I gave him a disapproving stare. ‘Isn’t that a bit dishonest?’
‘Have you ever tried renting a flat? Nowhere lets you have pets.’
I looked at his little worried face, his chin dark with the stain of morning stubble, and my disapproval melted. ‘I’ll look after Lindy for you, if you have to go to Germany,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘She’ll need feeding every day and, if the landlord wants to come over, all the cat stuff will have to be hidden.’
‘Perhaps she can stay here,’ I said.
‘Here?’
‘Of course, here. Then she’ll have company and I won’t have to go dashing across town every day.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled and his whole face became sunshine, like the picture of him that attracted me in the first place. He put his arm around me and drew me close for a kiss.
‘Meow!’ squealed Chester under Riss’s weight.
Riss’s mouth muffled my laughter as he prolonged the kiss. I pushed him away for a second and shooed Chester off the bed. The cat leapt onto the carpet with as much dignity as he could manage and walked off, displaying the air of a creature who hadn’t wanted to stay on my pillow in the first place.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘where were we?’ I returned Riss’s kiss, exploring the warmth of his mouth. Then I shuffled closer to explore the warmth of his body.
*
Exactly a week later, I opened my front door to see Riss standing on my doorstep, laden with umpteen bags and a cardboard box.
‘Good heavens!’ I said. ‘It is just the one cat who’s staying isn’t it?’
‘What?’ he said, breathless.
‘You’ve got enough luggage for the whole family Von Trapp.’
‘I’ve got Lindy’s basket and her favourite bowl, and I couldn’t ask you to buy extra cat litter.’
I saw, then, his arms starting to give way under all the stuff he was carrying. ‘You better come in before you drop it all.’ I stepped out of his way and he turned sideways to enable both himself and his stuff to get through the door. I put my hands on the cardboard box. ‘Let me take that.’
‘Thank you.’
He let go gratefully and the whole weight was suddenly in my arms. It took the wind out of me and I had to lean back against the wall to get my balance. ‘What have you got in here?’
‘Cat food.’
‘Your cat’s staying here for a month, we’re not digging in ’till doomsday.’
I staggered off towards the kitchen while, behind me, Riss squeezed in between the wall and my bicycle.
‘Do you ever actually go out cycling?’ he called from behind.
‘No, it’s there for decoration.’
‘Maybe you should think about hanging a picture instead?’
I dropped the box on a worktop just inside the kitchen door and caught my breath. Riss staggered in moments later and dumped the bags.
‘Now,’ he said, panting like an unfit man after a marathon. ‘I think you’ve got everything. There should be plenty of dry food as well as tinned, Lindy’s bedding, her toys, bowls and her litter tray…’
‘Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?’ I said.
‘Hmm?’ he seemed puzzled, like nothing could have possibly got past his meticulous planning.
‘The cat?’ I suggested.
‘Lindy!’ said Riss. ‘She’s still in the taxi.’
I couldn’t move for laughing, as Riss jumped over all his bags, dashed back down the hall and out of the front door. After a moment, still giggling to myself, I followed and stood at the doorstep while I watched him pay the cabbie and retrieve the cat box from the back seat.
Lindy was wailing like she was the victim of despicable animal cruelty. A screaming meow-meow-meow, with hardly a breath between cries, loud enough to be heard at the other end of the street.
He brought her inside and the sound of Lindy’s wails echoed down the hall. I couldn’t blame her, I suppose, it was a very small prison to be locked up in. The carrier was plastic and not much longer or wider than a standard cat, with a grill at the front through which the prisoner could see outside. I had a similar one for taking Chester to the vet; he hated it as well.
‘Let’s release her in the kitchen,’ I said.
‘Good idea,’ said Riss, over the continued wailing.
We walked down the hall and Riss placed the plastic prison down just inside the kitchen door. He opened Lindy’s cage. The noise immediately stopped. I expected Lindy to leap out to freedom, but nothing happened.
