Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [57]
The struggle to hang on to Oscar as he slithered and slipped out of grasp in the folds of her pashmina took their toll on the actress. By the time I’d finished, her porcelain complexion was as white and shiny as a well-scrubbed washbasin.
‘Goodness,’ she spluttered between gulps of air. ‘I never used to have that sort of struggle with Mr Scott-Thomas.’
I refused to dwell on the image conjured up in my mind – her and him thrashing about on the consulting table. No, definitely not. It didn’t bear contemplating. I wheeled her out as quickly as I could, expressing my wish that all would now be well and that the ‘rest’ of her stay in Westcott would be enjoyable. I didn’t suggest, as I normally did with other clients, that she should return if further problems were encountered. This one-act play with her had been quite enough. No encores were required, thank you very much.
To my surprise, even Beryl, not usually one to pass judgement on clients, seemed to be on my side when she said, ‘Remind me not to buy her brand of cat food.’
It must have been about ten days later when I received the call. It was one of those rare weekends where Lucy and I hadn’t managed to synchronise our time off together. I was on duty, she was off; the phone at Prospect House was manned by Mandy.
‘Sorry, Paul,’ she said, ‘but I’ve had that pussy-ad woman on the phone demanding that her Oscar be seen.’
‘Did she say what the problem was?’
‘’Fraid not.’
I sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better see her then. Ask her to come in.’
‘She won’t.’
‘What?’
‘She’s insisting on a house call.’
‘Some hope. Especially on a weekend.’
‘Maybe you could have a word?’
Minutes later, I was listening to Francesca Cavendish’s dramatic drawl down the line. ‘You really must come out, darling. Oscar’s scratching himself to death.’
‘I’ll certainly see him for you, but you’ll need to bring him up to the hospital.’
There was a sharp intake of breath and the phone went dead.
I shrugged and put it down. ‘Just that actress from the cat ads,’ I said when asked by Lucy who it was. ‘Wants a house call.’
She agreed with me that the woman was unlikely to find any vet in the area prepared to make an out-of-hours visit to a scratching dog.
‘But no doubt she’ll ring round to try and find someone,’ I said.
When the phone rang again half-an-hour later, it was Mandy to tell me that Francesca Cavendish was very sorry that we’d been cut off and what time did I say I could see Oscar?
She arrived at Prospect House before me and was sitting in the waiting room with Oscar clutched to her bosom. There was no sign of her ‘chauffeur’ outside. She leapt to her feet as I walked in.
She gushed, ‘So good of you to see me out of hours.’
I forced a smile. ‘No problem.’
‘It’s why I think so highly of Mr Scott-Thomas. However late at night it might be, he’s always there for me.’
My smile faded.
‘It’s just that I can’t stand it any longer … he’s been going at it all night long. I’m quite exhausted.’
I did a double-take. Had I missed something here? Some all-night hanky-panky with her Mr Scott-Thomas?
She continued, ‘Scratch, scratch, scratch … Oscar simply won’t stop. I just hope you can do something about it.’
Right. Yes. ‘It must be very irritating,’ I said, only aware of the pun I’d made once it had slipped out. Thank goodness Miss Cavendish didn’t notice. She was far more concerned at pointing out the oozing matt of fur over Oscar’s right shoulder.
“Just what might that be?’ she asked.
‘Eczema,’ I replied.
‘ECZEMA?’ she echoed in a tone worthy of Lady Bracknell’s ‘A handbag?’ Had she been practising the part, I wondered.
My turn to take centre stage. I explained it was wet eczema brought on by something which had irritated the skin in that region. The dog had started nibbling the