How strange life is. Right now I could be rolling around on a large double bed in a sumptuous hotel room with a handsome man
between my thighs. Instead, I am scooping poop into a council-issue green plastic bag. The ridiculousness of everything hits
me, and I’m laughing aloud, wiping tears from my eyes. A young bloke in a hoodie—the kind of guy I might think is about to
mug me—rushes by, glancing sideways at me with a worried look. It makes me laugh more, the thought of me scaring him more
than he scares me.
“Oh, Susanna,” I say, “you and your toilet training, you may have scuppered my sex life for good.”
Susanna looks up at me and wags her tail.
I wonder if the opposite of “cross my heart and hope to die” might be “uncross my heart and hope to live.” I carry that thought
with me as Susanna and I continue our midnight ramble. Dan Drake was only ever going to be a moment. I have the whole rest
of my life to consider.
I
get a special private pleasure walking Susanna across Hampstead Heath early in the morning on weekdays, throwing a ball for
her over and over to run after and bring back to me. It’s perhaps the only time I am fully focused on what I’m doing, lost
in the moment rather than grappling with intrusive thoughts. Thoughts that ram into one another like bumper cars, then back
away and speed off in another direction, only to collide again a moment later.
This regular ritual is little different from an outing with an overexcited child who wants to play the same game again and
again and again before eventually collapsing in an exhausted heap. I have no need of other company or the desire to stand
around in gaggles with other dog owners. But I go along with the etiquette. I acknowledge every dog walker who passes, smiling
and metaphorically raising my baseball cap. Sometimes Susanna strikes up a playground friendship with another dog, and a vigorous
game of chase ensues. In these circumstances, I politely chat with the other dog’s owner, like a mother at the school gate
organizing playdates. I never was at the school gate to organize playdates for Olly.
I’ve bought myself a ball thrower, a red plastic contraption that claws the ball so I can pick it up from the ground without
having to actually handle the offending object, covered as it is in Susanna’s slimy saliva. It throws the ball farther than
I ever could, making the game even more fun. It’s the ball thrower’s first outing, and it’s taking me a while to get the hang
of it. The first few attempts I get into a tennis-pro serve position and lob the flexible plastic handle over my shoulder
like Venus Williams, or so I delude myself. Each time Susanna follows the trajectory of my arm and runs off in what should
be the direction of the ball. Then she stops dead, realizing she’s been duped, because of course there is no ball. The ball
stays lodged, immovable inside its claw. I glance around. A group of four walkers with rucksacks, mountain boots, and climbers’
poles—who have evidently mistaken Hampstead Heath for Everest—have stopped to watch my little sideshow. “Come on, you can
do it!” one of them shouts, waving his pole at me. I am sweaty with embarrassment. I come here for quality time with my dog,
and to be left alone, not to be the center of attention and a laughingstock. After a few more failed and frustrating attempts,
I say very loudly to Susanna but hoping my audience can hear: “Must be a fault in the manufacture, this ball chucker’s a dud.
We’ll go for our walk and then take it straight back to the shop.” Everyone talks to their dogs aloud, so it’s not the fact
of my doing so that has my little audience smiling knowingly at one another before moving on.
“You need to flick, not fling,” says a friendly voice coming up behind me.
“Oh, Nick, it’s you. I feel such an idiot.”
“Here to the rescue. Remember when I stopped you from falling flat on your face? Just over there,” he says, pointing in the
direction of where I stumbled over my shoelace on my first Hampstead Over-the-Hillbillies outing. “You were so busy being
an alpha female, so determined to get to the front of the group.”
“Hey, you weren’t supposed to notice.” I laugh. “So what’s the trick to this blasted ball thrower?”
Nick comes up close behind me and takes hold of my wrist, lifting my arm above my head. “Like this,” he says, manipulating
my wrist backward and forward. “No need to put your full body weight into it, just flick with a crisp, controlled movement.
Now show me what you can do.”
I feel shy and can sense myself blushing, like a child who wants to prove herself but is afraid of failing and being laughed
at.
I flick. Or at least I think I do. The ball remains resolutely in its claw. I flick again.
Nada
. And again. This time more determinedly. The ball shoots out and heads off into the distance, Susanna in hot pursuit. I punch
the air with my fist. I feel ridiculously proud.
