Behaving Badly Part 13

'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 a.s.sault.' My stomach turned over. 'But even if the police decide not to prosecute, the victims themselves can pursue their a.s.sailant 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 gla.s.s, looking at him raptly.

'Say when, Nige,' I heard her say.

Yes, Nige, I thought crossly. Say when.

The rest of the weekend pa.s.sed 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, s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+t. 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 ca.s.sette 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d, 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 att.i.tudes 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. 'h.e.l.lo.' 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 s.h.i.+ny. 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 p.r.i.c.k 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 p.r.o.nounced 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...

'No thanks,' he said. 'I'm fine.' A sudden silence descended. Then David looked at Herman. 'Nice dog,' he said, suddenly friendlier now. 'What's his name?' I told him.

'Herman the German,' he said.

'Exactly.'

He crouched down and stroked Herman's glossy head. 'I like dachshunds,' he added. 'They always look like something awful's just happened-or is about to.'

'That's why I like them too. The way they look so acutely...concerned.' He nodded and now, for the first time, he smiled. 'I'm sorry about the inquisition,' I said, calmer now.

He shrugged. 'That's fine. I guess it's just nerves.' It is. 'But don't worry, Miranda...'-what did he mean, 'don't worry'?-'... I'm going to make you look great.' Oh. And now I noticed how warm his eyes were and how nice his mouth was, and I saw the red-gold lights in his hair. I opened my compact mirror and quickly checked my appearance. The bruising had gone.

'Should I put on any make-up?' I asked. 'I don't usually bother.'

He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, his eyes skimming over my face as though I were a painting he was appraising. 'No, your skin-tone's even-I think we'll be fine. In any case, I'm shooting black and white so you can get away without it. In colour, everything shows.' He took the camera out of the bag and slung the strap round his neck. Then he pointed it at me, focussed, and pressed the shutter.

I blinked. 'I wasn't ready.'

'You were.'

'But I wasn't smiling.'