Behaving Badly (33 page)

‘Christ! You haven’t lost your engagement ring, have you?’

‘What? Oh. No.
No
. I didn’t put it on this morning. I, um, didn’t want to lose it. And in any case, it’s a bit big,’ she said. ‘I need to have it sized.’

‘And how are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied absently.

‘Has last night sunk in now?’

‘Yes it has,’ she sighed. ‘I’m…fine,’ she insisted. ‘I’m…
engaged
,’ she went on, slightly bleakly. ‘I’m finally…
engaged
, Miranda.’

‘Well, thank God you
are
. And it’s better that he finally did it off his own bat like that, without you having to bludgeon him into it.’

There was silence, except for the hum of my hard drive. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ Daisy said quietly. ‘I was so terrified of bringing things to a head, but now I’ve got the answer I’ve always wanted, I’m not quite sure how I
feel
.’ I registered that there were short white hairs on her navy jumper. ‘I wonder
why
he’s done it?’ she mused. She gazed out of the window.

‘
Why
? Because he loves you, that’s why.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I do. Nigel’s not a
very
demonstrative person…’ I went on.

‘You can say that again.’

‘But I’m sure he’s sincere.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘And it’ll be fun organizing your own wedding at last. I mean, how many have you organized for other women?’

‘I don’t know—fifty or sixty—maybe more.’

‘Well, now it’s
your
turn.’

At this she brightened for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes. It’s my turn.’

‘And are you going to put the announcement in the paper?’

This seemed to alarm her. ‘Oh. Erm…probably not for a bit, no. I mean, there’s no
hurry
, is there?’

‘And are you going to have an engagement party?’

‘I’m not really…sure. In fact, Miranda—’

‘Yes?’ Suddenly the phone rang. It was a prospective client. We had a brief chat.

‘Sorry about that, Daisy. Where were we? Oh yes, and have you decided which church you’d like?’

‘Oh. No. No, I haven’t.’ This surprised me. I would have thought that anyone capable of buying a wedding dress without
a proposal would have planned every other aspect of the hypothetical Big Day.

‘Wherever it is, you’ll have to book it soon if you want a Saturday. On the other hand, maybe it won’t be a problem in December.’

‘December?’ she repeated. ‘I do think that’s a bit early. I mean, I’d like to get used to being engaged, before I actually…take the plunge. Till death us do part and all that,’ she added anxiously.

‘And I guess you’ll be moving in with him soon?’

‘Oh. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that…’ The idea seemed to dismay her. ‘Moving
in
with him? I’m not sure… Oh God, Miranda…’

‘That’s why you’re like this, Daisy. Because however much you’ve wanted it emotionally, you know, rationally, that marriage entails a loss of freedom. Hence your ambivalent feelings. Here—’ I handed her the sheaf of photos from the night before. She quickly flicked through them, frowning slightly.

‘You look
so
happy with David,’ she said wistfully. ‘You look happier than I do with Nigel.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’ As she finished with each photo I glanced at it again and I saw that Daisy did look tense and preoccupied, as though something was troubling her. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

‘Miranda—’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Miranda…’ She was staring at me with an intensity which took me aback.

‘What is it, Daisy?’

‘Well, I just wanted to ask you something, actually, I, er…’

Suddenly the phone rang again. It was David to say he’d got to Paris. ‘I’m sorry about that, Daisy, what were you going to say?’

‘Well, I just wondered…’ She stared at me again. ‘I just wondered…’

‘Is there something the matter? If there is, you can tell me, Daisy—you know that.’

She seemed to hesitate, then shook her head. ‘No. Nothing’s the matter.’ She heaved a painful sigh. ‘I just wondered when you’re going to tell David, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’
She made it sound so wonderfully simple
. ‘This weekend. Definitely. I’ve decided. But I thought I’d told you that.’

‘You did. But which day? Saturday, or Sunday?’ What an odd question.

‘On Sunday,’ I replied. ‘He’s working on Saturday, so Sunday will be easier.’

She nodded. ‘Well
I
think he’ll be fine. Now that I’ve actually met him, and seen you with him, I don’t think you have to worry. The apprehension of something difficult is always much worse than the thing itself, isn’t it?’

‘That’s true.’

‘It’s like a difficult test that you’ve got to pass. So how will you broach it?’ she added.