“Well done, Hope, you’ll be a champion dog-ball chucker yet.”
I’m beaming.
“Can I join you?” asks Nick. “Unless you’d prefer to walk alone. I won’t be offended. Sometimes I pray I won’t bump into anyone
I know when I’m out here. It’s often the only time I get to think things through.”
“In that case, I should be asking you the same question. Wouldn’t
you
prefer to walk alone?”
Nick smiles his crinkly-eyed smile. “Not at all; bumping into you has already made my day.”
“You are such a gentleman.” I feel myself blushing again. When I was a child, I could have blushed for Britain. I should have
grown out of it by now. “It just so happens I was planning to put my celebrity fund-raiser plans on paper later today, but
it would be great to talk them through first.”
“Sally and I were lucky to find you, Hope.”
“Mmm. Say nothing more until you’ve heard my idea. It’s so off-the-wall you may live to regret those words.”
“So hit me with it.”
I glance behind me to make sure Susanna hasn’t run off, and I inhale deeply as we set off, conscious that this idea of mine
is wacky in the extreme. “I know it sounds unlikely, but this dog of mine has been an absolute inspiration. I’d never have
thought of it if it hadn’t been for Susanna.”
Nick raises an eyebrow and says nothing.
“Okay, here goes. The campaign title will be Dogs for Cat’s, as in dogs for Cat’s Place.”
Nick’s eyes aren’t crinkling now, but his nose is. I can see I’ve got him worried.
“Dogs for Cat’s. I see.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet. What I have in mind is a charity catwalk show. Oh my God, that’s brilliant, catwalk, Cat’s walk!
Look, I’ve only just thought of that, we’ll get back to it later.”
Nick’s smiling again. “I think I’m beginning to see how the creative process works. Not linear, that’s for sure. Not like
us boring old accountants who work by rules and logic.”
“You’re not boring, Nick, you’re lovely.” What a surprise! I had no idea that was what I was going to say. Judging by the
look on his face, Nick’s surprised, too. “But back to where I was. A charity catwalk show in which celebrities parade with
their pooches, followed by a dinner and auction. I’ve started writing down the names of well-known dog owners, from Jodie
Kidd and Julia Carling to Sara Cox, Sienna Miller, Joss Stone, Paris Hilton, Geri Halliwell, and Caprice. Not one hundred
percent A-list, but A-list enough for the tabloids and the celebrity weeklies.”
“Hope, do you really think you could pull off something like this?”
“I do, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it. But we’ll need a bit of luck to get us going. Probably the best way to start
would be with dog-owning designers—people like Matthew Williamson or Philip Treacy. If the designers bite, then they’ll rope
in their celebrity pet-owning clients.”
“You mean it’ll be a bit like the Crufts dog show. Except the dog owners will be celebrities in designer frocks rather than
wearing flat caps and blue rinses.”
“Exactly. We’ll also set up a photo booth and ask someone like David Bailey to take pictures of the celebs with their dogs.
We’ll auction the photos, signed by the photographer, and we’ll give a second print to the celebrities as a thank-you.”
“And you can guarantee media attention?”
“The PR potential is massive because the photo ops are so good, and great pictures are what the newspapers and magazines most
want. Just imagine how fantastic the group shot will look, especially if, as I intend, I can persuade a designer to produce
an exclusive range of dog jackets.”
“Dog jackets I can live with. But what if there’s a dog
fight
in the middle of the show?”
“I can’t guarantee the behavior of the celebs! But the dogs will be fine. No one with an aggressive dog would dream of exposing
it to such temptation. If you’re concerned, we’ll have a couple of dog handlers on hand in case of emergencies; that’s easy
to organize. So what do you think?”
“You’re right about off-the-wall. But it’s getting to me. It’s exciting. And different. And kind of wild. And Cat always wanted
a puppy, so it works in that way, too. I think I’m on the verge of loving it.”
I so want Nick and Sally to like this idea. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve felt a real spark of creative enthusiasm.
I’m used to working on a team, sharing ideas the second I have them, so planning all on my own has been quite a challenge.
