Daphne
Daphne
Daphne scrolled through TikTok, which she’d made Ziggy install on her phone. Sure enough, there she was, just as the barman had said, brandishing her walking stick like a sword and shouting, “STOP RIGHT THERE, EDWARD FUCKING SCISSORHANDS!” That clip had popped up everywhere, Ziggy said. Set to music, cut together with footage of celebrities and politicians, covered in emojis. She was the new Jackie Weaver.
Daphne loaded up OurNeighbours.com. She was all over that as well. I think she lives in my building , someone had written. It was only a matter of time before her image was linked to her name, and then to her address.
She could hear the relentless ticking of the clock, the countdown gathering pace. If only she knew exactly how long she had left, so she could plan more efficiently.
Daphne stared at the new list on her whiteboard, pen in hand.
There were just too many things to do.
Deal with Ziggy’s gang
Find Art’s daughter (Do I care? Genuine question)
Save the community center
Revenge on Jeremy (Kneecapping? Too much?)
Buy more loo roll
Item five was an easy one, admittedly. But the others would take time.
And then, there was Sidney. Daphne had been rather too busy to spend much time with her new beau, which was quite possibly why he was so keen. People always want what they can’t have. Daphne’s whole life had been driven by that truth.
Daphne and Sidney had now had four or five dates. They hadn’t been to each other’s homes, or done more than fairly chaste kissing. Sidney had been a little wary after the cigarette burn incident, although it seemed to have healed fairly quickly, so Daphne suspected him of overreacting a little.
Daphne was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, she could take Sidney with her. Having spent the last few months experiencing the thrill of having friends, and a life outside her apartment, the thought of leaving it all behind made her unbearably sad. Perhaps she should never have opened the Pandora’s box, because she couldn’t see how she’d have the strength to close it again.
Daphne picked up a pen, pulled off its lid with her teeth, and wrote:
Ask Sidney to come with me?
But that was a decision for another day. Today she had to get cracking on item three, part one. The auditions for the dog talent show.
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Daphne, Art and Maggie took the tube out to Ealing, where the auditions were being held in a large TV studio. Apart from a couple of brief forays into neighboring Barnes, Fulham, and Putney, Daphne hadn’t left Hammersmith for fifteen years, and found it almost as thrilling as she’d found flying to Tokyo, New York, or Berlin in the old days. She wasn’t letting on to Art, of course, and was managing to maintain a look of bored disdain.
“Isn’t this fun?” said Art as the tube rattled through Turnham Green, toward Chiswick Park. “It’s like we’re on a date!”
“A date?” said Daphne, horrified. “Good God, I’d never go on a date with someone like you.”
“Why not?” said Art, looking intrigued rather than upset. Where did she even begin?
“You’re too old, for starters. I only date toy boys,” said Daphne. “You’re badly dressed, probably insolvent, and you have dubious personal hygiene.”
“You haven’t mentioned the stealing, the deception, and my recent near-arrest,” said Art.
“No. Those are the things I like about you,” said Daphne.
“You’re a very strange woman, Daffy,” said Art.
“It has been said before,” said Daphne, rather thrilled at having acquired a nickname. She’d never been the sort of person who’d been given a nickname. At least, not to her face.
“Anyhow, I think you protest too much. I know you secretly fancy me,” said Art, winking at her.
“I’ll add total lack of emotional intelligence and extreme narcissism to the long list of reasons why I dislike you,” said Daphne. Although the truth was, she was actually starting to dislike him just a little less.
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It was obvious when they’d reached the right place, as the queue of people and dogs stretched all the way down the street. And the dogs . They were all dressed in the most extraordinary outfits. There were superhero dogs, cowboy dogs, butch-looking dogs in leathers, and slutty little dogs in rah-rah skirts with huge pink bows on their heads. Good grief, were they wearing false eyelashes ?!?
Maggie, who up until now had been so proud of her recent shampoo and blow-dry, was looking seriously intimidated, reminding Daphne just a little of Lydia.
“Don’t let those bitches freak you out, Margaret,” said Daphne. “We’re going to wipe the floor with them all.” The problem was, she was beginning to doubt that this would be the case. They might have underestimated the task at hand.
First things first. They had to deal with this ridiculous queue. There were certain things one grew out of with age, like tube tubes, threesomes, and, most definitely, queuing.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” she yelled, waving her walking stick at a barely postpubescent child with jeans that hovered precariously around the bottom of his bum, and a clipboard. He was wearing a headset that he seemed inordinately proud of, as if he were part of the presidential security detail, as opposed to monitoring a motley queue of dog owners. He sighed theatrically, then came over.
