Big Cats and Kitten Heels

by Claire Peate

  Louisa nodded. “Yes, but it still does the job. Well done you!” She patted a sceptical Laura on the back. “I’ll keep it forever. It will remind me how crazy this weekend was. Really, it’s great.”

  “Hmm.” Laura took a swig of wine and put the pen back in her tool belt.

  “So how many policemen did you actually invite?” I asked Louisa.

  “God knows. Enough for us all. Anyway, seeing as you’re so pally pally with Gwyn, I task you with inviting him round tonight to my party.”

  “I’m not pally pally with him,” I said, delighted that she thought so but not wanting to show it.

  “Whatever, but remember that he’s mine tonight. What time is it? Shit!” She bounded upstairs and Laura headed into the kitchen.

  Henna watched them disappear and then putting her wine glass down whispered, “Help me with this, will you?” and grabbed the gong. Together we walked it to a hidden cupboard under a turn in the staircase. “I never want to hear this bloody gong again,” she said as we heaved it into its hiding place.

  “If she finds it she’ll know it’s you that hid it,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, well. No one will notice another bruise if she nuts me again, will they?”

  She wandered off and I headed into the lounge on my own.

  So: good news about me having the opportunity to invite Gwyn to the party. But how? There was no way I was going to drive now I’d had half a goblet of wine. And there was no way I was prepared to pay him a house-call and walk up the road on my own in the early evening. Not when police marksmen had been out and about hunting big game in the undergrowth.

  All that was left was to phone him.

  Presuming that he had a phone of course. Of course he did! He had a mobile because the first time I met him he told me he’d gone out without his mobile, and that was why he wanted to use our phone. But how would I get hold of his mobile number? Impossible. Surely it was easier to get his landline number? If he had one.

  Was the village even on the national phone network?

  And was there even one of those?

  After digging around in an enormous old walnut bureau in the sitting room, I found a battered telephone directory – or Y Llyfry Ffon as it was in Welsh – and at that point I realised that I didn’t know his surname. Had he told me that night at the Hen House? I think he had – it was Thomas or Jones or something. But I couldn’t be sure. Stumped, I leafed through the directory.

  HOW many Joneses? There were seven pages of them and it was no better with Thomases – six pages. And that wasn’t including Tomoses and Tomases.

  I would never find him.

  I put Y Llyfry Ffon back in the cabinet and sat down on the sofa to think it through.

  Ha! I could probably get his number from the local pub. Digging out the book again I managed to locate the Crossed Keys, Tretower, and feeling nervous for no good reason I dialled the number.

  “Crossed Keys.”

  “Oh hi. Yes. Hi. It’s Rachel here.”

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes. From the Hen House. I mean Ty Mawr. Just down the road from the pub. You know…”

  “I know.” I could hear the smile as she spoke to me. It was Angharad, the barwoman, I recognised her voice.

  There was a pause and I knew that it was now that I should ask her for Gwyn’s number, but I was too embarrassed to do it. I sank back into the huge soft sofa and pulled my feet up. I felt like I was at school again and a page in my exercise book scrawled with “I love Matt Dickinson” had just been discovered by Matt Dickinson. This was ridiculous. Taking a deep breath, I tried to sound as matter of fact about the whole thing as I could. After all, I was thirty and had a career and an apartment and a car. I wasn’t fifteen any more. I could do this. I would try to sound, in fact, as though I needed to get in touch with Gwyn on some very important farming issues and not because I fancied the arse off him and wanted to invite him to a party tonight.

  “Yes, I was actually after Gwynfor’s phone number.”

  “Oh were you now?” she laughed.

  “Mmm, yes,” I managed. Oh come on! I could do better than this. I knew all sorts of secrets about her, there was no reason why I should feel at all embarrassed about what I was asking. I knew all about Tomos and Elijah and broken engagements and family feuds. Why should I feel ashamed of her thinking I fancied a handsome farmer?

  “You like him, then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Gwynfor. Nice looking, isn’t he?”

  “Well, I suppose so. If you like that sort of thing. Anyway, I was just after his number because … because I think another one of his sheep beside the house might be wounded.”

  Ha ha! With lightening mental ability I had put myself on the moral high ground.

  “I thought he’d moved all his sheep up by Tenter Field this morning?”

  Shit.

  “Well anyway, my love, I’ve got his number here if you want it. Do you have a pen?”

  I grabbed a pencil and wrote down the number.

  “Will we see you up at the Crossed Keys again before you all go home?”

  “I’m not sure what we’re doing.” I idly scribbled hearts around Gwyn’s number.

  “Careful as you go. I’m not so sure that cat thing is a hoax after all. I’d keep inside tonight if you can.”