If Nick likes my proposal, there’s no obvious reason why Sally and the committee shouldn’t like it, too.
“I know it sounds a bit convoluted,” I say to Nick, checking again that Susanna’s coming up behind, “but I really believe
it can work. The trick is to get the ball rolling, and my hunch is that if someone of the caliber of Williamson supplies the
clothes, and a photographer of Bailey’s status agrees to take the pictures, the celebrities and their agents will start to
take it seriously.”
“And the timing?”
“There’s no way it can be scheduled until around May of next year. A venue will have to be booked, party planners appointed,
a producer for the catwalk show found, sponsors approached individually, a celebrity or professional auctioneer brought on
board, items for auction donated. Plus, it will have to be someone’s job to persuade the rich, the powerful, and the famous
to buy tickets and come along with their checkbooks. Most important of all, we have to get the budgets right from the outset,
otherwise the whole thing could go disastrously wrong, and the charity will lose a fortune.”
“And who’s going to make it all happen? You?”
“I’m happy to open my contacts book and hit the phone, but this is a huge commitment, and we need to call in professional
event organizers. Unless I start looking seriously for a job, the money will run out. My big, fat bank account of January,
when I got my payoff, is already looking decidedly anorexic.”
“It does sound amazing, Hope. Put it in your report, and Sally and I will go through it, and then we’ll meet up to discuss
it.”
“How is Sally?”
“Acting strangely.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you think you’d know if Jack was having an affair?”
I’m taken aback by the question, the directness of it. It’s not as though I know Nick very well. We met only a few months
ago, and mostly, we’ve talked about Cat and the charity. But I have such warm feelings for Nick—and for Sally—that I want
to be considered about this.
“That’s some question, Nick. As Jack and I aren’t living together and I barely see him, if he were having an affair now, I
almost certainly wouldn’t know. But if we were still under the same roof . . .” I trail off, thinking of my own Parisian deception.
“No, not necessarily. I think it really depends on how much the person concerned wants to keep it from their partner. If they’re
really determined for it to stay secret, they’ll probably succeed. If, subconsciously, for whatever reason, they actually
want their partner to find out, they’ll make mistakes, tell stories that are inconsistent, leave clues. In which case it’s
probably a plea for attention, for recognition of what’s wrong with the marriage, rather than a deliberate attempt at cruelty.
On the other hand, it might be the only way that person can signal the end of the relationship—ensuring they’re found out,
rather than having the courage to say it to their partner’s face. It’s a difficult one, Nick.”
“I don’t know how to put this, Hope, and I don’t even know if I should be saying it, as it’s not exactly fair to you and only
a suspicion, but I think . . . I think that Sally may be having an affair. I think she may be having an affair with Jack.”
“But that’s rid—” Before I can finish my word, I am interrupted by the piercing sound, carried by the warm breeze, of a woman
screeching and swearing and on the verge of hysteria.
“Get off me, you stupid dog, you vicious animal. Look, you’ve ruined my skirt. It’s in shreds. Who’s the fucking owner?”
I look around to see which ill-behaved, ill-trained dog is the instigator of this outcry, and I see Susanna jumping up, trying
to grab a croissant out of a young woman’s hand. The woman, probably in her late twenties, dressed more for work than a walk,
is waving the croissant above her head, and Susanna is getting more and more excited.
Ignoring Nick and all the other gawping dog owners, I run toward Susanna, shouting, “Susanna! Susanna! Come here,
now
.” Susanna glances round, throws me a look of pure indifference, then turns her attention back to the croissant-waving woman.
I’m panting by the time I reach her. I try to grab her by the collar, but the woman is still waving the croissant, and Susanna
is still determined to get hold of it.
“Drop that croissant
now
,” I shout at the woman, forgetting that I’m talking to her and not the dog. The woman does a startled little jump and obeys.
Susanna dives straight for the croissant, grabs it between her teeth, and scampers off to a quiet spot where she can have
her
petit dejeuner
undisturbed.
“You are a very
bad
girl,” I shout in the general direction of the dog, in complete contradiction to everything I’ve learned from the training
manuals, since she is quite evidently out of my control at this point and my ticking off is counterproductive. If she can
ignore me once without immediate repercussions, she will ignore me next time as well.