Some Kind of Fairy Tale (34 page)

“Oh, I didn’t realize I was e-mailing such a good-looking young man,” she said airily.

The blush broke like a tsunami. That is, all his blood drained from his face for a second, leaving him pale, but it was only gathering strength to come back in force. The blush discharged from deep in his scalp and from low across the back of his neck, swelling like a foaming red tide across his cheeks, and crashing like a breaker around his ears. His ears were the worst. They flamed. He
knew his ears would be flamingo pink and he hated himself with a vicious passion. Right at that moment he hated his own guts for blushing so profoundly.

Joanne waited for him to speak. He couldn’t. His tongue froze in his mouth.

She cocked her head to one side. Then she cocked her head to the other side, in an exaggerated and mocking gesture, waiting patiently for him to speak. Finally, she pressed her fingertips together, making a steeple that she held under her chin. Her eyes laughed at him.

“Frosty,” Jack managed.

“Just a bit.”

“Cat.”

“This is a cattery. You do know that, don’t you?”

Joanna shifted her weight from one hip to the other, and Jack found himself with the biggest and most unwanted erection he’d ever experienced in his young life. Now the woman behind the reception was looking at him oddly, too. Jack thought that both women could tell he had a huge erection. He hated his erection and he hated his blushing and he hated the young woman Joanna and her mocking eyes. What right had she got to give him an erection? He didn’t even like the way she smelled.

Joanna glanced at the woman behind the desk. “You want to come and have a look at him?”

It was with some relief that Jack realized Joanna was addressing him, not inviting the woman behind the desk to study his no doubt observable erection. He nodded. She beckoned him to follow her to the cattery, which he did. He’d been holding his breath and was relieved to find that he could ultimately take in air again. The young woman’s buttocks swung in front of him and he had to quickly avert his eyes. He made the mistake of blowing out noisily—a completely involuntary act—and she glanced back over her shoulder at him.

Someone from the winding depths of the cattery called to Joanna and she abandoned him for a moment to speak with her colleague, for which release he was mightily grateful. When she returned he found he had almost recovered the faculty of speech.

“I e-mailed you,” he said.

“You did.”

“Saying what I was looking for.”

“You did.”

“And you said Frosty.”

“I did. And here he is.”

She had led him to a wire cage on a shelf, just one in a row of identical cages. The cat behind the wire was perfect. Jack had in his possession a picture of Mrs. Larwood’s cat—printed on a leaflet—but he didn’t even need to get the picture out of his pocket to know that Frosty was a precise match. It was uncanny, so close was it in its markings to that dead cat. It was even white-mitted on all four feet.

“You want to hold him?”

Jack didn’t. He wasn’t at all attracted to cats. He didn’t want to pet the thing, coo at the thing, or talk to the thing. In fact, he despised the way people would adopt a falsetto voice or any other kind of voice in order to address a cat. He just wanted to stow the creature in a box, get that red collar round its neck, and drop it off at Mrs. Larwood’s place at the double, job done. But it occurred to him he’d better look like he was thrilled to see the creature so he made some poor efforts at emulating cat-lover noises.

She swung open the cage, made a gentle grab for Frosty, and handed him over to Jack. Luckily for him, Frosty seemed happy enough, purring and nestling into the crook of his arm, blinking up at him.

Everything was going pretty well between them until Joanna mentioned a home visit.

“Home visit?”

“We don’t just dump them on anyone.”

“Oh?”

“We check out that you’re all suitable for the cat and the cat is suitable for you.”

“Right. Is that really necessary?”

“You wouldn’t believe what we see in people’s homes. One family had a huge pet snake. Imagine.”

“Right. That must have been … Right.”

Joanna puckered the corner of her lips and blew her dark fringe out of her eye. “When do you want us to come?”

“I’ll need to get back to you on that,” Jack said.

“Need to check your busy schedule, do you?”

“Something like that.”

“See if you can find us a window in your calendar?”

Jack blew out his cheeks again. “Yep.”

“No rush. Take your time. Whenever you’re ready.”

“I mean, you’ll probably want my parents to be there, won’t you?”