  The tip of my pencil broke against the paper.

  “Right. Well. Thanks for that.”

  As soon as she’d rung off, I punched in Gwyn’s number. I was already wracked with shame so why wait until I calmed down? Better to immerse myself in it now and get it over and done with. Then I could look forward to seeing him tonight, perhaps with loose jeans on and a white shirt thrown over his rugged, sun-tanned, farmer’s body…

  There was no answer. Damn. And after hanging on for a good minute or two it appeared that there was no way to leave a message either. Hadn’t he heard of answering machines? I put the phone down, images of the handsome farmer receding fast. I went up to her bedroom and broke the news to Louisa.

  Hair in rollers and face-pack on, she was propped up on her vast bed flicking through a magazine. “Oh bloody hell, Rachel, how am I going to shag him if he isn’t here?”

  “Yes, I see your problem.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “How many times have you tried?”

  “Five.” What a natural liar.

  “Well, keep trying. He really is the absolute icing on the cake, you know.”

  “I know.”

  She looked up from her magazine briefly. “You’re not carrying a torch for him?”

  “Oh crikey no,” I said, all wide-eyed surprise.

  “Listen.” She put her magazine down and shuffled across the bed towards me. It took a while as the bed was so incredibly large. “There are going to be lots of single young marksmen coming round tonight.”

  “With guns?”

  “Probably without their guns. And you can have your pick, can’t you? I mean, Henna’s … well, she’s got toxin issues. And Laura’s an absolute love but she’s not a patch on you. You’ll be the belle of the ball. After me, that is. But of course, I’ll be with Gwyn…”

  “Really? I’ll be the belle of the ball?”

  “Of course you will!” She gave me a hug and a shoulder of clay face mask. “Ooh sorry hon, you’ve got some face mask on your shoulder now. Anyway, you should really have a bit more confidence in yourself you know. Go out there and get ‘em.”

  I laughed. “Yes, but what if they’re all complete muppets?”

  “So?” She shrugged. “It’s a hen do! Go for it!”

  “I thought you were going to be focusing on your last weekend with girlfriends? I thought it was all about friendship and so on?” I smiled.

  “It is! It’s all about friendship. And sleeping with Gwyn. Hey, you haven’t got any condoms on you, have you?”

  “Lou!”

  “OK, don’t get all prudish. I’ll ask
Henna, she’ll have some. Right, go and try Gwyn again. I have to peel this mask off. Jesus, I hope I don’t end up as mutilated as Henna.”

  21

  Even though none of us had an appetite, we all dutifully sat down and went through the motions of eating. Half way through, forcing ourselves to eat the pudding, Louisa’s phone went. She checked the display. “It’s James again,” she said. The tension in the room was palpable. Which way would this phone call go? “Hi hon!” The breezy voice was switched on. “How are you doing? How was hiking?”

  There was a period of “ooh yes” and “ooh right” while James must have rattled on about what they had been up to that day. Louisa was drumming her fingers on the table, waiting for the opportune moment.

  “So what are you doing this evening?” She asked the question lightly enough, but all of us around the table tensed up immediately. Spoons were clutched that bit tighter. This was it – make or break. She would either come away from the phone call safe and secure in the knowledge that her husband-to-be was a thoroughly decent chap who didn’t dabble in any nonsense with local girls. Or, she’d realise she had some catching up to do and there were a group of policemen on their way to the party tonight with absolutely no idea of what they were letting themselves in for.

  What would James say – that they were taking another trip to the local pub? Going on to a club? Louisa carried on drumming her fingers on the table while she listened to him.

  “Oh, you’re staying in the bed and breakfast tonight?” She looked round the table at us and we all did a tentative thumbs up. “Yes, I suppose you must be tired. What are you going to do then? Oh yes? And the owner is OK with you bringing drinks in then, is he? Well, that’s good, I suppose. Are there any other people joining you? No? Just the other stag weekenders. OK. Are there other people staying in the bed and breakfast while you’re there? That’s fortunate! Us? Oh we’re just having a do here at the house. No, nothing fancy. Bit of a party, you know, get some music on, have a dance … No! No absolutely not!” She slapped her hand down on the table and Henna and I jumped. Was this the point that it all started to go wrong again? Was this when the shouting started?

  ‘What?’ mouthed Laura to Louisa, shrugging her shoulders. Louisa covered the mouthpiece and hissed, “James just suggested the boys come over tonight for the party!”

