential new client how I work and what I charge, when Herman suddenly threw back his head and barked. I turned and saw a dark-haired figure standing in the doorway.

‘Oh, hold on please,’ I said. ‘Hello.’ I waved at him to enter. ‘So, if you want to make a booking, just let me know.’ I replaced the handset. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘You must be David.’ He nodded, unsmilingly. India seemed to be right. Oh well. He wasn’t that tall, maybe five foot nine or ten, but he was broad shouldered. Macho. Slightly Brandoish. That’s who he reminded me of, I realized—a young Marlon Brando. And as I looked at him, I realized, with a sudden peculiar certainty, that I found him attractive. And now, as he took a step towards me, I noticed a tiny scar on his cheekbone, just below his right eye. And I was just thinking how intriguing it was, and that it looked like a crescent moon, when he suddenly extended his hand. And, as he did so, I saw that the skin on the back of it was mottled and slightly shiny. I felt as though I’d been pushed out of a plane.

‘So, you’re D.J. White,’ I heard myself say. ‘You’re D.J. White,’ I repeated. I suddenly felt as though my throat was crammed with expressions of regret, threatening to choke me.

‘D.J. White’s my professional name,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘To distinguish me from the two other David Whites in the business.’

‘I see.’ As he put down his bag and began to unzip it, I glanced at his hand again. The skin was stretched looking in places, slightly ridged in others. I glanced at the left. It was the same. ‘So you’re David White,’ I said again. Now, as I looked at him, still feeling as though I was falling from a very high place, I could feel tears prick the backs of my eyes.
You’re David White and I hurt your hands sixteen years ago, it was me it was me, I did it but I didn’t mean to and I’m so, so sorry and please will you forgive me
. I swallowed. ‘So you’re… David White.’

‘Yes.’ He looked up at me, puzzlement furrowing his brow. ‘That’s…right. I think we’ve established my name now.’

I nodded, blankly, still staring at him, aware of a profound sense of dislocation, as though I was having an out-of-body experience, or, perhaps, an out-of-mind one.

‘And you’re American?’

‘No actually, I’m not.’

‘But you sound American,’ I said absently, as he took out a camera.

He shook his head. ‘I’m as British as you are.’ He pronounced it ‘Bridish’.

‘But you have an American accent. I don’t understand.’

‘Well,’ he sighed, evidently irritated, ‘there’s a very simple explanation. I grew up in the States.’

‘Oh.’
Oh
. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Why?’

He looked at me. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did you grow up there?’

He straightened up, then gave me a penetrating look. ‘You’re very…curious, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘I’m sorry. But… I just wondered…that’s all.’ His face expressed a combination of annoyance and bewilderment. ‘Why did you live there?’ I repeated.

‘Why do you want to
know
?’

‘Well…’ I shrugged. ‘I…just…do.’

‘O-kay,’ he said, putting up his hands, as if in amused surrender. ‘My father worked there.’

‘Where did he work?’

Now he was staring at me as though I was mad. ‘Jesus!’
he said quietly. ‘All these
questions
. New Haven, if you must know.’

‘Where Yale is?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what did he do? Did he work at the university?’

‘
Look
…’ I heard him inhale with barely suppressed irritation. ‘We’ve never met before, but I’ve come here to take your photograph—not to be interrogated, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m…sorry.’ I collected myself. ‘It’s just that I was…surprised. You see, I was expecting you to be American.’

‘Well I’m
not
American, okay? Now that I’ve convinced you of that, I’d like to get on with the shoot.’ He pulled out a roll of film and began to feed it into the camera. ‘I’ll take some of you here—’ he glanced round the consulting room as he wound the film on. ‘Then a few outside—I thought we could walk up the Hill.’ Now, as he held a light meter in front of my face, squinting at the dial, I glanced at his hands again. The skin on the back of them was strangely pale and textured like damask. On his fingers were tiny white lines, like miniature forks of lightning.
I did that to you, David. It was me. It was me
. He noticed me looking. I looked away.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ I asked, my tone of voice more normal now, as the initial shock began to subside. ‘Or would you like something to eat?’
Or maybe I could give you all my money, and my jewellery—in fact everything I own: I’d be pleased to…

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’ A sudden silence descended. Then David looked at Herman. ‘Nice dog,’ he said, suddenly friendlier now. ‘What’s his name?’ I told him.

‘Herman the German,’ he said.

‘
Exactly
.’

He crouched down and stroked Herman’s glossy head. ‘I
like dachshunds,’ he added. ‘They always look like something awful’s just happened—or is about to.’

‘That’s why
I
like them too. The way they look so acutely…concerned.’ He nodded and now, for the first time, he smiled. ‘I’m sorry about the inquisition,’ I said, calmer now.

He shrugged. ‘That’s fine. I guess it’s just nerves.’
It is
. ‘But don’t worry, Miranda…’—what did he
mean
, ‘don’t worry’?—‘… I’m going to make you look great.’
Oh
. And now I noticed how warm his eyes were and how nice his mouth was, and I saw the red-gold lights in his hair. I opened my compact mirror and quickly checked my appearance. The bruising had gone.

‘Should I put on any make-up?’ I asked. ‘I don’t usually bother.’

He cocked his head to one side, his eyes skimming over my face as though I were a painting he was appraising. ‘No, your skin-tone’s even—I think we’ll be fine. In any case, I’m shooting black and white so you can get away without it. In colour, everything shows.’ He took the camera out of the bag and slung the strap round his neck. Then he pointed it at me, focussed, and pressed the shutter.

I blinked. ‘I wasn’t ready.’

‘You were.’

‘But I wasn’t smiling.’

‘I don’t want you to smile. A smile is concealing.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh yes. A smile is often a mask. Now, just…’ he came in a little closer—I noticed the lemony scent of his aftershave. ‘… Yees. Nice. Very nice.’ He pressed the shutter again. It was so quiet that I barely heard it. ‘Now could you sit on the couch there…that’s it…with the dog.’ He lifted Herman up then moved the two chairs out of shot. ‘Now, I want you to
face the other way from him, just lean your head this way a bit, and…yes. That’s great. Herman, you look at me, okay?’ I heard the soft click of the shutter again, then he wound on. He took two more, then another five in quick succession. Then he suddenly stopped.

‘I know this is hard,’ he said, lowering the camera, ‘because I’m pointing a large lens at you, but if you
could
try to relax a little…’
No, I can’t. Because it’s you. I can’t possibly relax
. ‘You see, you look slightly tense.’

‘Oh.’
I am
.

‘Now, look at me, Miranda…’

‘This way?’

‘Yes, over there, towards the window…that’s good.’ He pressed the shutter again, then lowered the camera. He was standing there, saying nothing, scrutinizing me. I loathed it. I imagined that he could see my guilt.

‘You’re very photogenic,’ he suddenly remarked as he lifted the camera to his eye again. ‘You have neat features, and good cheekbones. No,
don’t
smile. I want to see the true you.’
You don’t. You don’t. Believe me
.

‘Don’t you use a flash?’ I asked, as he clicked away.

‘No, I prefer to use natural light. That’s nice, yes—towards the window—lift your chin. Good.’ Now that he had the camera in his hands he seemed somehow less abrasive, as though it protected him, gave him a barrier. ‘We’ll have Herman sitting beside you, and I’d like you to look at each other. Yes—hold it—that’s great. Now we’ll do a few of you standing by the door.’