I began to wash, in a futile attempt to settle my nerves, but my mind was racing. There would be press in attendance at the ceremony, not to mention the great and the good of the show business world.
And I would be on the arm of one of the nominees!
My mind swam with possibilities. Was I, finally, on the cusp of proper, A-list stardom? If the Baron liked me, we could become the new celebrity couple—the cat world’s answer to Brad and Angelina, or “Brangelina,” as the press liked to call them. I wondered what our tabloid moniker would be. “Nanceo,” perhaps. Or maybe just “Bancy.”
“MIAOW,” I said slowly, as I lay in bed. “Model . . . icon . . . actress . . . or . . .”
It had never occurred to me before, but maybe the “W” stood for “wife.”
The following morning I woke with a start. I was afraid the whole thing had been a dream until I saw Princess’s magazine lying on the floor, still open at the Kit-e-Licious advert. I stepped out of bed, walked over to my bowl, and started eating.
“Nancy!” Princess shouted from her bed. “What are you doing?”
“Er, eating breakfast,” I replied sheepishly.
“Stop!” she shrieked. “You’re attending the PAFTAs tonight. With the Baron. Do not. Eat. Anything.”
I spat out my mouthful.
“Oh, right, sorry. Nothing at all?”
“Not if you want to look good for the paparazzi. If you’re hungry, eat toilet paper. It’s what they do in Hollywood.”
“Toilet paper! Are you kidding?”
“No, Nancy, I’m deadly serious. This is your chance. Don’t blow it.”
My stomach was rumbling but I had to take Princess’s advice: she knew the game far better than I did.
“Look,” Princess said, her voice softening, “why don’t you borrow one of my collars tonight? They’re from my new range. It’ll be good PR for me.”
I glanced across at the bookcase where her collar collection was displayed, each one resting on a black velvet stand. I had never worn anything quite so glamorous. I picked up one made of pink satin.
“How about this?”
But Princess shook her head decisively. “Nope. Not for an awards ceremony. This is the right one for the job.” She scooped up a collar covered in diamanté studs.
“Wow. It’s very ... bling. Do you think I can carry it off?”
“Nancy, you are escorting the Baron to the PAFTAs. You’ve got to look the part.”
I slipped off my own frayed and faded collar and placed it on the bookcase, then Princess helped me to fasten its sparkly replacement.
“Perfect,” she said, stepping back to assess me. She pushed her pedestal mirror in my direction.
I had to admit the collar looked good, although the nervous expression on my face somewhat ruined the effect. I saw Princess in the reflection behind me, scrutinizing my appearance, and I smiled hopefully at her.
“You need to work on that smile,” she said.
So I practiced smiling, looking backward coyly over my shoulder, and with my head tilted to the side. Frankly, I felt ridiculous, but Princess looked on encouragingly.
Helen swung the bedroom door open to tell Princess that the car had arrived to take her to the photo shoot, and soon I was alone in the bedroom, with just the mirror and my smile for company.
By late afternoon I was sick with nerves and hunger. I had spent a frustrating hour struggling with Princess’s combs and brushes, trying to get my fur to do anything other than stick straight up, but nothing had worked. When Oscar and Gerald walked into the bedroom I asked what they thought of my “paparazzi smile.”
“Just looks like your normal smile,” Oscar commented unhelpfully.
At half past five I went and sat by the window in the living room to wait for the car, and at six o’clock exactly a stretch limousine pulled up outside Helen’s flat.
“Oh, my god,” I said. “That can’t be for me.”
Helen walked over to the window. “He’s here. Come on, don’t keep him waiting.”
She went to the front door and held it open.
As I approached the car, a uniformed driver got out and opened the rear door, and I was hit by a smell of cologne so overpowering it made me gasp. I took a last lungful of fresh air before jumping in.
There, opposite me on the white leather seat, was Mr. Kit-e-Licious.
The Baron.
Mr. Big to my Carrie Bradshaw.
