I'm about to reply when the Texan interrupts. 'Are you the manager?'
She introduces herself and gives him a winning handshake. 'Mr Herbert, isn't it? So lovely to meet you. I'd love to talk, but I have a teeny problem to sort out and then I'll be right back.'
He nods his head. 'That's fine by me, but later my wife would like to talk to you about the terrible state of the drapes in the hotel.'
Jennifer claps her hands together. 'That's marvellous, because this is Jane Kirby, our housekeeper.'
She pushes me towards him and rushes off.
'Why, you little cheat,' he guffaws. 'Giving yourself another name when we met! Boy oh boy, my wife's gonna take you to task. Here she comes now…'
I turn round, miserably acknowledging a vast trifle of a woman in red and yellow descending upon us. The huge jelly breasts wobble threateningly, and the hips, like lumpy custard, bulge inside the tight yellow satin skirt.
Some nightmarish minutes later, having promised to replace every drape in the entire hotel, I manage to extricate myself from the throng and head for the reception area. A siren is whining close by and a cluster of lugubrious staff are hanging around the dark lobby.
'What the hell's going on?' I demand of one of the concierges.
He beckons me closer, sweeping the room with his eyes before running a forefinger across his throat.
'Someone's done himself in. Room 208.'
'Oh my gosh,' I mumble. 'Is he still alive?'
'Course he's bloody not. It's a bloodbath up there. We'll have to drag him down the staff stairs. Heavy bugger too.'
He yawns and flicks idly at a copy of The Sun.
'You haven't seen the body, have you?'
He clicks his teeth. 'I was the one that found him. He never picked up his theatre tickets yesterday so I went up there myself. Had a funny feeling about him.'
'How awful for you.'
'You get used to it. We've had four this year. Pill poppers are the easiest, no mess, see?'
I return to the lounge and practically into the arms of the fat Texan diva. She dives at me with fury. 'You don't deserve your job, young lady! Look at the chandelier. I am astounded.'
A hush descends on the room. Waiters clutch protectively at their drink trays, their mouths down-turned like Pierrot half moons of dismay as they raise their eyes to the ceiling. In a daze I glimpse up at the ultra-modern light creation at the centre of the room. Like a skilful trapeze artist, a plump grey mouse is ascending the electric cable which links the light to the ceiling rose, its long, thin tail curling like ivy around the flex. I face the smouldering eyes of the Texan woman, and the rest of the subdued hotel guests.
'Well, what do you have to say for yourself?'
I shrug helplessly. As the housekeeper manqué what should I say? Suddenly a hand grips my arm. Jennifer has slipped into the room and is all smiles.
'Ah! There's Harold! I thought I'd lost him,' she trills.
'Who's Harold?' barks the Texan trifle.
'My pet mouse. Thank you so much for finding him. He escaped from his cage this morning.'
'You are kidding?' scoffs fat Mr Herbert.
'Not at all. He's the H Hotel mascot as in H for Harold?'
The trifle is speechless as is the entire wide-eyed company. Her obese husband gawps up at the pirouetting rodent and then at Jennifer.
'Blow me down,' he whispers. 'You English really are crazy sons of bitches!'
Swooping on two glasses of bubbly, I pass one to Jennifer and give her a knowing smile.
'Well, I suppose the only problem now is how to get the little darling down.'
Thursday 1.30 p.m., The Cavendish Hotel, Jermyn Street
Ed pushes his plate away from him and lies back on the deep plush sofa.
'That Club sandwich was divine. I could almost eat another.'
'Ed! Don't be a pig.'
He reaches into his MEK and takes out some small white pills.
'For my heart,' he says thinly, as he knocks them back with the remains of his water glass. 'So you think this trip to New York will be OK?'
'I think it's fantastic that Charlene has fixed up the trip for when I'm over.'
'Isn't November treacherously cold in Manhattan?' he whines.
'Oh, don't be a wimp. You'll have a great time.'
'I'm looking forward to seeing you run in the marathon,' he admits, and then, as an afterthought, 'Although I don't like crowds so we'll have to play it by ear.'
'If you're very good I might get you an invite for Greedy George's Pet Parade. It's going to be a huge media sensation in Bryant Park.'
He coughs frantically. 'With my cat allergy, that's the last place I'd want to be. The whole idea's insane. It could only happen in the States.'
'Spoilsport. Perhaps I can lure you to H Hotel's launch party in Tribeca instead?'
'Maybe,' he concedes. 'Tribeca's supposed to be very trendy, isn't it? Charlene would enjoy that.'
I flick my watch towards me and realise that I should be heading off.
'Well, cat duty calls.'
He lowers his head in seeming despair and grasping his MEK, stands up. 'Don't blame me if it's a nightmare.'
'It's going to be fun. I've never visited a cattery before.'
We descend the stairs and push through the hotel's glass doors into sharp sunlight.
He stands on the pavement looking glum. 'Actually, I bought you a little something to cheer you up while you're there.'
He fumbles around in the MEK and produces a plastic bag from WHSmith's which he hands to me.
'Go on, open it.'
I draw out the slim tome. The cover illustration is of a prostrate female lying on the ground. The title reads: When Things Fall Apart.
