stepped forward, spread wide his hands and asked for forgiveness himself:
As you from crimes would pardoned be, Let your indulgence set me free.
We were all so spellbound that there was a silence of about ten seconds before the applause began; then, as it finally died away after at least three curtain calls, Daisy said that she wanted to go and congratulate the director, John, who she knew. So we went down to the stage door, and Daisy and Nigel were chatting to John, and I was standing nearby, clutching my programme slightly self-consciously when, to my surprise, I found myself talking to ‘Ferdinand’. Or, to be more precise, he began talking to me. And I couldn’t understand why he was bothering, because, being so short, I never assume that anyone’s even noticed me let alone that they’re interested; so I just said how much I’d enjoyed his performance, which of course I had.
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling at me in a way which made my face heat up. ‘You’d have been a lovely Ariel,’ he added suddenly. ‘You’re so elfin.’
‘Oh.’ I felt myself blush again. ‘It’s a…wonderful play…isn’t it?’ I murmured, trying to cover my discomfiture.
‘And what do you think it’s about?’ He took a pack of Gitanes out of his pocket, and offered me one. I shook my head. What was the play about? And why did my opinion matter? Again, I felt taken aback.
‘Well,’ I began carefully as he tapped the cigarette on the side of the box. ‘It’s about penance and reconciliation, isn’t it? It’s about the search for forgiveness. It’s about the hope we all have that we’ll be redeemed.’ He nodded slowly at that.
The next thing I knew we were all going for a drink—I remember the delicious scent of his cigarette as we strolled through the park; and although there were quite a lot of us I somehow found myself sitting next to Alexander in the pub. We talked about the play some more, and he told me that Shakespeare actually invented the name ‘Miranda’ specifically for The Tempest, something I’d never known. I’d always known what it means—‘admirable’ from the Latin mirare, to wonder at—but that piece of information was new. And as Alexander and I sipped our beer, oblivious by now to the rest of the party, he asked me lots of other things about my work and my family and he told me a bit about his; that his parents were both doctors, semi-retired, and that his grandfather, like me, had been a vet. By the time we left, an hour and a half later, I felt as though I’d been talking to Alexander for days. And as he walked me to the tube—I lived in Stockwell then—he asked me for my card.
‘He’ll never ring,’ I told myself sternly as I rattled southwards. ‘Forget it. He was just being friendly.’ But he did. Two days later he rang to ask me if I’d like to have dinner with him that Sunday, at Joe Allen’s, and, to my amazement, things went on from there.
And yes, of course I was physically attracted to Alexander, and yes, flattered by his attention, but the truth is I really liked him as well. He was so easy to be with, and so intelligent, and, more importantly, he made me laugh. He was thirty-five, he’d read history at Oxford, then he’d done a postgraduate year at drama school. He’d started out spear-carrying at Stratford, then he’d done ten years in rep, as well as a number of small roles on TV.
‘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,