“Hi,” I said, although for some reason the word came out in a high-pitched squeak. The Baron scrutinized me.
“Hello,” he said, before adding, “you’ll do,” under his breath.
The limo pulled away from the curb, and I settled into the plush upholstery. I had never seen such a lavishly appointed car. The windows were blacked out, the lighting was ambient, and there was a minibar on one side, fully stocked with Kit-e-Licious snacks. I looked surreptitiously across at the Baron, who seemed deep in thought as he stared out the window. He was smaller in the flesh than he appeared in his commercials, but there was no disputing his good looks. His long fur was a deep shade of russet on his face and back, set off beautifully by his white chest and legs. His amber-green eyes were flecked with gold and his teeth were pristine white. I could see why he was destined for Hollywood.
“So,” I ventured, this time my voice sounding about an octave deeper than normal. I cleared my throat. “I’ve never been to an awards ceremony before. I can’t wait!”
He turned toward me with a look of surprise on his face, almost as if he had forgotten I was there.
“Really?” he asked, but before I could reply he had turned back to the window.
For God’s sake, Nancy, just shut up before you say something really embarrassing, I thought.
So I looked out my window, too. Or rather, I looked at my reflection, taking the opportunity to practice my smile one last time.
As we drove into central London the traffic became heavier, and by the time we arrived in the West End the limo was moving at barely a crawl. The ceremony was being held at a smart hotel in Knightsbridge, and as the car passed Hyde Park Corner I could see a crowd of people gathered outside a grand-looking building.
“Just play it cool, Nancy,” I said under my breath.
The driver maneuvered the limo into place around the corner from the hotel’s entrance, and a porter opened our door. I jumped down to find that I was standing on a red carpet, and I could hear the noise of the excited crowd around the corner.
The Baron looked at me, and, for the first time that evening, he smiled. I noticed as he did so that the gold flecks in his eyes twinkled, and dimples appeared on his cheeks.
“Ready?” he asked.
“You bet!” I replied, activating my paparazzi smile.
“Make sure you stick with me,” he said and I nodded.
I stepped alongside him and then we walked, shoulder to shoulder, along the red carpet toward the waiting crowd.
The sight of the crowd as we turned the corner made my heart lurch, and I was aware of my smile turning into a rictus grin. Some people had started screaming, “It’s him!” and the line of cameras suddenly swung in our direction and began to flash. The Baron smiled broadly as he waved at the crowd. Some fans had thrown handfuls of Kit-e-Licious treats onto the red carpet, which he stopped to nibble on. Looking at the treats made my stomach rumble, but remembering Princess’s strict instructions not to touch any food, I resisted. Instead I stood behind the Baron, trying not to look self-conscious.
Eventually, with a final wave, he turned his back on the crowd and we walked toward the steps at the hotel’s entrance.
Here we stopped again, this time for the assembled press. To my surprise, I felt the Baron’s head rub against mine in a gesture of playful affection. I looked at him in amazement, but his eyes were fixed on the cameras in front of us, which had exploded into flashes. I smiled at him, but before I could digest what had happened we were ushered inside.
The foyer of the hotel
was packed with industry bigwigs, the animal nominees, and their escorts. Most of the award contenders were cats and dogs, but I also spotted a few rodents and birds in cages. I could hear laughter and the clinking of glasses, plus the odd yelp as a nominee’s tail came into contact with a wayward stiletto heel. Groups of industry types stood in clusters: men in expensive suits and expertly groomed women.
I wanted to stop and take in the scene but the Baron kept moving, so I followed at his heels, trying to dodge the legs of the humans. Once we had made it across the foyer we walked through a doorway into the hotel’s ballroom, which had been turned into an auditorium for the night. A stage with a gold podium stood at one end, and the rest of the room was filled with rows of chairs.
An usher guided us to our seats in the front row. A few moments later a huge, shaggy-haired Old English sheepdog jumped onto the chair next to me. I smiled at him as he made himself comfortable on the seat, which wasn’t easy given his size.