'That's great, Ed. I'm sure it'll prove excellent bed-time reading.'
He gives me an earnest nod of the head and together we head off along Jermyn Street.
4 p.m., on the train to Dorset
Rachel's voice sounds scratchy and she's speaking so fast that I miss half of what she's saying.
'Rachel, I can't hear you. Slow down.'
'Isn't it fantastic?'
'What is? Let me guess: you're calling with some good news?'
She doesn't trace the irony in my tone.
'Prince Charles is going to attend the launch of the Crown jewels book at the Tower of London.'
I catch my breath. This genuinely is fantastic news.
'They've just called from The Stationery Office. We'll obviously have to amend plans somewhat, but it's so exciting.'
The book launch is still four months away, but there is a great amount of logistics involved, especially now there will be royal presence.
'It's wonderful, Rachel. Thanks for letting me know.'
'Just think, if we pull this off well, the work will really flood in. You won't have time to dwell on wretched moggies anymore.'
If she only knew the truth. If we successfully pull off this project I may at last feel able to cut loose the ties of London and, in the spirit of departing politicians, spend more time with my family and of course other exceptional animals.
TWELVE
A CAT CALLED ZACK
5.30 p.m., The Cat's Whiskers, rural Dorset
There's a light drizzle of rain falling on the quiet country lane. The lush green hedgerows are full of wild flowers and tall weeds, dock leaves and nettles, reminding me that this is the rural England of my childhood. I am standing outside a substantial red brick manor house, watching the departing taxi dissolve in a mist of rain. There's no going back.
I look up and down the road. There isn't a soul in sight and apart from the rather shabby manor house peeping up from beyond extensive foliage, there's nothing but swaying trees, fields of skittish lambs and rolling countryside. Grasping my suitcase by the handle, I wheel it over to the black iron gate on which a perfunctory wooden sign announces that I have arrived at Grove House and The Cat's Whiskers. It doesn't mention the word cattery but perhaps that's sel
f evident. I peer through the dusty railings to the gravel drive and courtyard beyond. The gate wheezes as I drag it open and make my cumbersome way over the gravel, the wheels of my case stubbornly buckling against the small stones. No sooner am I half way up the drive than a gigantic Dobermann comes hurtling towards me as if from nowhere, teeth bared and growling ferociously. I stop in my tracks, foolishly considering running for my life, although secretly acknowledging that the beast would be upon me before I'd even reached the gate. There's nothing for it. I stand my ground and attempt to muster an ounce of dignity before facing my adversary. For a split second the hound draws to a halt, tongue hanging from its jaw, as it sizes me up. Then with a sudden gallop, it leaps up with powerful front legs resting on my shoulders and begins licking my face. I stagger backwards, tripping on my case and muttering 'Good dog' inanely to the rain. A rosy faced, burly chap in old corduroys and wellies now appears on the drive, squelching through the gravel and grinning from ear to ear.
'Ah, you've met Beauty then? Come on, girl!'
The dog drops its paws and stands panting by my side.
'I think she mistook me for a bone.'
'Yeah, she's a right little bugger with guests, but she's as harmless as a fly.'
Try telling that to my Scotsman when I'm found mauled to bits in a ditch. I smile politely.
'I'm here for the cattery management course.'
'Sure you are. Let me take your case. I'm Willie Patterson, the glorified odd job man around here since I retired. My wife, Jessie, runs the cattery.'
I offer him my hand and pat the dog a trifle self-consciously. Willie stretches forward and effortlessly lifts the case off the ground, his eyes resting on my suit and then shoes. He gives a little titter.
'I hope you've packed some better kit than that because you'll get well and truly mucked up while you're here.'
Oh shucks, if only I'd known! As a dizzy PR all I've packed are a couple of ball gowns, some four-inch heels and a bottle of Evian. He waits for a response.
'Don't worry,' I say reassuringly. 'I had some business meetings earlier in London. I've got jeans with me.'
He gives a slight nod and walks jauntily back up the drive to the courtyard, the dog and I following in his wake. We enter the house by what appears to be the back door. A narrow scullery leads into a rustic kitchen, with an old cooking range and suspended iron hoop from which copper pans dangle, and beyond that a small dining room and long bright hallway.
'I'll show you to your room and then you can meet Jessie. She's looking forward to showing you the ropes.'
Yippee. I follow him up the creaky oak staircase and into a small room with buttercup yellow walls and blinds. The windows are wide open and the sound of loud baa-ing seems to echo around the gardens. I wonder if there are any escapologist ewes amongst them. Willie drops the case at the foot of the brass bed.
'Don't worry about the lambs. They just get a bit excited in the rain. Normally, they hardly make a sound.'
He potters over to the window, hands on hips, peering at the blur of green beyond.
'The bathroom's down the corridor,' he says dreamily. 'I'll see you in the kitchen in a few minutes.'
He plods off, closing the door behind him.
Some neatly folded yellow towels are piled on the bed along with a plump and efficient looking folder entitled, 'PRELIMINARY TRAINING COURSE'. Oh boy, what have I let myself in for?