‘I’ll just sit him down after breakfast, and quietly tell him the whole story.’

‘And will you tell him that it was Jimmy?’

‘I don’t know. I’m hoping to avoid it.’

‘But David will want to
know
. And he’ll have the right to know, Miranda.’

‘I suppose so. But it would make me look vindictive—plus, I don’t want to hurt Caroline—and in any case this isn’t actually
about
Jimmy—it’s about me. My aim is simply to get it off
my
chest. The bigger problem I have is that David will want to know
why
Jimmy did it—and I won’t be able to tell him—because I have absolutely
no
idea.’

‘Welcome to
Question Time
,’ said David Dimbleby on Thursday. ‘Which this week comes to you, live, from the West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds. And our distinguished panellists this week are; the Shadow Secretary of State for Health, Liam Fox, the Independent MP, Martin Bell; the Bishop of London, Richard Charteris; the comedienne, Jenny Eclair; and finally, the Minister of State for Education, James Mulholland, MP. A warm welcome to you all.’ A floor manager in headphones held her hands aloft in a mock-clap and we produced a round of obedient applause.

‘And our first question is from Mrs Kay Spring, a retired biology teacher.’ I saw the microphone arm swing over our heads until it came to rest above Mrs Spring in the row behind.

‘Does the panel believe that the Government has badly misjudged public opinion on GM food?’ she asked.

‘Does the panel believe that the Government has badly misjudged public opinion on GM food,’ Dimbleby repeated. He peered over his half-moon glasses at Liam Fox. ‘Dr Fox? Will you please give us your views on this.’

As Liam Fox began to hold forth, I stared at Jimmy, sitting on the right-hand side of the desk, hands clasped firmly in front, immaculate in his bespoke suit and yellow silk tie. From time to time he made the odd note, or took a sip of water, or narrowed his eyes in judicious fashion as he gave consideration to Fox’s views. I knew that he hadn’t spotted me, as I’d made certain to sit behind someone tall. As I glanced at the question card in my trembling hands, I mentally thanked Daisy for ringing her friend, Jo, a researcher, and making sure I got on the show.

‘Extreme caution needed…’ I heard Liam Fox say. ‘Scientific jury still out… Potential hazards yet to be identified…’ I
saw Jimmy shake his head. Then we clapped Liam Fox and it was the turn of the Bishop, who expressed his disquiet at the idea of ‘Frankenstein foods’ and ‘corporate greed’—as indeed did all the panellists, with minor variations. Then it was Jimmy’s turn.

‘James,’ said David Dimbleby. ‘You studied science at university, didn’t you?’ Jimmy nodded. ‘In fact, my notes tell me you got a first-class degree.’ Jimmy modestly blushed. ‘So what’s your view on this?’

‘My view is that there is still not one shred of evidence to support the idea that genetically modified foods are harmful,’ he began confidently. ‘Indeed, opponents of GM, living in the rich West, choose to overlook the many benefits to the developing world that GM presents. Rice implanted with a gene enabling it to be grown in salt water; potatoes given a gene to make them resistant to blight; wheat implanted with a gene to prevent river blindness…’
His Master’s Voice
, I remembered from the
Guardian
profile as Jimmy loyally spouted the Government’s line. He spoke with passion and moral indignation—as though he believed what he was saying—and maybe he did. But I knew that if the official line had been
hostile
to GM, he would have denounced it with equal zeal.

Jimmy got a respectful round of applause, which prompted in him a slightly sorrowful half-smile, as though it had pained him to have to apprise the dimwits in the audience of these simple, but incontrovertible, facts.

My mouth began to feel dry as the panellists took the next question—should the Congestion Charge be extended to other cities? Then there were questions on prisons, on asylum and crime. There was a question about civil liberties in the face of the terror threat. Then, heart pounding, I knew it was me.

‘And our final question is from Miranda Sweet, an animal behaviourist. Where are you, Miranda?’ David Dimbleby enquired as he peered into the audience. ‘Oh there you are, behind that very tall gentleman in the blue jumper.’ I saw the sound engineer coming towards me with the microphone and was aware, behind him, of Jimmy running a nervous finger under his collar. I took a deep breath.

