Behaving Badly Read online

  ‘Good news, Herman,’ I said. ‘Very good news. On two fronts, at least.’ He did his best to look happy. ‘And today, I’m thirty-three.’ It would be a strange sort of birthday as I wouldn’t be seeing anyone. Daisy had offered to spend the day with me, but I somehow felt like being alone. I turned on London F.M. and had it on in the background while I worked—I had at least eight reports to write up.

  ‘Growing pressure on Mr Mulholland…’ I heard as I typed away. ‘Mr Mulholland has still not issued a statement… Conspicuous lack of support from his ministerial colleagues… His admission that he has lied about his degree result has made his position as Education Minister untenable… Not a case of if he goes, but when… The Education Minister, James Mulholland, has resigned from Government,’ I heard at the top of the four o’clock bulletin. A warm glow filled my heart. Jimmy, like Trigger, had been the domineering top dog, who had had his status reduced—at last.

  I put Herman on the lead and walked up Primrose Hill. The sun was still high, though it would soon start to sink. The joggers and kite-flyers were out in force. I sat on the bench at the top, drinking in the view, remembering my birthday last year. I’d spent it with Alexander. He’d taken me to Paris. Now here I was, alone. But worse things had happened to me than that, I thought, as I shut my eyes. Far worse…

  I thought of Daisy, and how brave she’d been to leave Nigel. That leap into the void had taken more courage than fifty parachute jumps. I listened to the distant shriek of children, and the dull roar of the cars. Then I walked back down. And I was staring at the ground, lost in my thoughts, when Herman suddenly barked. I looked up, then stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was coming up the hill, towards me. Was he real, or had my exhausted mind conjured an image of him? He was maybe fifty yards away. Now twenty. And now he’d drawn level.

  ‘I thought I might find you up here.’ He looked tired, and unshaven. ‘So, aren’t you going to say hello?’

  ‘Hello…’ I murmured.

  He smiled. ‘Hello, Miranda.’

  ‘But…why have you come?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No. Not…really.’

  ‘Well, because it’s your birthday. Don’t you remember? I said I’d take you out for dinner.’

  ‘Oh…yes. I do. But you don’t have to…’ My voice trailed away.

  ‘I always like to keep my word. Unless you’re busy this evening?’

  ‘No. No, I’m not busy.’

  ‘And how have you been?’

  ‘All right,’ I replied quietly. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve been…okay too. But, do you know what? I’ve been in the dark room all day, and I’d really love a drink.’

  ‘Would you like a beer?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. I’d love a beer.’ We walked down the hill together, in perfect step, our feet slapping against the tarmacked path. ‘Now tell me, how’s your birthday been?’

  ‘Rather wonderful, actually. And it’s getting better all the time.’ We turned into the Mews, and now I was unlocking the door, and there on the chaise longue was the newspaper. David picked it up.

  ‘That’s quite a story, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ I replied feelingly. ‘It’s an amazing story.’

  ‘Imagine hiding something like that.’

  But he’s been hiding so much more. ‘Do you really want a beer?’ I said. ‘You could have a gin and tonic instead, or a glass of wine, or…’ I opened the fridge and saw Jimmy’s bottle of vintage champagne. ‘We could drink this.’ I held it up and David looked at it.

  ‘Pol Roger 1987? Don’t you want to keep it for some special occasion?’

  ‘This is a special occasion. You have no idea quite how special it is.’ I got down two glasses and opened a carton of olives, while David twisted the cork. As the champagne foamed slightly over the rim, I saw the overflowing Jacuzzi again, and felt a sudden stab of desire for David which made my soul ache.

  He raised his glass. ‘To you, Miranda. Happy Birthday. It’s so nice to see you again.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you too. I didn’t think…you’d want to.’

  ‘I didn’t think I would either—at first. I needed…’ he stopped, then shrugged. ‘I needed a bit of time. That’s all. To think about everything. It was a bit of a shock, to put it mildly.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘I needed to process it, I suppose. To go into my dark room and develop it, until I could see it all properly. And two things happened which helped me do that. Do you want to know what they were?’

  ‘Only if you want to tell me.’

  ‘I got your letter—and that made me think. Then, a few days later, Daisy came to see me.’

