Behaving Badly (43 page)

At five o’clock I put the TV on. We trawled through the main stories, and then it came to the ‘and finally’ bit.

‘And finally,’ said Trevor McDonald. ‘A new golf club
opened in East Sussex today. Nothing particularly startling about that, you may think. But the Lower Chalvington Golf Club near Alfriston in East Sussex offers members an absolutely
unique
service, as our reporter, Lucy Bowles, has been finding out.’

The film opened with a wide shot of the course and clubhouse—it did look attractive—then cut to a player teeing off.

‘Lower Chalvington founder member Tom Williams tees off…’ I heard the reporter say. Now the camera pulled back to a wide shot—and I gasped. ‘With the help of a warm, fuzzy friend.’ For there, standing patiently behind the player, his fleece rippling in the gentle breeze, was Pedro, carrying the man’s clubs. ‘Meet Tom Williams’s golf caddy—Pedro the llama.’ They’d actually
done
it. I hadn’t really believed they could be serious. I thought the whole thing was a joke.

‘Llamas have been pack animals in the Andes for thousands of years,’ Lucy Bowles explained as Tom Williams led Pedro to the next hole. ‘But within the past fifteen years or so, they’ve begun to attract a small but passionate following in the UK. Most llamas are kept as pets, but Pedro and his fellow llamas like to
work
. They take walkers on treks over the South Downs at weekends, they do hospital visits, and the occasional advertising campaign. But from now on they’ll spend their weekdays caddying for the members of the Lower Chalvington. The llamas belong to Alice Ingram. She says that not only are they up to the job—they’re perfect for it.’

The camera cut to Mum, looking thrilled.

‘They really
are
perfect,’ she said. ‘Llamas are very light-footed—they don’t have hooves—so they don’t mark the greens. They’re also scrupulously clean—they only use communal latrines—so they don’t make a mess. They’re also
very
patient, sensitive, sweet-tempered animals. They’ll stand
there, quite happily, for as long as the shot takes, just thinking nice thoughts and enjoying the view.’

Now there was a shot of Tom Williams at the third green.

‘So what do you think of Pedro’s caddying skills?’ the reporter asked him with a smile.

‘Well, he’s
rather
good,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been playing with him all morning, and he’s certainly better than a lot of human caddies I’ve had. For a start, he doesn’t complain about carrying the clubs; and he doesn’t make any negative comments if I don’t play the shot very well. He also makes me feel curiously calm, which enables me to play better. He’s not too good at club selection,’ Williams added. ‘But then you can’t have everything, can you? C’mon, Pedro.’ He gave Pedro a carrot, then led him off. Then the camera cut back to Lucy.

‘The llama caddies are the brainchild of the club’s general manager, Ted Sweet,’ she explained. And now there was Dad, smiling broadly. ‘So what gave you the idea?’

‘Well, I’ve managed golf clubs in the States for over twenty years,’ he began. ‘And I knew that there was
one
club in North Carolina which had a couple of llamas on the payroll, and I happened to mention this, in passing, to Mrs Ingram about a month ago. And, to my surprise, she suggested that we tried it here. So we then had to put our plan into action—at
extremely
short notice. We placed a rush order for the specially customized golf club bags which the llamas wear. They only arrived yesterday, just in time for today’s opening, and the llamas have taken to them very well. They carry two bags, one on each side, so that they’re nicely balanced.’

‘Isn’t it just a gimmick?’ the reporter suggested amiably.

‘Maybe it is. But as a new club we were looking for something really show-stopping—and that’s what the llamas are—
show-stoppers. On a more practical note, they also help to keep down the rough.’

‘So are these the first llama golf caddies in the UK?’

‘They are. In fact, we believe they’re the only ones in the whole of Europe.’ And now the camera pulled back for a wide shot in which you could see all the other llamas, gently tramping round the course, or standing by the holes, and then there was Trevor McDonald again.

‘Whatever next?’ he said with a smile. ‘Llama football referees? From me and the early evening news team—goodbye.’

‘Brilliant,’ I breathed. ‘Just
brilliant
.’ So
that’s
why Mum had warmed to Dad so much—she’d seen a good business opportunity there for the llamas. If the club took off she’d be quids in. And I was just trying to call her—her mobile was constantly engaged—when there was a knock at the door.

