Free Behaving Badly by Isabel Wolff

they would sometimes eat. I also had about thirty stick insects, which I used to feed the neighbours’ privet to,and a number of baby birds which I’d nudged back to life. I once worked out that, including the humans, there were 207 legs in our house.
    Mum and Dad thought I was obsessed, but they let me get on with it. Sometimes they’d try to recruit me to their cause. ‘Your mum…’ my father would mutter sadly, shaking his head. ‘Your father …’ my mum would fume. But I didn’t want to know. At night I’d lie in my bed, stiff as a plank, eyes wide open, listening to them griping downstairs. It was always about one subject—golf—a sport which Dad loved with a burning passion and which Mum loathed—she still does. Dad had taken it up not long after they’d married and, within three years, had become exceptionally good. He was even encouraged to turn professional, but Mum didn’t want to know. She said he should stick with accountancy—but he wasn’t having it. Eventually, they split up. Then, within a year of their divorce, she met and married Hugh, a landscape architect, and, pretty quickly, had three more kids.
    I think that’s why I became ‘tricky’—because I had a lot of instability then. I didn’t smoke or take drugs, like some kids I knew; I didn’t pierce my eyebrows or dye my hair. Instead, I became fixated on animal issues. I went vegetarian, almost vegan—it drove Mum mad—and I joined every welfare organization there was. I played truant to go on live-export protests, and I went on anti-hunt demos too. That’s how I met Jimmy. I was standing by a fence one freezing December Saturday with a few other protesters as the hunt went by. I didn’t like to throw anything, as that’s not nice, and you might hurt a horse; so I just stood there, holding up a poster saying ‘Ban Hunting Now !!’ when this handsome man suddenly turned up. He looked like the Angel Gabriel with his thick, curly blond hair and pale beard. And he began chanting, very quietly, ‘It’s a bloody liberty, not a civil liberty! It’sa bloody liberty, not a civil liberty!’ And his voice got a little louder, and then he motioned to us all to join in. And so we did.
    ‘It’s a bloody liberty! Not a civil liberty! It’s a bloody liberty! Not a civil liberty!’ And now he was waving his arms at us, as though he was conducting Beethoven’s Ninth.
    ‘IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!! IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!!! ’
    I was sixteen then, and Jimmy was twenty-one. It had taken five minutes for me to fall under his spell…
    Tim reappeared, and snapped his phone shut.
    ‘I’m sorry about that. It was my editor. Where were we? Oh yes…’ he stared at his notes. ‘And are you single or married?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m…single.’ I prayed that he wouldn’t mention Alexander, but there was no reason for him to know.
    ‘And how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’
    ‘I don’t mind at all. I’m thirty-two.’
    ‘And finally, a funny question, which I always ask everyone. What’s your deepest, darkest secret?’
    ‘My deepest, darkest secret?’
    ‘Yes. Don’t look so shocked. It’s not serious.’
    ‘Oh.’ He’d thrown me right off balance for a moment. ‘Well…’ He’d be horrified if I told him the truth. ‘I’ve…got a bit of a soft spot for Barry Manilow,’ I managed to say.
    ‘Barry… Manilow,’ he muttered. ‘That’s great.’ Then he said he thought he’d got enough material, and if he could just take a quick photo, he’d be off.
    ‘When’s the piece going in?’ I asked, as he opened his rucksack and pulled out a small camera.
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    ‘That’s quick.’

    ‘We had an extra page to fill at the last minute as some advertising was pulled, so I’ve got to turn this around by two. All our photographers are busy today, so I’m going to take a quick digital snap. If you could just stand by the door, holding the dog, with the