Isabel Wolff - Behaving Badly

When I left I came back to London and began running a behaviour clinic three times a week from a vet’s practice in Highgate where I’d once worked. I was amazed at how quickly word got round, and I soon had a steady stream of dysfunctional Dobermans and stressed-out Siamese. I began to get good results. I did home visits too, and I set up a website where people could ask for my advice, free of charge. Then, just over a year ago, I got this big break.

I was contacted by a TV researcher who asked me whether I’d be interested in being an expert on a new series called Animal Crackers ; so I was screen tested, and got the job. They’d been looking for someone young, knowledgeable, female, and telegenic, which people kindly say I am. Not that I’m glamorous; I’m much too short for a start, I rarely wear make-up, and I keep my fair hair in a boyish crop. But I think I came across well because I felt confident—I knew what I was talking about. I’d do two sections in each programme, in which I’d analyse the problem then return ten days later to see whether my advice had worked. There were some very interesting cases—a police dog that was terrified of thunder, and a cat that went berserk when the TV was on. There was an irritable iguana—it was having romantic problems—and a pony which refused to be caught.

To my surprise, there was quite a buzz about the series. Someone wrote an article about me in the Mail , describing me as ‘Miss Dolittle’, which was just plain silly. I do not talk ‘to’ animals—I merely think like them—and there was a similar piece in The Times. But the exposure brought in new clients, so I decided I ought to have my own premises—which is how I found St Michael’s Mews…

From outside I heard the crunch of tyres on the cobbles as a car pulled up. There was the soprano beep of central locking, then rapid tapping.

‘Mir-an-da! It’s only me-ee.’ I slid back the chain and opened the door.

‘Wow!’ Daisy’s large brown eyes were shining with enthusiasm. ‘What a great place!’ I’ve known Daisy for fifteen years—we shared a flat at Bristol—and what I love about her is that she’s always upbeat.

‘This looks so great!’ she repeated as she came inside, cradling Herman over her left shoulder like a baby. ‘It’s spacious, isn’t it? And so light! Your builder’s done a fantastic job.’

‘He has.’

‘And the mews is gorgeous.’

‘It is.’

‘It looks rather friendly.’

‘It seems to be. The aromatherapist and the osteopath have already introduced themselves, and the others all smile.’

‘I’ve always wanted to live in a mews—lucky you. You’ll feel safe here,’ she added, tucking a hank of glossy dark hair behind one ear. I nodded. ‘And is that Herman on the plaque?’

‘Of course.’

‘He’s been dying to see you again—haven’t you, Herman? Say hello to your mummy, poppet.’ Herman gave me a baleful stare.

‘Hello, Herman,’ I said, as Daisy put him in my arms. ‘Have you missed me?’ The two tan points above his eyes twitched and pleated into a deep frown, then he emitted a grumbly sigh. ‘He’s cross with me,’ I said as I cuddled him. ‘It’s all the disruption. He’ll come round in a bit. I’m sorry I neglected you, Herman,’ I added quietly. ‘But, you see…the thing is,’ I felt my voice catch, ‘…things have been a bit tough.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked Daisy softly. I nodded, but Herman’s foxy little face had blurred. ‘Now don’t worry, Miranda,’ I heard Daisy murmur as I sank onto a chair. She unzipped her bag. ‘You mustn’t worry because even though it’s all been horrible and you’ve had this awful, awful shock, I just know you’re going to be fine. Isn’t she, Herman?’ she added brightly, as she pushed a tissue into my hand. I pressed it to my eyes, breathed deeply a few times, then felt my panic subside. On Herman’s face was his habitual expression of exaggerated anxiety. It made me suddenly smile.

‘Thanks, Daisy.’ I blew my nose. ‘And thanks for taking care of him,’ I added, as I put Herman down and he began to sniff the new floor.

‘Oh, he was no trouble at all. He came to work with me most days.’ Daisy works for ‘The Aid of the Party’, an event and wedding planners based in Bloomsbury. ‘The clients loved him—and when I couldn’t look after him I took him round to my mum. She adored having him, and she was really sorry about…Well, she was really sorry.’

‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good. What did you say?’

‘I just told her that you’d broken up with Alexander, that you were camping here while the work was being done, and that it was a…difficult time.’

‘That’s fine. You’re the only person who knows,’ I added quietly, as she put down her bags.

‘Don’t worry—my lips are sealed. But didn’t you even tell your mother?’ she asked as she sat down. I shook my head. There are so many things—huge things—that I’ve never told her. I’m too ashamed, so I’ve bottled them up. ‘But why not?’ Daisy asked, looking puzzled.

‘Well, because she’s rather jaundiced about marriage, so I knew what she’d say. I just told her the engagement was off. She mostly seemed relieved that she wouldn’t have to see my dad again.’

‘But didn’t she want to know why it had ended?’

‘She didn’t, actually. But then she’s always so busy—you know how it is. What with three teenage girls to look after, not to mention the boys.’

Daisy nodded diplomatically. ‘Of course…the boys…’

‘Anyway, the fewer people who know, the better I like it.’

‘But it’s not as though you did anything wrong.’

‘No, but…’

‘But what?’

I stared at a rhombus of sunlight on the wall. ‘The whole thing makes me feel somehow…ashamed. The thought that I could have made such a mistake.’

‘But you couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known that Alexander was like…that,’ she said delicately. ‘He seemed so, well…’ she gave a helpless shrug. ‘ Perfect. ’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘He did.’

‘So not a whisper from him then?’ she asked as she took off her cardigan.

‘No,’ I said bitterly. ‘But as we both know it’s over, what’s the point?’

‘I don’t blame you,’ she agreed. ‘Some things one can get over,’ she said carefully. ‘But I really don’t see how you could have got over that. Anyway—today’s the summer solstice,’ she went on purposefully, ‘which is a turning point—and this is a turning point for you too. You’re about to start a new, busy, happy phase of your life, Miranda, and I know it’s going to be good. Now, will you give me the guided tour?’

I stood up. ‘It won’t take long—it’s a good job Herman and I are both small.’ I’m five foot one and a half (at that height, the half matters) and my frame is slight. People often say I’m ‘petite’ or ‘gamine’. Daisy, on the other hand, is five foot eight and rather curvy. At Bristol we were called Little and Large.

Daisy admired the consulting room with its pale beech flooring, and yes, psychiatrist’s couch—in a practical beige—then we went into the tiny galley kitchen at the back.

‘Sweet garden,’ she remarked, as we looked out of the window into the minuscule courtyard. ‘It’ll look great when you fill it with pots.’ Then we went up the narrow stairs. I carried Herman because dachshunds get back problems. ‘I like the skylight over the bed,’ she remarked. ‘Very romantic. You can lie there and look at the stars.’