Isabel Wolff - Behaving Badly

He wrapped his arms round me. ‘No. Thank you. Don’t cry, Miranda. There’s no need to cry. I love you. I always will.’ I dried my eyes, we exchanged a minty kiss, and that was that.

I’m not being disingenuous when I say I was completely taken aback, because I truly didn’t expect to get engaged. Maybe because my parents divorced so long ago—and haven’t been that civilized since—I’ve never had any illusions like that. For me, it was enough just to feel that I was in a happy relationship, to know that I’d been lucky enough to find love. But Daisy’s different—she’s much more conventional—she wants the church, the meringue, the whole works.

‘It’s a bit galling having to do all these weddings when Nige won’t pop the question,’ she said regretfully, fork poised in mid-air. ‘I think he will marry me,’ she continued judiciously. She often says that. ‘But I don’t think it’s worth pushing it just now.’

The fact is, Daisy’s terrified of pushing it. I know this because she’s been with Nigel for five and a half years and we’ve been having the same conversation for three. ‘I mustn’t put him under pressure,’ she said seriously. ‘That’s what the books all say.’

‘The books also say that you should be a bit more detached.

Don’t be there for him so much. Make him miss you. Be mysterious. Move town if need be. Or even country, God knows.’

‘Oooh—that’s a very dangerous game.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ she said, with an air of spurious authority, ‘if I suddenly withdraw, and act all aloof, then he might think I don’t really love him. And that would be disastrous, wouldn’t it?’

I looked at her. ‘I’m not sure. I think it might do him some good to feel a bit less secure.’

‘No, I think it’ll all happen in the fullness of time,’ she added, with a slightly twitchy serenity.

‘Hmmm. Well, it’s your life.’

But I find it odd that Daisy’s so scared of asking Nigel whether or not he intends to marry her, because in other ways she’s incredibly brave. For example, she spends her days off bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, abseiling and rock-climbing—and she did her first solo sky-dive a few weeks ago.

‘It would be catastrophic if I forced him to name the day and then he booted me,’ she said sagely. ‘Then what on earth would I do? I’ve invested nearly six years of my life in Nigel and to be quite crude about it I’d like a return. So I don’t want to blow it all at this final—and very delicate—stage by not being quite patient enough.’ I nodded, though, as I say, I’ve heard this line of argument many times before. ‘I want to have kids,’ Daisy went on calmly, ‘and I’m now thirty-three, so if Nigel and I split up—’ she gave a little shudder ‘—it would take me at least two, maybe even three years to get to the same stage with someone else, by which time…’ she poured the egg mixture into a frying pan, ‘…it may well be curtains on the ovary front. And I’d never trap him into marriage,’ she added. ‘Men resent that. I want him to want to marry me.’

‘Why shouldn’t he want to marry you?’ I said hotly.

‘Oh, he’s just the cautious type.’ Too right. Nigel’s very cautious; he proceeds as slowly as a three-toed sloth. They move so slowly—it would take them a day to cross a football pitch—that they actually grow mould on their fur. Anyway, when it comes to romance, I’m afraid Nigel’s like that. And this dilatoriness is reflected in his hobby—growing bonsai trees. He once won a medal at Chelsea for one of his Japanese maples—he’d been tweaking it for twenty years. To be honest, I’ve never really been able to see what he and Daisy have in common, but she seems to dote on him. But she has a tiny flat in Tooting and he has a large house in Fulham; and she did once admit after a few too many that, yes, it was the ‘security’ which partly appealed. Though why a woman who spends her weekends throwing herself out of aeroplanes should be interested in ‘security’ is way beyond me. But, on the other hand, her father died tragically when she was nine so she’s always been looking for someone ‘steady’ and ‘safe’.

And Nigel’s certainly that. He’s a City solicitor—a partner in Bloomfields. Solidly competent, rather than effortlessly brilliant, he works incredibly hard; and though I’m sure he’s very fond of Daisy, I guess he can’t see any reason to rush. He’s thirty-nine and has never been married, so what on earth would make him jump now? He hasn’t even asked her to live with him yet. Daisy has jokingly suggested it a few times, but she says he never seems keen—I think he doesn’t want her messing up his stuff. She’s quite untidy and can be rather noisy, though I mean that in the nicest way. It’s not that she shouts, or is grossly opinionated, simply that she laughs a lot—she’s got this lovely, chortling giggle—and she always has plenty to say. Whereas Nigel just likes his evenings in with his bonsai trees plus a quiet dinner and the odd game of bridge. Don’t get me wrong. I like Nigel—he’s pleasant and he’s generous—but he’s also selfish, because he has Daisy entirely on his terms. But if he’s what she wants, then that’s good enough for me.

‘I think it’ll be fine with Nige,’ she said again, not very convincingly, as I ate the omelette.

‘I hope so. But I do think you’ll have to pin him down at some point, Daisy.’ If necessary, by stapling his head to the carpet.

‘Hmm,’ she said, anxiously. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

After she’d gone, Herman went to sleep on his beanbag, curled up like a burnt cashew nut, while I turned my thoughts back to work. With all the stress and disruption I’d been unable to concentrate on it, but now I forced myself back into professional mode. I turned on the computer, and read my e-mails. There was one from my dad, who lives in California, in Palm Springs, where he manages a golf resort. He just wanted to know how I was. Then I logged on to my website, ‘PerfectPets.com’, where there were a number of outstanding requests for advice. ‘ My poodle terrorizes the postman ,’ said the first one. ‘ After his latest efforts to “defend us” (there was actually blood on the letters) we’ve been told that in future we’ll have to collect our mail from the sorting office—can you help? ’ ‘ I think my cat’s schizophrenic ,’ said the next. ‘ One minute she’s curled up on my lap for a cuddle, purring her head off, then the next second she’s biting me—why? ’ ‘ Can you tell me why my female spaniel insists on cocking her leg? ’ enquired a third. There were the usual complaints about dogs jumping up, or chasing their tails; there was a house rabbit which kept attacking its owners’ feet. There was a gay guinea pig, a sleep-walking Saluki, and a hamster which had eaten its mate. I sent replies to each one, with suggested reading, and as I was doing this, another e-mail popped in. It was from the woman Daisy had mentioned, Caroline Mulholland.

‘ Dear Miranda, I met your friend Daisy at a fundraiser the other day and I happened to mention that I have a young Weimaraner which is being an absolute pain. It bullies our two other, much smaller dogs, and we don’t know how to get it to stop. I wondered whether you’d be kind enough to call me, as I’d like to arrange for you to come out. ’ There was an out of London phone number which I rang. She picked up, and told me that she lived near St Albans, so we arranged that I’d go there the following day.

In the meantime I had the depressed Irish setter to deal with. So the next morning I tidied the consulting room, then went round the corner—stopping to answer Russell the chiropractor’s polite enquiries about how I was settling in—and bought some biscuits and flowers. Then I put Herman in the kitchen—he doesn’t mix with the clients—and, at ten thirty, Fiona and Miles Green turned up. They were about my age, good-looking, well dressed and clearly successful judging from their smart address in Notting Hill Gate. I made them some coffee, then sat behind my desk, observing the dog, which did look rather dismal, while they sat side by side on the couch.