‘Miss Sweet?’

‘Yes?’

A man was standing there with a huge bouquet. ‘These are for you. Please sign.’

I stared at the huge bouquet of roses and tiger lilies.
Who
had sent me these? As I opened the small white envelope with a shaking hand, I hoped, yes, I really hoped that they might be from David. But surely
I
should be sending flowers to
him
. I did also think they might be from Alexander, for my birthday tomorrow. But, to my surprise, they were from Tim. I read the card.
That was some ‘titbit’, Miranda—I’ll never be able to thank you enough!

On Sunday I was woken by Mum at half-seven.

‘Happy Birthday, darling.’

‘Thanks,’ I croaked. ‘Isn’t it a bit early?’

‘Sorry. I’ve been up since six. And did you see your dad and me last night?’

‘I did. It was
great
.’ I threw off the duvet, then yawned. ‘I’m sorry I ever doubted you.’

‘Well, we’ve got some wonderful coverage in the newspapers too. Go and get the
Sunday Independent
—we’re on page four—it’s
huge
.’

I quickly dressed and went round the corner to the newsagent. But when I saw the
Independent
, I gasped. ‘MULHOLLAND’S FIRST-CLASS LIE!’ it thundered, and beneath: ‘EDUCATION MINISTER’S DEGREE DECEPTION.’ It was labelled ‘Exclusive’, but the other papers had picked up on it too. ‘EDUCATION MINISTER IS AN EXAM CHEAT’ trumpeted the
Sunday Telegraph
above a huge photo of Jimmy. ‘NOT QUALIFIED FOR THE JOB!’ admonished the
Mail
. As I read the
Independent
’s front page, which had Tim Charlton’s by-line on it, in huge capitals, I was so transfixed that I nearly walked out of the shop without paying. I blindly handed over the money, then, eyes still glued to the story, walked home, trying not to bump into lamp posts. Then, hands trembling, I sat at my desk.

Education Minister James Mulholland, hitherto tipped for the top, has just taken a steep career tumble. An investigation by this paper reveals that the ‘first-class degree’ he claims to have gained from Sussex University in Biochemistry in 1986, was, in fact, only a third. This blatant untruth—which even features on his website—has gone unchallenged for years. The Minister, on holiday in Scotland, claimed, when telephoned by us, that it was merely a ‘misunderstanding’, although he later corrected this to a ‘mistake’. His colleagues have pronounced themselves shocked, and there’s said to be ‘disappointment’ in his constituency, Billington. There has been no endorsement, so far, from the Prime Minister, and, far from being promoted in the autumn reshuffle, it is now predicted that the ambitious Mr Mulholland will be sent right to the back of the class
.

Inside was another full-page piece, headed:
The Rise and Fall of James Mulholland
, which also included the fact that he had changed his name. There was an excoriating leader about him as well.
As Minister with special responsibility for ‘Lifelong Learning’, Mr Mulholland has now learned two important lessons himself: a) that honesty is always the best policy, and b) that the truth, invariably, will out. His ministerial ambitions are now in shreds
, it concluded. I put the paper down, feeling a smile spread across my face. Jimmy’s political career was ruined. And I rejoiced.

‘Thank you, Daisy,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you for working that one out—you clever,
clever
girl.’ I called her, but there was no reply and her mobile was turned off. Maybe she was with her mum. Then I turned to page four of the paper, every inch of which was devoted to the boys:

A herd of llamas have been recruited to work as golf caddies for a Sussex golf club…brainchild of Ted Sweet and his ex-wife, Alice Ingram…eight llamas…special golf bag backpacks…sensitivity and intelligence makes them suitable for the job, according to Mr Sweet. The club, which had been struggling to attract new members, has received hundreds of new enquiries since word began to get out last week
.

Occupying the top half of the page was a photo of Henry with his golf bags, captioned,
Henry Kissinger
.

‘The great thing about Henry,’ said one member, Sarah Penrose, ‘is that you get a kiss from him every time you play a shot—whether or not it was any good!’

‘But don’t llamas spit?’
the reporter asked. ‘
No
,’ Mum replied.
‘Or only, occasionally, at each other—if they’re arguing.’ And why do they hum? ‘That’s easy,’
Dad replied.
‘Llamas hum because they don’t know the words.’