‘And your question is about live exports?’ Dimbleby began as he glanced at his script. I was aware of the camera closing in on me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not. It
was
going to be, but I’d like to ask another question, if you don’t mind.’ Dimbleby was frowning, but I wasn’t going to be deflected.

‘Well, okay, go ahead.’

‘I’d like to ask James Mulholland why, in March 1987, as a recent science graduate, he sent a letter-bomb to Derek White, Professor of Biochemistry at Sussex University, causing grievous bodily harm to the Professor’s son, David?’

A gasp rippled round the studio, like a Mexican wave. The other panellists were all staring at Jimmy, dumbfounded. Jimmy had gone deathly white.

‘Well, this is rather irregular,’ said Dimbleby. ‘But as we have three minutes left perhaps you
could
try to answer the question, James.’

‘Yes, answer the question,’ said Jenny Eclair.

‘Yes,’ said the Bishop. ‘We’d all like to know why you did such a terrible thing—if indeed you did do it.’

‘Oh, he did!’ I called out. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

‘Then how did he ever become an MP?’ someone enquired from three rows in front of me.

‘—Yes—how did he become an MP?’

‘—What a shocking thing to do!’ I heard someone behind me say.

‘—Absolutely dreadful!’

‘—You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?’

‘—No, he looks so
nice
.’

‘Quiet please,’ said Dimbleby. ‘Please let James answer the question.’

‘Well…’ Jimmy began. I could see beads of sweat spangling his brow. ‘Well, I, er…deny
absolutely
Miss Sweet’s outrageous accusation.’

‘There’s no point denying it!’ I yelled. ‘Because I’m willing to swear an affidavit that you did it—because I was there at the time—as I’m quite sure you remember, Jimmy.’

‘My name is
James
,’ he said. ‘And this is an entirely uncorroborated allegation. I shall sue you for libel, Miranda!’

‘Go on then—you won’t win!’

‘But we want to know if it’s
true
,’ said Liam Fox, as he stared at Jimmy.

‘We certainly do,’ insisted Martin Bell. ‘What you did—
if
true—was a dreadful crime.’

‘You can say that again!’ I yelled. ‘He’s got away with it for sixteen years, but he’s not going to get away with it
now
. So come on, Jimmy, just answer the question and tell us all why you did it.’ In the background I was aware of a bell ringing.

‘And I’m afraid that bell brings us to the end of this week’s edition of
Question Time
,’ said David Dimbleby smoothly. Oddly, the bell was still ringing. Except that it wasn’t a bell, I now realized—it was a phone. Why on earth didn’t someone pick it up? ‘So do join us again at the same time next week, when the programme comes from Swansea. Until then, goodbye.’

The phone was
still
ringing—I couldn’t stand it. I reached out my left hand, my head swimming as I surfaced now from my dream. I felt disturbed by it, but also curiously happy. If only I could expose Jimmy like that in real life.

‘Hello,’ I croaked into the mouthpiece, my mouth as dry as sandpaper.

‘Is that Miss Sweet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Detective Sergeant Cooper here from CID. I’m sorry to ring you so early.’ I looked at the clock—it was eight thirty. ‘But there’s been a development with your case.’

I pushed off the duvet. ‘What’s happened? Have you caught them?’

‘I’m afraid not. But I believe we’ve found your engagement ring.’

‘
Really
?’ I swung my legs out of bed. ‘Where?’

‘In a pawnbroker’s in Kilburn.’

‘And are you sure it’s mine?’

‘Quite sure. It’s a solitaire diamond, with an eighteen-carat gold band. And inside is the inscription,
Admired Miranda!
’

‘Oh yes,’ I breathed. ‘That’s my ring.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be very pleased to have it back,’ he said. ‘You can come and collect it whenever you want. Would you like to call in today?’

I released the blind, then stared out of the window. ‘No.’

‘How about tomorrow, then?’

‘No. Not tomorrow either. In fact, I won’t be coming at all.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I don’t want the ring back.’

‘You don’t want it back?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘I am.’

‘But it’s very valuable, Miss Sweet.’

Not to me
. ‘I daresay.’

‘Well, what should be done with it then?’

‘I’d like you to send it to my former fiancé, Alexander Darke. I’ll write you a letter authorizing you to do this and confirming his name and address, which I believe you already have from the statement he gave you.’