Strange for an animal that had seemed so desperate to escape.
I exchanged looks with Riss. We waited.
Then Lindy - a smallish silver tabby - sauntered out of the box like the Queen descending from her carriage. It was as if her desperate cries for freedom had never existed.
She took the unfamiliar surroundings of the kitchen in her stride. She explored the narrow tiled floor and soon found Chester’s food corner. She sniffed into his bowl and, within seconds, was chomping on a piece of meat left over from his last meal.
I turned to Riss. He looked relieved. Hot, still out of puff and a bit red in the face, but definitely relieved. ‘I think she’s going to settle in fine,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
*
We retired to the sofa with a coffee.
‘You know what we should get you?’ he said after taking his first mouthful.
‘No. What?’
‘A decent coffee maker.’
I nudged him in the ribs. ‘Are you saying you don’t like my coffee?’
‘I’m just saying instant granules are a bit last century.’
‘Well, I’m sure they do ‘proper’ coffee in Germany.’
‘Yeah,’ he said; despondent.
‘Don’t be like that,’ I said. ‘It’s only for a month.’
‘It’s just… I’ve got used to coming round here.’
His words warmed my insides and I felt myself wilt under his spell. I put my mug down on the floor where I hoped I wouldn’t kick it over and shuffled up the sofa towards him. I put my arms around his body and nuzzled my face into his soft, slightly flabby belly. It was the most gorgeous pillow and had the added advantage of being full of his subtle, but inviting smell. ‘I’m going to miss you too,’ I said.
He stroked my hair with delicate fingers, like he was stroking a cat. It was blissful; I wanted to purr. Instead, I let out a contented ‘mmmmm’.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ I gave his belly a squeeze. He stroked my hair some more.
‘Roll on next month.’
‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘maybe when you come back, if Lindy seems happy here, perhaps you could stay more often.’
‘Is that offer dependent on what my cat thinks?’ said Riss, with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Well, it’s because of a cat that the two of us got together.’
He laughed. The sound - echoing in his stomach - was loud in my ear. ‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘Chester has to have been the one who picked you out from the internet - otherwise I’d have to admit using a dating website.’
‘Crazy girl,’ he said.
I liked being called a girl by him. It made me feel young and excited with the teenage thrill of a new love inside of me. I pulled myself up and rested my head on his shoulder. ‘There’s no rush,’ I said. ‘But after you come back, you could try staying over here a few nights of the week and see how it goes.’
‘What’s that noise?’ said Riss all of a sudden.
‘Are you changing the subject?’
‘No, seriously, what’s that noise?’
I paused. I held my breath. I listened. A car went past on the road outside; a bird chirped in a nearby tree; and there was a soft rumbling sound. ‘Oh, that’s just Chester purring.’
‘Just Chester? Listen.’
I listened again. A
nd, Riss was right, there was something different about it. It was a fuller sound than I was used to, and it was louder. I sat up straight and scanned the lounge. I couldn’t see Chester anywhere. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there; my cat is skilled in finding little cubby holes to hide in.
I stood as silently as I could. Riss stood too. I crept towards the TV because I knew Chester often liked to sit there in the mess of all the wiring where the ventilation holes of the satellite box blew out warm air.
There, tucked into Chester’s favourite spot, was a bundle of grey and ginger tabby curled up together, both of them purring at different frequencies in patterns that synced temporarily before becoming a see-saw stereo of purr. Chester licked at Lindy’s fur on her face like a mother cat cleaning a kitten. It was almost like they were kissing.
‘Awww, look at that!’ whispered Riss beside me. ‘Isn’t it cute?’
I had to agree, it was.
I kept looking at the cuddly bundle while, almost without thinking, my hand reached out to my side and clasped Riss’s fingers.
‘It’s almost as if,’ Riss whispered in my ear, ‘Chester planned it this way.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I said.
But - as I continued to watch my cat fondle my boyfriend’s cat - I had to question if he wasn’t just a little bit right.