“Yes?” he said, looking as apathetic as only the very young can.
“My companion has mobility and”—she leaned over to hiss in his ear, and barely resisted the urge to pull up his trousers—“incontinence issues. It’s his prostate, you see. I don’t suppose you could bump us up the queue, could you? I mean, we could wait, but I’m really not sure what might happen…” She threw in a grimace and waved her hand in the direction of Art’s crotch.
“But…but…” squawked Art beside her. She pressed her walking stick down hard on his foot.
“Aaarrghhh!” he said.
The boy looked alarmed, and promptly pulled them both out of the queue.
“Oi! What’s going on? That’s not fair!” yelled the man in front of them, who had four Chihuahuas on leads, dressed in matching turquoise sequined leotards and feathered headdresses.
“INCONTINENCE ISSUES! IT’S HIS PROSTATE!” shouted Clipboard Child, pointing at Art, who flushed bright red and glared at Daphne. “Go join that queue there,” he said, gesturing at a line just one tenth the length of the main one, labeled VIPS ONLY . That was more like it.
Even in this line, Daphne had to cope with nearly half an hour of Art’s sulky resentment before they reached the front. Two or three fights had broken out, and it wasn’t entirely clear who’d started them—the dogs or their handlers.
“Right, you’re on,” said Clipboard Child finally, ushering Art, Daphne, and Maggie forward. Daphne was suddenly rather nervous. Her comfort zone was exceedingly spacious, but this experience lay well outside of it.
“Is it OK if I smoke?” she said, fishing her cigarettes out of her bag.
“Uh, no,” said Clipboard Child, looking shocked. “This isn’t the, like, eighties.”
Daphne replaced the cigarettes reluctantly. It was ridiculous that these people were, no doubt, all doing cocaine in the greenroom, or popping prescription opioids in the lavatories, yet she wasn’t allowed a tiny cigarette.
“Hello!” said the man in the middle of the panel of three people behind a trestle table. “Name of handler?”
“Art Andrews. Actor,” said Art.
“And your dog?” he said.
“M,” said Art, at the same time as Daphne said, “Margaret.”
Clipboard Child, who was patting Maggie, swiveled her collar around and looked at her tag. “Uh, it says here Maggie Thatcher ,” he said.
“Ha ha!” said Left-Hand Judge. “What’s her act? Canceling free school milk? Declaring war on Argentina? Or smashing the trades unions?”
Daphne gave him one of her finest withering looks. He paled and went silent.
“Right, off you go,” said Right-Hand Judge. “Just give your music to Jez, over there.”
“No music,” said Art.
“Oh, well, no matter,” said Middle Judge, in a tone that implied it obviously mattered a lot.
Art and Maggie walked to the center of the stage, while Daphne stood next to the judges, so she could surreptitiously read any notes they were making.
Art blew his whistle, and Maggie did the trick he’d taught her for the nativity, turning full circle on her hind legs, then bowing for the audience. There was a desultory clap or two from Left-Hand Judge. Right-Hand Judge appeared to be compiling a shopping list, as Daphne was sure he’d just written large bunch coriander .
“High five, M!” said Art. Maggie raised her paw to Art’s outstretched hand. “Bang!” he said, pulling a toy gun out of his back pocket. Maggie collapsed to the floor and rolled onto her back, paws in the air.
She was magnificent . Living proof that you could indeed teach an old dog new tricks.
“Is that it?” asked Middle Judge, sounding bored.
“Uh, yes,” said Art.
“OK, next !” said Middle Judge.
“WAIT!” said Daphne, seeing a hundred grand just slipping away from her. She walked onto the stage, standing next to a defeated-looking Art, facing the panel. “When you film your show, don’t you need some fairly useless competitors for the audience to feel sorry for? To make the others look good? Especially if the handler is from a disadvantaged group. Like someone who’s nearly ninety years old?”
“But I’m not…” spluttered Art. Daphne prodded him with her stick again.
“Mmm, well, maybe. What do you think? Worth going for the sympathy vote?” said Middle Judge, turning to Left-Hand Judge with a raised eyebrow.
“It might work, if he has an emotional backstory,” said Left-Hand Judge.
“Do you have an emotional backstory?” said Middle Judge to Art.
“He does! He does!” said Daphne. “He’s lost touch with his only child. He hasn’t seen her for about thirty years, and has never met his grandchildren.”
“Actually, that might do it,” said Right-Hand Judge.
“OK. You’re in,” said Middle Judge. “Don’t make me regret it. Give your details to Jez. We’ll be in touch. NEXT!”