Honey’s righteous fury at the attack on Absinthe by Brian should have been short lived but for the fact that Honey adores being right and furious more than cats enjoy stalking mice and licking cream. Enjoying the combination of both emotions was too delicious for her. Even though it turned out that Brian wasn’t to blame.
‘You’re too tragic to even speak to,’ Star told her when she came into our room before supper.
‘I don’t want to believe that people like you even exist,’ added Indie, as she trailed in after her.
There wasn’t much I could add to that. I felt ashamed for blaming Brian when what had really gone wrong was all Honey’s fault. Poor Absinthe had caught her paw in one of the enormous hoops Honey had pierced Absinthe’s ears with. Also I was in the bed next to Honey’s and had my mattress to consider.
Portia put down her magazine and smiled in her regal way at Star and Indie, who smiled back, and then we all huddled on the floor for a confab on Georgina’s fate. Honey was looking at herself in the mirror at the time and didn’t deign to respond, let alone grace the floor with her presence.
‘So no one’s seen Georgina since she left to wait for the vet earlier in the day?’ Indie asked.
‘You don’t think they’ve expelled her?’ Portia asked in a low whisper as the vet was ushered in to our room by Miss Bibsmore.
This vet was really fit-looking for a grown-up, although his dress sense was a bit tragically retro. He was so adorable though, the way he delivered his diagnosis on Absinthe in the gentlest, kindest voice you can imagine. He looked as genuinely saddened by the whole affair as were we, apart from Honey. She was furious.
‘You mean you expect me to pay you for disfiguring my pet?’ she shrieked, her head spinning around on her neck – well, not really, but it looked like it was about to. ‘How dare you treat my rabbit without the permission of myself or my guardian!’ she screamed. ‘What am I meant to do with a rabbit with half an ear?’
‘Well, I was called to the school, so I just presumed . . .’
‘Ugh!’ she grunted. ‘That’s the trouble with people like you and your sorry red brick university degrees! You presume too much. If I’d been consulted I would have told you to put her out of my misery.’
Portia, Star, myself and even Indie were used to Honey-isms such as this. All in a day’s Honey. But as we looked up at the poor vet with his angelic tousled locks in an attempt to convey our solidarity with him, I could tell he didn’t have a clue what he was up against.
‘You mean her misery,’ he corrected. The poor, sad, deluded sod. He really had no idea. He sat down on Honey’s bed as if he wanted to comfort her. ‘Sorry, Honey, isn’t it? Perhaps I haven’t explained myself clearly,’ he persevered. ‘Absinthe will be just fine. She’ll make a full recovery. She’s only torn part of her ear but it will heal and the main thing is she’s retained full hearing capability. I’ll drop by in a few days to remove the stitches and she’ll be right as rain, I promise you.’ He gave her shoulder a comforting little pat.
I caught Miss Bibsmore popping her head around the door and listening in on the scene as it played out but Honey didn’t.
Honey turned to him. Her eyes flashing like machine-gun fire. ‘And I’m meant to take precisely what comfort from the news that I now have a disfigured pet? Are you suggesting that I throw good money after bad to keep a hideous half-eared rabbit alive? I could spend your vet bill on a pair of rabbit-trimmed Gucci stilettos! You monstrous, money grabbing pleb. Now get off my bed, you pervert.’
After the accusation of being a pervert, the vet dived off the bed and looked around at all of us. His plan of breaking the good news to a sweet teenage girl that her pet was going to be OK had crashed against the barriers of Honey’s unspeakable nastiness.
He opened his mouth to reply, but Honey cut over the top of him. ‘Well, hop to it!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Down to the pet shed and put the wretched thing out of my misery.’
But the vet didn’t look like he was going to ‘hop’ anywhere. His whole demeanour changed before our eyes from fit, kindly, older man a dangerous force of authority. I swear a chilling breeze was blowing around him as he said: ‘Miss O’Hare, the only misery I know of is the lamentable attitude you and your friends have towards your pets. People like you,’ he began, but I think he was too angry to go on because he started spluttering.
I felt sorry for him. Apart from Honey I think we all were, so as he turned to leave, I began to blurt, ‘Can I just say, that erm, well, it was super of you to come and help Absinthe and erm . . . well, seriously, actually I think. Yes, that’s it, personally, and I think an enormous amount of people would agree, you’ve got a really cool and original dress sense for an old, I mean, a grown up. Yes, those retro corduroys are well, well they’re on trend this season, aren’t they? So that’s really cool, isn’t it?’
I wasn’t exactly waiting for applause but when my blurt stopped, the entire room was silent. Everyone was looking at me blankly as if I was mental. I mean, his dress sense was seriously horrendous but it was original in a retro sad sort of way.
He had already put his hand on the door handle at that point but he turned back to face, not Honey, but me.
I knew my speech wasn’t as polished as it could be but I was shocked by the venomous look on his face. ‘That’s all you spoilt girls care about, isn’t it?’ he asked me directly. ‘Cool clothes and accessories, Daddy’s plastic and Mummy’s contacts.’
My face stung with the unfairness of his attack. I was only trying to cheer him up. ‘I don’t like your clothes that much,’ I assured him.
Dig, dig, dig Calypso, a voice in my head was heckling. So I grabbed the shovel. ‘I was just, well, I was just trying to be nice to you, to cheer you up. Not that your green flares aren’t cool in a retro (I think I actually said ‘sad’ but I hope I didn’t) sort of way. It’s just that they’re not my sort of thing. See, I wanted to say something kind after what Honey said to you. Besides my mummy, that’s Sarah, doesn’t have any contacts, and my daddy, that’s Bob, doesn’t even believe in plastic!’
The vet clicked his tongue at me in disgust. That was so going to be the last time I ever complimented an older man, however fit and kind he might seem. Because that’s the thing – you never know when grown-ups are going to turn on you. One minute they’re all, ‘Let’s be pals and I really, really, really care,’ and the next, it’s all, ‘Time for bed, lights out, blues all round and I’m filing a report.’ Star’s right, grown ups only exist to subjugate us.
‘I shan’t be sending a bill,’ he told Honey in a grand voice he hadn’t shared with us earlier. ‘I can assure you however, that I will be making a full and detailed report about this school and your treatment of animals.’ He made the word ‘report’ sound like a weapon of mass destruction.
We were all cowering as he glared around the room at Portia, Honey, Indie, Star and myself as if we were Honey clones, when really we were as appalled by Honey as he was. The difference was, we’d suffered Honey for so many years we were virtually immune to her toxic psycho toff take on life.
‘I can’t believe he went off at you like that,’ Indie said after he’d gone. ‘I thought you were really nice to him,’ she told me gently, rubbing my back.
‘I even complimented him on his flares,’ I added, shaking my head at the injustice of life.
Star said. ‘It just proves what I’ve always suspected. Grown-ups are not to be trusted.’