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.
‘We’re both very busy people,’ Fiona explained as she nibbled on a chocolate oliver, ‘but you see Sinead’s our pride and joy…’ Sinead was lying on the rug with her head in her paws, ‘…and we felt it was important to get her some psychological support.’
‘She does seem rather dejected,’ I said, as I took notes. ‘Irish setters are normally incredibly lively. So when did this subdued behaviour first start?’
‘About three months ago,’ Mrs Green replied.
‘No, it’s not as long as that,’ her husband corrected her gently. ‘I’d say it was about six weeks actually.’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ she snapped. ‘It was three months. Do you think I wouldn’t notice something like that—my own dog?’ I discreetly wrote down ‘child substitute’ and ‘marital tension’.
‘Our dog,’ he said. Sinead lifted her head and looked at them anxiously.
‘It’s all right, baby,’ said Fiona, leaning forward to stroke her. ‘It’s all right. Mummy and Daddy aren’t cross.’
‘How old is she?’ I asked. ‘Two?’
‘Just under. We’ve had her for about a year and a half.’
‘And has she had any specific traumas? Did she get in a fight with another dog, for example? Or has she had a near miss with a car?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ said Fiona. ‘I work at home, so I’m with her all day. All I know is she seems constantly depressed and she just lies in her basket. It’s heartbreaking,’ she added, her voice suddenly catching.
‘I don’t wish to be personal, Mr and Mrs Green, but are there any specific stresses in the, well, family dynamics, to which she might be reacting?’ This was a rhetorical question. There clearly were.
‘Well, no, not…really,’ Fiona replied, crossing her arms defensively.
I saw her husband roll his eyes. ‘C’mon, Fi,’ he said wearily. ‘You know there are. And I think it’s relevant. I’ve said so all along.’ He looked at me. ‘You see—’
‘I don’t want to discuss it!’ she hissed.
‘But it might be important,’ Miles protested.
‘But it’s private!’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Green,’ I interjected. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I can assure you that I’m bound by a code of confidentiality