‘Good news, Herman,’ I said. ‘
Very
good news. On two fronts, at least.’ He did his best to look happy. ‘And today, I’m thirty-three.’ It would be a strange sort of birthday as I
wouldn’t be seeing anyone. Daisy had offered to spend the day with me, but I somehow felt like being alone. I turned on London F.M. and had it on in the background while I worked—I had at least eight reports to write up.

‘Growing pressure on Mr Mulholland…’
I heard as I typed away.
‘Mr Mulholland has still not issued a statement… Conspicuous lack of support from his ministerial colleagues… His admission that he has lied about his degree result has made his position as Education Minister untenable… Not a case of if he goes, but when… The Education Minister, James Mulholland, has resigned from Government,’
I heard at the top of the four o’clock bulletin. A warm glow filled my heart. Jimmy, like Trigger, had been the domineering top dog, who had had his status reduced—at
last
.

I put Herman on the lead and walked up Primrose Hill. The sun was still high, though it would soon start to sink. The joggers and kite-flyers were out in force. I sat on the bench at the top, drinking in the view, remembering my birthday last year. I’d spent it with Alexander. He’d taken me to Paris. Now here I was, alone. But worse things had happened to me than that, I thought, as I shut my eyes. Far worse…

I thought of Daisy, and how brave she’d been to leave Nigel. That leap into the void had taken more courage than fifty parachute jumps. I listened to the distant shriek of children, and the dull roar of the cars. Then I walked back down. And I was staring at the ground, lost in my thoughts, when Herman suddenly barked. I looked up, then stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was coming up the hill, towards me. Was he real, or had my exhausted mind conjured an image of him? He was maybe fifty yards away. Now twenty. And now he’d drawn level.

‘I thought I might find you up here.’ He looked tired, and unshaven. ‘So, aren’t you going to say hello?’

‘Hello…’ I murmured.

He smiled. ‘Hello, Miranda.’

‘But…why have you come?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘No. Not…really.’

‘Well, because it’s your birthday. Don’t you remember? I said I’d take you out for dinner.’

‘Oh…yes. I do. But you don’t have to…’ My voice trailed away.

‘I always like to keep my word. Unless you’re busy this evening?’

‘No. No, I’m not busy.’

‘And how have you been?’

‘All right,’ I replied quietly. ‘And you?’

‘I’ve been…okay too. But, do you know what? I’ve been in the dark room all day, and I’d really
love
a drink.’

‘Would you like a beer?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. I’d
love
a beer.’ We walked down the hill together, in perfect step, our feet slapping against the tarmacked path. ‘Now tell me, how’s your birthday been?’

‘Rather wonderful, actually. And it’s getting better all the time.’ We turned into the Mews, and now I was unlocking the door, and there on the chaise longue was the newspaper. David picked it up.

‘That’s quite a story, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I replied feelingly. ‘It’s an amazing story.’

‘Imagine hiding something like that.’

But he’s been hiding so much more
. ‘Do you really want a beer?’ I said. ‘You could have a gin and tonic instead, or a glass of wine, or…’ I opened the fridge and saw Jimmy’s bottle of
vintage champagne. ‘We could drink
this
.’ I held it up and David looked at it.

‘Pol Roger
1987
? Don’t you want to keep it for some special occasion?’

‘This
is
a special occasion. You have no idea quite
how
special it is.’ I got down two glasses and opened a carton of olives, while David twisted the cork. As the champagne foamed slightly over the rim, I saw the overflowing Jacuzzi again, and felt a sudden stab of desire for David which made my soul ache.

He raised his glass. ‘To you, Miranda. Happy Birthday. It’s so nice to see you again.’

‘It’s nice to see you too. I didn’t think…you’d want to.’

‘I didn’t think I would either—at first. I needed…’ he stopped, then shrugged. ‘I needed a bit of time. That’s all. To think about everything. It was a bit of a shock, to put it mildly.’

‘I know…’

‘I needed to process it, I suppose. To go into my dark room and develop it, until I could see it all properly. And two things happened which helped me do that. Do you want to know what they were?’

‘Only if you want to tell me.’

‘I got your letter—and that made me think. Then, a few days later, Daisy came to see me.’

‘
Did
she? But I had no idea she’d done that.’