  ‘Did she? But I had no idea she’d done that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. She got my number from my website and called me, and we met for a drink. And she told me that everything you’d said to me was absolutely, one hundred per cent true. She told me how tormented you’d been.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And she told me how much you’d liked me.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did?’

  I smiled. ‘Do.’

  ‘Then she said one particular thing, which I kept thinking about afterwards, over and over. She said that the point was, that you didn’t have to come and find me. No one made you. You could have just let it lie—especially after so long. Then I began to realize how true this was, and how awful it must have been for you. And what it had cost you—the whole sad story—and then my attitude changed.’ I stared out of the window. ‘I realized then how much you must have suffered.’

  I felt my eyes fill. ‘I did, David. I did suffer. And did Daisy tell you who was responsible for it all?’

  ‘No. I asked her, but she said she couldn’t reveal it without your permission.’

  I glanced at the newspaper. ‘Do you still want to know?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve wanted to know for sixteen years.’

  ‘And what will you do, when I tell you?’

  ‘What will I do? Well, what would I do? The law doesn’t allow me to go round and beat him up.’

  ‘No. But you could sue him, if you wanted, even now. Although, he’s been punished recently—in other ways.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Really? So who was it?’

  ‘Okay, then. I’ll tell you.’ And so I did.

  ‘James Mulholland,’ David said wonderingly as he gazed at the newspaper. ‘This guy? You’re kidding!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  His eyes skimmed over the page. ‘It says he read Biochemistry at Sussex.’

  ‘Yes. His name was Jimmy Smith then.’

  ‘So he knew my dad?’

  ‘He was in his microbiology set. That’s what it was all about. Your father failed him in two papers in his finals, as a result of which…well…he didn’t do quite as well as he thought he should have done. So he decided to take revenge. He said he didn’t intend any serious harm to your dad—he just wanted to give him a nasty shock. But he lied about his degree—because he wanted to be seen as a high-flyer—and couldn’t bear people to know the mediocre truth. And that’s why he’s now got the sack.’

  ‘Because he got found out?’

  ‘Yes. With my assistance, actually.’ David gave me a quizzical look. ‘I knew the reporter,’ I explained, ‘and a few days ago, I gave him a little…hint about Jimmy’s qualifications, and he clearly got digging.’ I opened the drawer, and took out the tape. ‘This is a recording of a meeting I had with Jimmy last week, at the House of Commons, in which, unwittingly, he virtually admitted everything. You can have it, if you like.’ I handed it to him. He shrugged, then put it in his pocket. ‘Don’t you want to hear it?’

  ‘Not now. Maybe later. It’s okay. Good champagne this,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘And today’s the perfect day for drinking it. Because today, you and I are both free. We’re free of what happened.
’ I felt so liberated I wanted to throw back my head and laugh.

  ‘So where shall we go, then?’ said David. ‘To celebrate our freedom—and your birthday?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘How about Odettes? Or Lemonia. Or do you want to go somewhere near me? Not the St John restaurant again, obviously. Unless you fancy pigs’ testicles.’

  I smiled again. ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Or we could have supper on my terrace—I’ve got some smoked salmon in the fridge—we could get some salad and some nice bread.’ He stood up. ‘So what do you feel like doing?’

  ‘Let’s go to The Engineer. It’s only a short walk, and they’ve got a nice courtyard with those umbrella gas-heaters. It’s rather romantic.’

  ‘That sounds fine to me.’

  I settled Herman on his beanbag, and then we left. As we strolled out of the Mews, my mobile phone rang.

  ‘Miranda! Happy Birthday!’ It was Daisy. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring you before. But I’ve been so busy today, and the signal’s not been great.’

  ‘You do sound crackly—I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘That’s because I’m twelve hundred feet up!’ In the background I could hear the motorbike chug of the microlight. ‘I’m soaring!’ she yelled. ‘I’m on a high! The sunset’s so gorgeous—look up!’ So I did. And it was. A fiery red, promising another sunny day. And now I could hear a distinct yapping in the background.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  ‘It is. Twiglet’s up here too. He’s tucked into my jacket, while Marcus pilots. He absolutely loves it—don’t you, Twiggers?’

  ‘Yap, yap!’