* * *
Thank you for downloading and reading Matchmaker Cat. Without the support of you, the reader, writers like myself would have no audience. Why not come and say ‘hi’ at my website: www.elizabethkyne.co.uk
Meanwhile, as a bonus, here’s the opening to my novel, If Wishes Were Husbands.
IF WISHES WERE HUSBANDS
by Elizabeth Kyne
ONE
Wraps of silver foil stuck out of the head of the woman sitting next to me like the spines of a tin hedgehog. While her highlights developed inside the foil, she told the rest of the hair salon about her irritating husband - whether anyone wanted to hear it or not.
‘I simply asked him if he would mind hoovering the lounge while I was out,’ she said, with much animated waving of hands.
‘Sounds reasonable,’ replied the hairdresser - that's my hairdresser, by the way, who was supposed to be attending to me.
‘That's what I thought,’ continued the tin hedgehog woman. ‘So I came back from the shops half an hour later to find he'd moved all the furniture into the garden!’
‘No!’ said the hairdresser.
‘I swear to God!’ she said. ‘I thought he was a sensible guy when I married him - what was I thinking?’
I leant forward and picked up my cup of tea. Hairdressers bring you a cup of tea in a white china cup and saucer these days. They'd even indulged me with a bourbon biscuit on the side. So, while the other two women gossiped, I brought the cup to my lips and breathed in a mouthful of air from the salon. The taste of hairspray, shampoo and peroxide hit my throat. I washed it away with a larger than anticipated gulp of strong, milky liquid.
Saturday in the hairdressers - a little shop sandwiched between a newsagents and a chippy in the Elmhurst area of Aylesbury - was very busy. Apart from myself and the tin hedgehog, a woman of about fifty sat with her back to the sink having her hair washed and the flustered manageress talked ten-to-the-dozen while she blow-dried another customer. By the front door, a woman with a bright red fringe processed someone's credit card from behind the reception desk while answering the phone at the same time. Every now and again the hubbub subsided enough to hear a golden oldie station broadcasting Duran Duran through a radio perched on top of a rack of shampoo and conditioner.
The bourbon biscuit still sat, brown and tempting, on the side of my saucer. I could resist no longer. As I crunched, the hairdresser lifted several strands from the back of my head and clipped off a good inch.
‘Are you married, Rachel?’ she said
I almost choked on chocolatey crumbs. ‘Hmm?’
‘I said, 'are you married?'.’
What is it about hairdressers that they think they have the right to probe into your personal life? Are you married? Do you have children? What do you do for a living? I was fed up with it, quite frankly. You hit forty and it's not funny anymore. People look at you and expect you to have all of those 'normal' things. If you haven't got a husband and kids, then you better damn well have a good divorce story, or a successful and fascinating career.
Not Rachel Gosling. I'm the one who answers politely, no I'm not married, I don't have any children and I'm a PA in an accounts department. People's eyes glaze over and they start talking about the weather. As far as I'm concerned, it's their bloody fault for asking in the first place.
My hairdresser waited for my reply, her reflection looking expectantly from the mirror. Her name was Salina or Celine or something. She was young - early twenties - just starting out on life and already with a boyfriend (so she'd told me) and a job she seemed to enjoy. Also in the mirror was my reflection; one I only half-recognised. My hair colour had changed from its usual dyed blonde to a vibrant chestnut brown and I was half way through having the length cropped back to below my ear lobe. It was part of the new me.
A new me, I decided, who didn't have to stick to the truth under interrogation.
‘I am married, actually,’ I lied on a whim.
‘Oh yes?’ said the hairdresser, combing the long, damp strands of chestnut brown hair yet to be cropped. ‘Does he put all your furniture in the garden?’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘My Darren's wonderful.’
I used to work with a woman married to a Darren. The name seemed plausible enough.
‘You don't hear that very often from the women in here,’ said Salina. She glanced over at the tin hedgehog and they shared a laugh.
