by Isabel Wolff
‘I must say they are doing well,’ he said. ‘I’m particularly proud of this Cedar of Lebanon.’ I looked at it. It was perfect—with its black-green foliage and graceful low boughs—and it was about ten inches tall.
I felt sad. ‘Multum in parvo, I suppose,’ I said ruefully, remembering a phrase I’d read in One-Minute Wisdom.
‘Oh, precisely. That’s the appeal. It looks exactly like it would in nature, except that it’s been…’
‘Stunted,’ I said. I couldn’t help it.
‘Miniaturized.’
‘And how old is it?’
He smiled. ‘Well, actually, it’s not polite to ask the age of a bonsai tree.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘But, as it’s you—thirty-three.’
‘Gosh, that’s how old we are,’ Daisy snorted as she sliced a cucumber.
‘I’ve had it since I was seven.’
‘Tell me how you get them to grow like that,’ I said.
Nigel pushed his glasses up his nose as he prepared to expatiate upon his favourite subject. ‘The key is to keep them in a state of partial stress. That’s why I put them here, in the conservatory, because strong sunlight restricts leaf size.’
‘Oh.’ I felt sorry for them. ‘I see.’
‘Bonsai trees grown in bright ultraviolet tend to dwarf better,’ Nigel went on enthusiastically, as Daisy went outside to collect some mint. ‘It’s about controlling their development, you see. By using a variety of techniques—giving them barely enough water, for example—slightly depriving them of what they need—you subtly get the tree to do what you want.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘The main thing is to avoid luxuriant growth. Now, this Chinese elm has been a particular success…’ And as Nigel rhapsodized about ‘root-pruning’ and ‘pinching’ and ‘correcting design’, I thought, he’s stunting Daisy too—stopping her growing. Keeping her in a state of partial stress.
By now the doorbell was ringing as Nigel’s friends arrived. He’d invited about fifteen people—some old friends, his neighbours, and a few other lawyers. We stood chatting on the lawn in the pretty walled garden and, as the barbecue began to smoke, and the Pimm’s flowed, we all began to relax. One or two of them asked me about Animal Crackers, so I told them about the previous day’s filming; I’d had to sort out a cat which leaped on its owner’s head, claws extended, every time she came home.
‘It descended on her like a Fokker,’ I said.
‘Which is probably what she called it!’ someone hooted.
‘What it does,’ I explained, ‘is to sit on top of the hall cupboard, waiting for her, then it pounces. She’d taken to wearing a crash helmet when she walked through the door.’
‘And why was it doing it?’
‘Boredom—because it was kept inside all day. It was simply trying to fulfil its hunting instinct. That’s the thing about so many behavioural problems,’ I went on. ‘In most cases, the animal doesn’t have a behavioural problem at all, it’s just being itself in a way which its humans don’t like.’
‘So what was the answer?’
‘A kitty gym with ropes and scratching posts and things to play with—so she’s having one built. We’ll be filming it again in a couple of weeks to see if it’s worked.’
Then the conversation turned to the law. This chap Alan, a criminal barrister, who’d been at school with Nigel, was prosecuting someone for GBH.
‘But the interesting thing,’ he said, ‘was that the offence was actually committed twelve years ago. It was impossible to prove at the time, but now we’ve got him through DNA. Twelve years,’ he repeated wonderingly as he chewed on a chicken leg.
‘Gosh,’ I said, my heart banging. ‘How fascinating. And…is it true that there’s…no limit on how long after a crime the perpetrator can be prosecuted?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Of course, it has to be a serious crime for the police to reopen the case.’
‘How serious?’
‘Well, murder, obviously; attempted murder, arson, or any serious assault.’ My stomach turned over. ‘But even if the police decide not to prosecute, the victims themselves can pursue their assailant through the civil courts.’
‘Really?’ I lowered my vegetarian kebab. I’d never thought about that. ‘And what would they hope to gain?’
‘Financial compensation, or just emotional satisfaction—a sense of closure. That’s usually the most important thing.’ Now, as the conversation continued, I wondered dismally if David—if I did ever find him—would decide to sue me. Perhaps he would. In which case he’d have to sue Jimmy as well. I was about to open a Pandora’s box.
Don’t go there, a small voice told me. Let it lie. Let it lie.
No, said my conscience. Tell the truth. Tell the truth and get closure at last. Then you’ll be able to restart your life.
As I resurfaced I realized that the topic of conversation had now changed. Nigel’s colleague, Mary, had joined us; a thin, sharp-faced blonde woman about his age. I knew from Daisy that she worked in the same department as him—commercial litigation. I also knew that Mary had liked Nigel, but that it hadn’t really been mutual.
‘It’s Nigel’s fortieth soon, isn’t it?’ she said, as her fork hovered over her plate.
‘It is,’ said Alan. ‘Let’s hope he has a party.’
‘Yes, let’s hope he has a party!’ said another of his friends, Jon. ‘Let’s make sure he has one!’
‘Let’s hope he has a wedding,’ said someone else. At this there was a collective guffaw. I glanced round for Daisy but she was in the conservatory, just out of earshot.
‘A wedding?’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Nigel? Come off it, you guys!’ Jon was snorting with laughter.
‘I know,’ Mary concurred with a satisfied smirk. ‘I’ve seen them all come and go,’ she went on with ostentatious weariness. ‘He’s very naughty like that. I suppose Daisy’ll go off too, in the end. I mean, Nigel’s a darling, but really…’ she shrugged her sloping shoulders, ‘…who could blame her? Especially after so long.’
Right. ‘Daisy doesn’t want to get married,’ I said. ‘She’s quite happy as she is.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she’s my best friend.’
‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Mary with exaggerated contrition. She gave me a hard, false smile. ‘I guess it’s a bit of a tricky subject.’
‘Not in the least,’ I replied.
I walked away, my face burning. Daisy was clearly the object of amused pity. And as I watched her coming out of the house with another jug of Pimm’s, chatting gaily to everyone, laughing and joking, making Nigel’s evening go well, I felt incredibly angry with him. How mean of him to keep her dangling, encouraging her just enough to make her stay with him, but never making her feel secure. And how silly of her to let him do so, I thought. She’s Crazy Daisy in more ways than one. I wondered what would get him to budge. I didn’t believe that Daisy really would ‘pin him down’; she’s still clinging to her hope that he’ll get down on one knee. But he clearly isn’t going to, because he doesn’t have to—plus, I don’t believe he wants to share his life. And what if she left him? What would happen then? Probably not very much. Nigel would be out of sorts for a while, but then he’d meet someone else, and do exactly the same thing with her. Now Daisy was pouring Pimm’s into his glass, looking at him raptly.
‘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…