  ‘He’s got his own goggles—he looks so sweet. Thanks for your advice, Miranda,’ she giggled. ‘You were absolutely right. Natalie’s dumped Marcus.’

  ‘Really?’ I was delighted, but hardly surprised.

  ‘But Marcus says he doesn’t mind because she’s allergic to him—but I don’t know what he means by that.’

  ‘I do. I’ll tell you some other time. And thank you for your advice,’ I said with a laugh.

  ‘Say hi to David!’

  ‘I will. Hey—how do you know he’s here?’

  ‘Because, well, somehow, I just do.’

  And now David took my hand in his, and we strolled down Gloucester Avenue, past the railway bridge, at the end of which we saw a green dustcart trundling slowly up the road its amber lights flashing. David suddenly walked towards it.

  ‘What are you doing, David?’ He didn’t reply. Instead, he put his hand in his pocket and took out the cassette I’d given him, pulled back his arm, and threw it into the back.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m sure.’ The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance. ‘What’s the point of trying to punish the guy? It looks like he’s been punished enough—and, in any case, I’ve had quite a life, because of him. I would never have become a photographer if he hadn’t done what he did. I would have become just another GP. Instead of which, I’ve been all over the world and I’ve seen incredible things. It did change my life, Miranda—for the worse to begin with, and then quite possibly for the better.’

  And now I thought of Alexander again. Maybe the fact that I’d forgiven him had somehow brought David back to me, as though one act of reconciliation had begotten another. As you from crimes would pardoned be… David held my hand. Let your indulgence set me free.

  ‘We’ll have to do some nice things,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be travelling quite as much from now on.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘We could go away at weekends.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘We could play tennis. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes—not that I’m much good.’

  ‘And we could go ice-skating again. Now you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I’ll fall.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ David said. ‘You won’t fall. Because I’ll hold you, Miranda. I’ll hold onto you.’

  I looked at him, then reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I think you will.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted, as ever, to my brilliant agent, Clare Conville, and to my wonderful editor, Lynne Drew. I would also like to thank Rachel Hore for the additional editorial guidance she provided. Without these three women, there would have been no book.

  I am also very grateful to animal behaviorists Roger Mugford, Emma Magnus, Fiona Redworth, Sarah Whitehead and to Celia Haddon, whose website on pet problems, celiahaddon.co.uk, was a very useful resource. For background on life as a vet, I’d like to thank Russell Horton of the Canonbury Veterinary Practice; I’d also like to thank Meg Henry for inviting me to her puppy parties there.

  Steve Waxman of The Main Event kindly gave me the lowdown on life as a party planner, and Richard Simmonds of Golf International patiently answered my questions on golf.

  For my extensive research into llamas, I’m extremely grateful to Steve Young of Southdown Llama Trekking, and for their detailed explanations of the art of photography I’d like to thank Joe Cornish and David Mossman.

  For political background, I owe a debt of gratitude to George Jones, political editor of the Daily Telegraph, and to Patricia Constant. Any inaccuracies are entirely my own.

  Geoff Finchley, A & E Consultant at Barnet Hospital, provided me with very useful information about skin grafts and burns. I’m also grateful to Ben Buttery of London Zoo, and to Joy and Martin Cummings of Amberley Castle, who would like me to point out that although they themselves are animal lovers, dogs are not actually welcome at the hotel.

  As usual, I would like to thank my father, Paul, for his very helpful feedback along the way, and I am very grateful too, to Louise Clairmonte, Ellie Haworth and Katy Gardner, who all helped me in different ways.

  I am profoundly grateful to everyone at HarperCollins for the wonderful job they do, for their friendship, for the unflagging support they give me and for their very touching enthusiasm for my books. I would like, in particular, to thank Amanda Ridout, Nick Sayers, Fiona McIntosh, Maxine Hitchcock, Sarah Walsh, John Bond, Venetia Butterfield, Jane Harris, Martin Palmer and James Prichard. For polishing my prose with such skill and sensitivity, I am indebted to Jennifer Parr.

  Finally, I would like to thank Greg, who has helped and encouraged me throughout the writing of this book, which I dedicate, with much love, to him.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-1100-4

  BEHAVING BADLY

  Copyright © 2003 by Isabel Wolff

  First published by HarperCollins Publishers

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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