9 p.m., dinner
'So you see, it all worked out in the end,' Jessie is saying, as she begins clearing away the plates. I watch as she loads a tray and disappears into the nearby kitchen. I find myself captivated by the story of how she and Willie came to own a cattery. Having run a successful furniture business in Sunderland for many years, this intrepid couple decided to retire, up sticks and run The Cat's Whiskers from a new home in Dorset. They had a nightmare with planning permission but persevered and after a two-year battle with local authorities finally gained a licence. Jessie admitted that at times she'd nearly thrown in the towel.
I pick up a tureen, observing that only a few forlorn florets of broccoli remain at the bottom, and attempt to follow her into the kitchen.
'Oh, you stay put. It's enough with the blooming cats getting under my feet in there!'
I sink back into my chair. There's no standing on ceremony in this household.
'The thing is,' says Willie with a cynical grunt. 'I was never keen on the idea. Seemed like a lot of work to me.'
'He's a dog man, you see,' cuts in his wife.
'As I was saying,' he continues a tad impatiently. 'I thought it would be a lot of hard work for little return.'
'And was it?' I ask.
He passes his napkin over his face and slowly returns it to the table, folding it into a neat triangle. I wonder why he does this when, judging by the dessert spoons in front of us, we still have pudding to come. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.
'Too darned right it was.'
His wife bustles back into the room carrying a crusty pie and a jug of cream.
She eyes her husband critically. 'The truth is that when I was growing up in Wales my old mum ran her own cattery and kennels so I knew what I was in for. It doesn't make you rich but it does keep you busy and that's good when you retire.'
Willie stares at his napkin with renewed interest and places it on his lap.
'Jessie's just potty about felines. Besotted.'
'It's true,' she concedes. 'The cats are our family. We don't have kids.'
A pause. 'I like dogs, mind, but they're not the same.'
'You always know where you are with a dog,' says Willie firmly.
'I'm sure,' I say, for want of anything insightful to add.
I watch as Jessie cuts into the steaming pie, placing hefty slices onto dainty floral dishes which she passes to us. It smells heavenly.
'Apple pie! That was one of my grandparents' treats when I used to visit them in Carmarthen. I love it.'
Jessie rests her gaze on me briefly. 'Well, you can't be all bad if you've got Welsh blood.'
'Actually, some Irish and Scottish too,' I counter.
'Oh, heaven help us!' mumbles Willie, dolloping thick cream onto his pudding.
'So, why do you want to open a cattery then?' He observes me with his rheumy blue eyes.
'I love cats and I've adopted countless ferals.'
'That's fine if you want to be Mother Teresa of the cat world but if you want to earn a living...'
'Give her a chance to speak, Willie,' hisses Jessie.
'I'd like to create the sort of cattery that I'd want to put my own cat in. A small oasis for cat owners who loves their pets. I'm not looking to make it my main income. More a hobby.'
Willie clicks his teeth. 'We'll knock all that rubbish out of you tomorrow!'
His wife gives a little giggle. 'Leave her be. The truth is, love, that it's no picnic, so you really need to be sure you're doing the right thing.'
Willie finishes his apple pie and licks his lips.
'You'll find out soon enough. If I were you, I'd get yourself plenty of sleep tonight.'
Ominous words. I offer to help wash up but Jessie's having none of it. She shoos me away from the table and so, wishing them both good night, I make my way upstairs to the bedroom.
'Remember, six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning,' Willie calls after me. 'And make sure you're wearing some decent clobber.'
Thursday 12 a.m., in bed
The laptop is purring like a contented cat, its screen basking in the bright rays cast by the bedside lamp as I tap away. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with a pile of pillows pressing against my back, I give a heavy yawn and decide to call it a day. Somehow I've managed to edit three press releases and put the finishing touches to a detailed planning document for the Crown jewels event. That'll keep Rachel off my back. I shut down the computer and rub my eyes. According to the energetic Jessie, we'll be cleaning out litter trays and doing the breakfast round very early so I must get some kip. A lorry
rumbles by in the distance as I plod across the room and dump the laptop on the desk. Outside it is eerily silent and dark. There's not the braying of a donkey or the tinkling bell of a mountain sheep to be heard, and why would there be? Mallorca seems a million miles away from this picture of English rural bliss. Even the air smells different. I shiver with the chill and, turning off the bedside lamp, snuggle under the covers, my mind swivelling back to the curious evening just spent in Jessie and Willie's company. It's a pity Alan isn't with me. He'd have hit it off immediately with Willie and enjoyed his remarks about my Mother Teresa pretensions in the valley. The Scotsman is exasperated by the growing number of scraggy moggies hanging about our land and largely blames this phenomenon on Ollie and me for sneakily feeding them when he's not looking. Much as we hotly deny the accusation, he regularly stumbles across empty feeding bowls in the long grass so that our guilt is self-evident. Just recalling his recent outburst when a clumsy feral cat crash-landed on his shoulder from a lemon tree has me giggling. And that's how I fall asleep, laughing. A good thing, because I have a feeling it will be my two hosts, Willie and Jessie, who'll be having the last laugh over the next few days.
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