“Evening,” he said gruffly.
“Hello,” I replied. “What are you nominated for?”
“Best television commercial,” he said, and I sensed the Baron’s hackles rise on my other side.
“What’s your commercial for?” I asked.
“Paint.”
“Oh,” I said, slightly nonplussed.
Just then a man in a tuxedo walked up to the podium, the lights dimmed, and a hush descended on the room. The ceremony was about to begin.
There were seemingly endless award categories to sit through, and I was aware of my stomach audibly gurgling as the evening wore on. I sensed impatience among animals and humans alike as we endured awards for “Best Rodent Choreography” (which went to a tap-dancing rat in a children’s TV program) and “Best Synchronized Flying” (which was awarded, in absentia, to a flock of geese in a wildlife documentary). The Baron made little effort to disguise his boredom, tapping his paws impatiently on his chair. The sheepdog to my left had fallen asleep and was snoring with his head on my tail. A few seats down, a handsome Burmese cat licked his paws, not even watching the proceedings onstage.
Eventually the host announced the final award of the night, Best Animal in a TV Commercial: the Baron’s category. I was aware of animals and humans stirring in their seats around me.
The lights dimmed and all eyes were on the screen at the back of the stage. The first nominee was the sheepdog, for Deluxe Emulsion paint.
In the commercial, he ran through a series of empty rooms, whose dull walls magically glowed with color as he passed through. The commercial ended to polite applause from the audience.
“No threat there,” the Baron whispered to me.
Next up was the Burmese cat a few seats away, who fronted a campaign for Purrfect, a rival cat food brand. In his commercial he rubbed up against the ankles of a glamorous woman before jumping onto a table and eating from a dish.
“Pah!” snorted the Baron dismissively.
I was amazed at his calm demeanor. He seemed so confident, so at ease. I wondered if I would be so laid-back if I were ever in his position.
“And our final nominee for the Best Animal in a TV Commercial Award is Baron Romeo III, for Kit-e-Licious,” announced the host. The Baron’s eyes were fixed on the screen ahead, but he gave no outward indication of nervousness.
A rousing orchestral soundtrack began to blare from the sound system. On-screen the Baron’s face appeared in close-up, smiling enigmatically. The camera pulled back to reveal that he was in the driver’s seat of a speedboat, on a moonlit lake. He thrust a lever forward and the boat zoomed out of sight, leaving an arc of foam in its wake.
Next, the screen cut to a beautiful female cat lying on a cushion in the turret room of a castle. She was gazing wistfully at the night sky through an open window. The sound of a helicopter emerged over the music, and the screen cut back to the Baron.
Now he was hanging by his front paws from the underside of a black helicopter that hovered above the ramparts of the castle. The music surged as the Baron released his grip and dropped onto the castle roof.
The female cat looked up, startled by the sound. She walked across her boudoir and jumped onto the windowsill.
Meanwhile, behind her, the Baron lowered himself into the room in a body harness attached to a suspension wire. In close-up, his paw placed a gold-colored pouch of Kit-e-Licious on her cushion. Just as the female cat turned around, the Baron pulled a cord on his harness and shot back up his wire, disappearing out of sight. The female cat looked around, suspicious, before walking cautiously toward her cushion. Seeing the pouch, she smiled. Then the Baron’s face filled the screen once more, and he disappeared across the lake in his speedboat.
Over a close-up shot of the pouch, a husky voice intoned, “And all because the lady loves ... Kit-e-Licious.”
The lights in the auditorium came back up, and there was a tense silence as the presenter opened the gold envelope.
“And the award for Best Animal in a TV Commercial goes to . . . the Baron!”
The room erupted into cheers. I looked around at the ecstatic faces of the audience, and the Baron’s wide grin as he soaked up the applause.
I was in awe!
As the Baron made his way up onto the stage to collect his trophy I started to clap and cheer. For a fleeting moment, I pretended that the adulation in the room was for me, that I was stepping up to the podium, ready to deliver a gracious and witty acceptance speech. I looked around at the whooping crowd, and the thought passed through my mind: “Next time, it’ll be me!”
