Behaving Badly Page 31

  Jimmy flinched. ‘Don’t tell him my name, Miranda. Please, don’t. It’s not necessary.’

  I looked at him. ‘All right. I won’t. But if he chooses to pursue me through the civil courts—which remains a possibility—then I will have to say, under oath, that it was you, so you should be aware of that.’

  Jimmy suddenly looked as lost and lonely as a small boy. ‘I’ve dreaded this,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve dreaded it for years.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. But thanks for telling me the truth, at last.’

  Suddenly the door opened, and Jimmy’s secretary appeared with a paper carrier.

  ‘I’ve got you egg—is that okay? Is that okay?’ she repeated. ‘Egg?’

  He nodded absently as she handed him the bag. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘That’s…fine.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I said as I stood up. ‘It really was a very helpful meeting. Don’t worry—James—I’ll see myself out.’

  As I walked back down the corridor, I felt euphoric. I knew the truth at last. I’d be able to tell David, and though it might not bring him back, he would perhaps, at least, understand.

  By now it was eleven forty, and by the time I got back to Daisy’s it was almost half past twelve, so we were able to have a quick lunch in her office. She closed her door and, as we ate our sandwiches, I played her bits of the tape. Not only had it worked—it had come out very clearly.

  ‘So it was student revenge then,’ she said, as she passed me a bottle of water. I glanced at her files with their odd labels—‘Camel Hire’, ‘Wedding Helicopters’, ‘Alpine Wonderland’ and ‘Moulin Rouge’.

  ‘Student revenge—but for what?’

  ‘For failing microbiology obviously.’

  ‘But that’s what I don’t understand. Jimmy didn’t fail.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She wiped her hands on her napkin.

  ‘He got a first.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes. In Biochemistry—so why would he go for David’s father like that?’ Daisy was staring at me, as confused, quite clearly, as I was—then she suddenly smiled.

  ‘I know why,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it isn’t actually true.’

  I looked at her. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me. ‘But I’m pretty sure it is. It’s on his website. He’d hardly make such a claim if it were a lie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he? I’m not sure. Lots of politicians lie.’

  ‘But saying you got a first when you didn’t would be an enormous risk, surely.’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘Politicians take risks all the time. Think of what Jeffrey Archer had to hide. And in any case, no-one ever checks what degree you got, do they, so no doubt he thought he’d get away with it.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said. ‘Yes… And maybe that’s what Jimmy was about to say. He said that if it hadn’t been for Professor White he would have got a…something. Then he stopped. He would have got a first. I think, maybe, that’s what he was going to say, but he stopped himself just in time. Christ,’ I laughed. ‘You’re right. What a turn-up! Now it all makes sense.’

  ‘I wonder what degree he did get?’ Daisy mused.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did he say when you knew him?’

  ‘I can’t remember him saying anything at all. All I knew was that he’d graduated the summer before and was staying on for a bit in Brighton while he looked for a job.’

  ‘What did he want to do in those days?’

  ‘He applied for all sorts of things—management consultancy, the BBC traineeship scheme. I remember he sat the foreign office exams too.’

  ‘So top-notch career ambitions then?’

  ‘Yes, although half the time he didn’t even get interviewed.’

  ‘Perhaps it was because of his animal rights campaigning.’

  ‘I doubt it, as he was above-board. He was always giving local newspaper interviews saying that violence wasn’t the way. He was the acceptable face of the movement, articulate and attractive, not grungy and aggressive.’

  ‘Then it must have been because his degree was too low.’

  ‘Quite possibly. Yes. And so, feeling increasingly thwarted and resentful, he blames the professor and…boom! Derek White gets it. Or rather, David does.’

  ‘So what did Jimmy do for a job?’

  ‘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 disappro
ve 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.’