‘But I’ve never hit the big time,’ he said modestly. ‘Unlike some of my contemporaries, like James Purefoy—he’s done brilliantly. So has Paul Rhys. They never stop working, while I’m still paddling in the shallows of fame.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do very well too.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows…?’
‘All you need is one really good break.’
‘That’s true. Have you ever been married, Miranda?’ he asked suddenly. A small jolt ran the length of my spine.
‘Er…No. Not yet. I mean, not ever. I mean, never.’ He smiled. ‘Have you?’
He shook his head. He explained that his last relationship had ended three months before but that he was still ‘on good terms’ with his ex. And when, heart racing, I asked him why it had ended, he just shrugged and said ‘it hadn’t worked out’.
By the end of that first date I was stratospheric; I was on Cloud Nine—no, Cloud Ninety-Nine—as we strolled down the Strand to the tube. I felt so absurdly happy, I was smiling at strangers; and Alexander said he’d call me again—and he did. As time went on I realized that I simply loved being with him. I loved his warmth, and his sense of fun. And I liked the fact that he was a good talker; there were no strained silences—he always had plenty to say. He wasn’t egotistical or ‘actorish’, though he did have a whimsical side. He could be slightly impetuous—a creature of instinct—he’d suddenly say, or do, surprising things. For example, the first time he told me he loved me was when we were at the dairy counter in Sainsbury’s. I’d just reached for a tub of Greek yoghurt when I suddenly heard him say, ‘I love you, Miranda. Did you know that?’
‘Really?’ I looked at him in amazement.
He smiled. ‘Yes. Really.’ I was thrilled, of course—but what a strange place to tell me. ‘You’re wonderful—you live up to your name.’ And when we got engaged, not long afterwards, he had the ring engraved with, Admired Miranda! But I don’t have it any more…
‘And what about the clients?’ I heard Daisy ask now, as she broke two brown eggs into the Pyrex bowl. ‘You’re opening tomorrow, so have you got any bookings?’
‘Only two.’
‘Why so few?’
‘Because I haven’t had time to spread the word that I’m in new premises—the practice will take time to build.’
‘I see.’
‘But I’ve got a depressed Irish setter coming in the morning—and then this woman called Lily Jago got in touch—’
‘Oh yes,’ Daisy interjected, her eyes widening. ‘The editor of Moi! magazine. Looks like Naomi Campbell, and often behaves like her too. A friend of mine worked for her once—it took her six months to recover.’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, she sent me a hysterical e-mail about her shih-tzu—she says it’s having a “nervous breakdown”—so I’m going round there on Tuesday afternoon, but that’s all I’ve got in the diary so far.’
‘It’s a pity animal psychiatry isn’t like human psychiatry,’ Daisy added as she began whisking the eggs. I nodded. If only it were. Humans go to their shrinks for months, if not years, but with animals it’s not the same. They don’t come to me week in week out and lie there staring at the ceiling while I evaluate the state of their id and their ego and then quiz them about their mum. I simply observe them, identify the problem and advise remedial action, which means I usually only see them the once.
‘What are you going to charge?’ Daisy asked as she lit the hob.
‘A hundred pounds per one-and-a-half-hour consultation here, and if I go to them, it’ll be a hundred and thirty, to compensate for the travelling time. I’ll continue giving free advice by e-mail as that creates goodwill and doesn’t take long. And I’m going to have puppy parties,’ I added, ‘so that should help, but I need lots of new cases to make it all pay. Especially as I’m opening nearly a month late.’
‘Well, you needed time to…recover,’ Daisy said. That was true. ‘And it’ll pick up when the next series of Animal Crackers goes out, won’t it?’
‘With any luck—but that’s not for three weeks.’
‘Actually, I might have a new client for you,’ Daisy said as she opened a carton of milk. ‘Someone I met the other day at a charity do. Caroline…what was her name? Oh yes, Mulholland. She was complaining about her Weimaraner. Said it was behaving like an “absolute moron”. As I didn’t know your new number I told her to contact you through your website.’
‘Thanks. I hope she does. And how are things with you on the work front?’ I asked as I unpacked my plates.
‘Oh frantic,’ she said gaily as she got out a small saucepan. ‘I’ve got an Abba Tribute hen night in Hammersmith on Wednesday, a Siberian Soiree birthday bash with Cossack dancers on Saturday, and I’m desperately trying to find a couple of contortionists for a Trail to Timbuktu extravaganza in Thames Ditton next month. Plus all the weddings!’ she wailed. ‘We’ve got six, and three of them have fallen to me. I’ve just had to find some biodegradable confetti for this wedding in Holland Park in September,’ she went on, as she beat the eggs. ‘I managed to track some down on the Net. Dried delphinium petals in five colours, absolutely gorgeous. I’ve got to enclose a sachet with each invitation—two hundred. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?’ she murmured wistfully. ‘Two hundred guests…Holland Park…dried delphinium petals…’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It does.’
‘Sorry, Miranda,’ she said, collecting herself. ‘That was tactless of me.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I was actually thinking of myself.’
‘I know. Hasn’t he said anything?’ She shook her head. ‘Not even a hint?’
‘No,’ she said bitterly. ‘Not so much as a cough.’
‘Well, why don’t you propose to him then?’
She stopped beating, her brown eyes widening in amazement. ‘Because it’s so unromantic.’
‘So is not being asked.’
‘Yes,’ she said crossly. ‘I know.’ She picked up the pepper grinder and gave it several vicious twists.
‘Don’t you ever discuss it with him?’ I asked as I sat at the table.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to destabilize things.’
‘I see.’
‘And I suppose I’m worried I might not get the answer I’m hoping for, so I’d rather keep things nice and smooth. But he does definitely love me,’ she added optimistically. ‘I say to him, “You do love me, Nigel, don’t you?” and he always replies, “Yes, Daisy, of course I do.”’
‘He should bloody well prove it then. It’s been long enough.’
‘Mmm. That’s just what my mum says. I mean, Alexander didn’t hang around, did he?’
I sighed. ‘No. It was quite quick.’
It was also, as proposals go, rather unusual; but, as I say, Alexander is an impulsive man. We’d been together nine months and we were very happy; I’d just moved in with him, and it was going well. And we were both in the bathroom one Saturday morning, cleaning our