Once the Baron had returned to his seat clutching his trophy, the applause died down, and the audience began to file out of the auditorium.
What would be coming next? I wondered. A champagne reception? A VIP party at some exclusive members’ club?
I followed the Baron as he made his way between the rows of seats. To my surprise, he headed straight to a side exit, which led to the waiting limo outside. Once we were in the car I looked at him and said, “That was amazing! Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” he replied.
“So, where now?”
There was a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. “Well, home, for you.”
I was aware of a blush rising in my cheeks, and not wanting him to see how crestfallen I was, I turned to look out my window.
“Oh, of course,” I said to the glass. I watched the Baron in the reflection as he yawned, stretched, then curled up on the leather seat.
In what seemed like no time at all the limo pulled up outside Helen’s flat. The door opened and I turned to say good-bye, but I could tell from the way the Baron’s whiskers were twitching that he was asleep.
“’Bye, then,” I whispered before jumping down onto the pavement.
I watched the limo pull away, hoping to catch a glimpse of a paw waving at me through the rear window, but I saw nothing.
Standing in the chilly autumn air, my stomach rumbled again.
At least I can finally have something to eat, I thought.
I heard the front door buzz open, so I walked down the path and into the house.
CHAPTER 21
Nancy’s Choice
Home is not where you live, but where you are understood.
—Anonymous
The papers have arrived, Nancy.”
It was the following morning, and Princess was standing next to my bed. I shook my head briskly, then followed her into the living room, where Helen was sitting with the day’s newspapers spread out in front of her.
“Check this one out,” Helen said, pushing one of the tabloids toward me. It was open at the gossip page, and in the bottom right-hand corner was a photo of the Baron and me on the red carpet, his head nuzzling mine. His expression radiated cool confidence; I was grinning from ear to ear.
The caption asked, “Who’s that girl?” and the paragraph underneath explained that the Kit-e-Licious star had been accompanied by a “mystery female cat” to the PAFTA awards.
“Could t
he famous feline lothario be about to settle down at last?” it speculated.
“That’s brilliant, Nancy, just what we wanted!” Helen exclaimed, but I could not share her enthusiasm.
I had spent the night unable to sleep, restlessly going over the evening’s events. As much as I had enjoyed the glamour and excitement of the ceremony, I had felt an emptiness afterward, and not just because I hadn’t eaten for twelve hours. I could not shake the feeling that the whole thing had been a sham. The Baron and I had not exchanged a dozen words all evening, and yet to see the coverage in the paper anyone would think we were an item.
Studying the photo, the truth finally dawned on me: I had not been on a date with the Baron; I had been a pawn in a strategy devised to generate publicity for him. He had needed a female cat to be photographed with, someone to get the press talking. He had wanted a glamour puss like Princess, but had made do with me.
Twenty-four hours ago I had thought my dream was about to come true, that I was on the brink of meeting my Mr. Right and becoming a celebrity. But instead I had discovered that the celebrity life was like Gerald’s KittySlim food: it looked real from the outside, but tasted of nothing but cardboard.
“Oh, look, here’s another one,” Helen said, lifting a paper out of the pile to read aloud.
“ ‘The Kit-e-Licious heartthrob was out on the town last night, attending the PAFTA awards ceremony. He was accompanied by a female cat identified only as Nancy.’” Helen glanced at me with a smile.
Then she looked back at the newspaper, and her smile faded. “‘He and his companion had parted company later in the evening, however, when he was spotted strutting his stuff with another tomcat at the Glitter Tray nightclub.’”
Helen paused as she looked over the article.
“Oh, dear. The Baron’s people won’t be very happy with that. But at least you were mentioned by name. That’s the main thing.”
I smiled ruefully. Helen should have volunteered Gerald or Oscar to be the Baron’s escort. They might have been more to his liking.
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