‘I bet they're newlyweds,’ she replied, turning her silver spiny head in my direction. ‘Are you newlyweds?’
I lowered my eyes, coy Lady Diana style, and smiled. ‘We are actually.’
‘How lovely!’ said Salina (or was it Celine?).
This was quite fun.
My hairdresser placed her hands on either side of my head and straightened it before judging how short to cut the next section. ‘Where did you get married?’
‘In a castle,’ I said, hiding my bare ring finger within the folds of my nylon hairdressing gown.
‘Ooh!’
She was interested now, really interested; much better than telling the truth. ‘We wanted something romantic. Darren suggested a castle. I said we couldn't afford it, but - bless him - he found this wonderful place on the internet that didn't cost an arm and a leg. Melcesine Castle, it's called.’
‘Where's that?’ She glanced up from snipping my side locks.
‘Italy,’ I said. ‘Overlooking Lake Garda. It was beautiful. I didn't want to go abroad at first, but English castles are so expensive and they want you to invite thousands of people. In Italy, we could sneak off on our own without inviting anybody.’
It was true. Not about me getting married, but about the wedding venue in Italy. I'd found it one drunken evening playing about on the internet.
‘My Mum would kill me if I didn't invite her to my wedding,’ said Salina. She put her hands on my head again and scrutinised me in the mirror. She seemed satisfied with whatever it was she was looking at and put her comb and scissors aside. She picked up a hairdryer from where it hung on a slot on the wall. ‘When I get married--’
With a flick of a switch, the hairdryer roared into life, blasting my head with its fierce heat and drowning out the rest of her sentence.
It was strange to see the chestnut brown shoulder-length bob emerge in the mirror. Almost as if it were someone else's hair being shaped on my head. I was used to bottle-blonde straggles down to the bottom of my shoulder blades; a legacy from trying to disguise my first grey hair ten years ago. Salina was doing wonders with the style; she tugged out all my natural wave and managed to make the ends of my hair curl under.
The roar of the hairdryer stopped. It was suddenly quiete
r and cooler. Salina combed through my hair and, amazingly, it stayed where it was put. It never did that for me. ‘Spray?’
‘Um...’
Before I'd made a decision, she'd picked up an industrial-sized aerosol. I downed the last of my luke-warm tea before a perfumed, sticky mist fell all around me, alighting on my hair, my shoulders and my lap.
‘There,’ she said with finality.
She did that thing hairdressers do with a hand mirror so I could see the back of my head. I nodded my approval (does anyone ever say they hate the back and demand it be cut all over again?) and she removed the nylon gown from my shoulders. Wisps of my clipped hair fluttered to the ground like chestnut brown confetti.
She took me to woman with the red fringe at the front desk and dictated all the things I'd had done that morning: permanent dye, moisturising treatment, cut and blow dry, spray (they charged me extra for the hairspray?!). It added up to an embarrassing amount. I handed over my credit card and tried not to think about it.
‘Thank you,’ I said to my hairdresser as I turned to go. ‘I'm sorry - I can't remember your name.’
She'd done a good job and I wanted to make note of who she was so I could request her next time.
‘Susan,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ I blushed a little. So not Celina or Salina, then. ‘Thanks, Susan. See you again.’
I left the salon and walked down the street with my hair bobbing like a shampoo commercial.
*
Sunday night and my hair looked as good as when Susan gave it a final spray the day before. I chose a pair of jeans, black T-shirt, short purple cardigan and I was ready for a night out with the girls.
Not 'my' girls; Sheila's girls. Apart from my Mum, Sheila was the only person I knew in Aylesbury. It was the town I grew up in and the town I turned my back on after leaving school. I went to university in Leicester and ended up getting a job up there. I loved Leicester because it gave me a chance to be independent, meet new friends and have new experiences - but most of all, I loved it because it wasn't Aylesbury. I didn't think I'd ever come back. Then I got older, I started to think about my Mum getting older and I realised it was time to go home.
Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) Page 2