She nodded slowly. She seemed way overfocused on him. “Plus, there’s the donation to think about.”

“We’re okay with the donation,” Jack said, rather too quickly.

“That’s great.”

“How much is the donation?”

“Well, we cover all bases: vets fees, microchipping, inoculations, tick and worm treatment. It actually comes to around a hundred and fifty pounds.”

“What?”

“But we suggest a minimum donation of fifty.”

“Right. Right.”

“That going to be a problem?”

“No. No. I’ll go now.”

“In a hurry, now, are we?” She put her hands on her hips. Those fractionally swinging hips, in her tight, dirty blue denim jeans. Her long forefingers slipped into the belt loops at the waistband of her jeans. And as she locked her gaze on his she swung those hips to the side, rocking slightly.

Jack turned and he knew he was coloring again. He felt the rush. He retraced his steps, knowing that Joanna was watching him leave. He crossed the reception, and the pregnant lady at the desk bid him good-bye.

“Yes,” Jack said, by way of reply.

He walked to the end of the street, turned the corner, and found a brick wall; and he gave that brick wall a bloody good kicking.

J
ACK HAD A STROKE
of luck that afternoon when his mother asked him if he might stay in the next day and take care of Amber.
Zoe would be out with her boyfriend and Genevieve wanted to take Josie to the optician to find out if she needed spectacles. It would be a big help to her, Genevieve said, if Jack would hold the fort. Jack quickly calculated that his dad would be working and that he had a useful window of opportunity in which he could invite the visit from the cattery. He could make out that his parents had been called out unexpectedly. The visitors would check out the house, see that it was fine, and release the cat.

“Sure.”

Genevieve was slightly taken aback. “What, no protest? No demand for financial reward? No moaning?”

“Do you want me to do it or not?”

With that settled, Jack stepped outside with his phone and called the cattery to schedule a home visit for four p.m. the following day. When he came back he found Amber in the sitting room. “If you’re good tomorrow,” he told her, “I might let you play on my computer.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you’re good.”

“Jack, I love you!”

“Shut up with that or I won’t let you.”

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, WITH
Jack in full command of the house, the doorbell rang at about ten minutes before four. “They’re early,” Jack said out loud, though he hadn’t intended to.

“Who?” Amber wanted to know.

“Go and play on my computer,” Jack said.

“Who is at the door?”

“Now! You have to go now! You go and play on my computer now, right now, or you don’t get to play on it at all, and you know what that means?”

“What does it mean?” Amber asked reasonably.

“Get on my computer this minute!”

But Amber instead ran to the dining room at the front of the house and looked out of the window. Jack chased after her. “It’s Richie,” she said casually.

Jack’s hopes crashed. He answered the door, holding it open just a crack.

Richie had a guitar-shaped carrying case in his hand. “Jack,” he said.

“Hello.”

“Dad in?”

“No.”

“Mum in?”

“No.”

“You in?”

Jack didn’t answer.

“I’ve brought this guitar for your sister. It’s a damn sight better than that thing she’s got.”

“Right.”

“Jack, you’re gonna have to open the door just a tiny bit wider.”

“Why?”

“See this guitar I’ve brought over for your sister? I’ll never get this guitar through that little crack without damaging it. If I’m to bring it in at all, that is.”

Jack opened the door and extended an arm, generously offering to relieve Richie of the burden of the guitar. Richie didn’t tender the guitar, however. He looked as though he planned on keeping it for a while longer. Instead he asked where Genevieve was, and Jack told him. Jack shot a glance at the clock in the hall. It was now eight minutes before the scheduled visit.

“Everything all right, Jack?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Tell you what, let me in and I’ll leave a note for your sister about the guitar.”

Jack hovered in the doorway, hearing his spinning plates crashing around him. He looked up the street. He looked down the street. There was no sign of the cat people. Then he stepped aside and let Richie in.

Richie swaggered through to the kitchen as if he owned the place. There he leaned the guitar, in its case, gently against the wall. “It needs careful handling, that one. Keep it away from radiators, tell her. And out of the direct sunlight. Right?”

