Behaving Badly

"Will you be all right now, Miranda? Miranda...?" I slowly surfaced from my reverie. "What?" 'I said will you be all right now?" repeated Clive, my builder. Would I be all right now? I considered the question. I wasn't at all sure that I would. "It's just that I've got to be in Barnes by five," he explained, as he began to gather up his emulsion-spattered sheets. "So if it's all the same with you..." I banished painful thoughts and forced myself to concentrate. "Oh. Yes. Of course. You want to go." I glanced round my new workplace -- my new workplace and my new home too. In three weeks Clive had transformed six St Michael's Mews from a semi-derelict shell into a smart office with a small living space on the f loor above. The estate agent had negotiated a reasonable rent -- reasonable by Primrose Hill standards at least -- on condition that I refurbish it myself. "Thanks, Clive," I said. "It looks wonderful." He pursed his lips judiciously, then pressed a crumpled hanky to his neck. "Yeah...well, I'm pretty pleased myself. I've checked the electrics," he added as I reached for my bag, "and I've been over the roof again and it's sound. Is there anything else needing doing?" I scribbled out the cheque, sinkingly aware that it represented the last of my savings. "No. I don't think so. It all looks...great." I surveyed the newly egg-shelled walls and gleaming skirting boards, and f licked the downlighters on and off. I raised then lowered the green micro blind and tried the drawers in my new desk. I examined the joins in the new wooden f looring and made sure that the security locks on the windows all worked. "Have you got enough bookshelves?" he asked as he packed away his paintbrushes. I nodded. "Well then, if you're happy with it all, I'll be off." I glanced again at my final checklist. "Actually there is one last thing -- the sign." I picked up the ceramic plaque I'd had specially made and handed it to him. "Would you put it up for me?" "Sure." We stepped outside, shielding our eyes against the glare of the midsummer sun. "You can't start your new business without this, can you?" said Clive, affably. He pulled a pencil from behind his right ear and made rapid marks on the walls; then he began to drill, a slender avalanche of pink brick-dust drifting to the cobbled ground. "Got enough punters?" he enquired as he screwed in the plate. My stomach did a f lick-f lack. "Not quite." 'Don't worry," he reassured me. "You will. There. That's it, then. All done." He took a step back as we appraised it. "Perfect Pets', it announced, above a stylized drawing of a dog on a psychiatrist's couch. Beneath, in smaller letters: 'Miranda Sweet BVSc, Animal Behaviourist'. Clive beeped open the doors of his van. "I know a few people who could do with your services," he said as he slung his equipment inside. "My neighbours for a start. They've got this Labrador. It's lovely, but it's barking mad." He shook his head. "Literally. Barking. That's all it does, all day." "Poor thing. It's probably being left on its own for too long so what it's doing is calling its humans back." "I dunno what it's doing," he shrugged as he opened the driver's door. "All I know is it sends me and the wife up the wall. Anyway, give me a bell if you run into any problems Miranda, otherwise..." he got behind the wheel, "...good luck. Take care of yourself," he added solicitously as he ignited the engine. "You take care now." "Thanks, Clive." I smiled. "I'll try." Clive swung right out of the Mews onto Regents Park Road, then tooted twice in cheery valediction and was gone. I glanced at my watch -- it was ten to four. Daisy would be arriving soon with Herman. She'd been looking after him for nearly a month. She'd been wonderful since 'it' -- as I had now come to think of it -- happened. Without her, I don't know what I'd have done... As I wiped the paint splashesWolff, Isabel is the author of 'Behaving Badly', published 2006 under ISBN 9780778323181 and ISBN 0778323188.