“Radiators. Sunlight. Check.”

“You been suckin’ a lemon, Jack?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Has he been suckin’ a lemon?” Richie asked Amber.

“Can I go on your computer now, Jack?” Amber asked.

Jack nodded mournfully, and Amber skipped upstairs and out of sight.

“Tell you what. Get the kettle on. Make your uncle Richie a cup of tea. Nice and strong. I’ll stick around till your mum gets back.”

Jack knew he was doomed. He saw no way out. With a mournful but resigned face he filled the electric kettle and took out a mug and a box of teabags. Richie watched him carefully; studying him.

“Quiet type, aincha, Jack?”

“Yeh.”

“Yeh. Nothing wrong with that. Too many people saying too many foolish things, isn’t it, Jack?”

“Yeh.”

“Yeh.” Richie rubbed his chin. “I’d agree with that. Why do you keep looking at the door?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You keep looking at the door as if you’re expecting someone to come through it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Ask me how many sugars I take in my tea, then.”

“How many.”

“Three. And no milk.”

Jack opened the cupboard door, and, so shielded from Richie’s suspicious gaze, he screwed his eyes tightly shut. Then he opened them again, closed the cupboard door, and though he fought against it mightily, some demon inside him made him glance again at the door. This time there was someone there: he could see a figure approaching through the frosted glass. The doorbell rang. Jack stared at the kettle.

“Gonna get that?” Richie asked.

“Yeh.” He didn’t move.

“Like, now, or maybe an hour after they’ve gone?”

Jack blew out his cheeks.

“What’s going on?”

“Would you,” Jack said, “that is, would you just make out like you’re my dad for a couple of minutes?”

“What?”

“It’s just these cat people. Bringing a cat. It’s nothing. It’s just a cat. They need to see the house is okay. You could do that. You can tell ’em the house is okay. You could do that easily.”

“You want me to pretend to be your old man?”

“Just for a minute.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Immoral.”

The kettle billowed steam. Jack blew his cheeks out a second time. The doorbell rang out a second time.

“You get the kettle,” Richie said. “I’ll get the door.”

Jack held his head in his hands as the kettle switched itself off and Richie answered the door. Richie was seen to step outside and Jack heard muffled conversation. Then Richie came in again, with a short, stocky man in a tan leather jacket. The man had a tic; he blinked too frequently.

“I’ll show you round the house,” Richie was saying. “As you can see we have the dogs but they’re highly trained not to catch and skin squirrels. The kids are less well trained—this is Jack, whom I think you’ve met—but we will civilize ’em one day. The kids, that is. Though it’s a losing battle, isn’t it? Got kids of your own? No? Lucky you. You know which side your bread’s buttered. These kids are good with animals; they know the dogs’ names and everything, come and have a look at the garden where we’ll guarantee a steady supply of live rats to keep that cat entertained …” Richie led the visitor outside, keeping up a steady brow-beating monologue.

Jack watched the two men walk out into the garden. Richie was spreading his arms wide, making the visitor laugh. They stood facing each other. When Richie put his hands in his pockets, the man did the same. They stood square on. Richie was still doing all the talking.

After a few minutes they came back into the kitchen. By now they had somehow got on to the subject of music. Richie was smoking the air with the names of blues musicians, and invoking
the titles of obscure albums, all the while leading the visitor through the house and back out through the front door.

Several minutes later, Richie appeared carrying a cardboard box with air holes. He looked at Jack without blinking and handed him the box. “I just had to give that bloke fifty notes.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Jack said.

“You bet you will.”

“I’ve got it in my bedroom.”

Jack lit up the stairs and returned instantly with the cash: five ten-pound notes that for some reason Jack had rolled into straws. Richie took the notes, unrolled them, counted them pointedly, and slipped them into his back pocket. “Where’s my tea?”

“Coming up.”

“Listen, you’re not using the pelts, are you?”

“What?”

“The pelts. Not making gloves out of them or whatever it is you teenagers do. I’ve read about this sort of thing.”

“It’s nothing like that. Honestly.”

“Jesus, lighten up, will you, Jack? It’s a joke!”