  There was much frantic head-shaking around the table and horrified faces. No one wanted the boys over here. After what Louisa had told us about them and from the one or two that I’d met when I’d lived in London, they were a dodgy group of lads at the best of times – not helped by the fact that some of them went by the names of Dingo, Jerky, Spanner, Howie and Radder. I mean, what kind of idiots go by those nicknames after the age of twelve? Except gangster pop stars but even then…

  Louisa was putting forward a very convincing argument on the phone, determined to have her evening free to bag a policeman or farmer. A fiancé turning up at the door would definitely scupper those plans. Egged on by Laura, who similarly wasn’t overly keen on seeing any of the layabout lads take over her weekend, she started by telling James that we were going to be watching Pretty Woman, then play some CDs with titles like All Woman and Classic Love Anthems while we conducted a beauty session to swap make-up tips.

  It worked. And to be honest, it would have worked on me too had I been told that was the evening’s activities. I’ve never been one of those “I’ll crimp your hair if you crimp mine” girls.

  It was clear by Louisa’s tone of voice that James had been convinced he shouldn’t come and within a minute or so she gave us the thumbs-up and we were relieved that the party was still very much our party and the lads would not be coming over here and taking it over as lads are wont to do – commandeering the stereo and the drinks table – the very heart and soul of a good bash. Much better to have the women in charge and the men as “polite guests”. Policemen would be much better behaved than the stag boys. Would they be in uniform?

  “So the stag boys are staying in the bed and breakfast tonight then?” asked Henna when Louisa came off the phone.

  “Yup. So they say, anyway,” she added, warily.

  “Do you think they’ve got other plans?” I asked, spooning in great mouthfuls of gateau.

  “No. I don’t think so. Well, they might have but I believe James. Apparently there’s a resident’s lounge so they’re going to sit in that, watch videos and drink. There aren’t any other guests staying so they’re not going to disturb anyone.” She picked at her pudding, moving it around the bowl with her spoon without the least interest in eating it.

  Laura watched her closely. “Louisa, you don’t feel bad, do you?”

  “Why should I feel bad?”

  “For not inviting the boys over here for a party?”

  Louisa sighed. “I guess so,” she said eventually, “I don’t know. You know? Maybe James didn’t get up to anything last night, and maybe it was really terrible of me to think that he did. After all we are getting married in a few weeks and it’s not as if he’s that kind of a man. Maybe it’s a bad idea inviting all those policemen over…”

  Henna coughed pointedly. “Excuse me,” she said, “but if you don’t want them then there are plenty who do,” and I seconded her by raising my spoon in solidarity.

  “Honestly,” said Laura, appalled, “it’s like we’ve gone back to the Stone Age!”

  “So some handsome policeman starts talking to you and you won’t be at all interested?” Henna asked her.

  “How do you know they’re handsome?” Laura asked back.

  “Urgh!” Louisa threw down her spoon. “Come on, girls. Let’s stop talking and get ready.”

  “Except for Henna who is on washing-up duty,” interrupted Laura briskly.

  “I am what?”

  “You can see the rota, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can see your bloody rota. But surely you’re not going to get me to do the washing-up right now?”

  “I’m not going to get you to do anything. Hopefully you’ll just do it.”

  “But there’ll be lots of mess from the party. Why bother about a bit of washing-up now. We can do the lot tomorrow. Think of all the glasses…”

  “Actually,” added Louisa, “I don’t think I want plates of old chicken in the kitchen at the party. It’s a bit shoddy”.

  “It’s so unfair,” wailed Henna, getting up from the table and stacking the empty bowls noisily, “I need more time to get ready than any of you. Look at my toxins! They’re disgusting. I need hours in front of a mirror to cover this lot up.” Louisa just raised her eyebrows, unimpressed, and took the cutlery out to the kitchen.

  I offered to help Henna with the washing because, really, she was quite right, the girl needed the most time to get herself ready. The spots had become even more horrific – more like weeping sores than regular red blemishes. The bruise from Laura had spread down to near her eyebrows and she really was looking quite awful. Poor Henna.

  I did come to regret offering to help, though. Laura had decided to “busy herself” with something that involved being in the kitchen at the same time as Henna and I, and the two of them bickered like an old married couple.

  “It’s just completely un-bloody-fair,” moaned Henna through gritted teeth as Laura walked out of the kitchen for a second. “No one is going to worry about dirty plates in the kitchen when there’s a party. It’s bloody stupid!”

  “It won’t take long.” I took another plate from her and dried it up.

  Henna scooped up a mass of cutlery and pushed them into the sink. “Fuck!” she said as a knife fell on the floor blade first.

  “More haste less speed.” Laura reappeared and put some papers in a drawer and took some other papers out. “Henna, that plate you gave Rachel is still dirty.”

  “So what, Laura? We won’t use it again so it’s someone else’s problem. Put it at the back of the cupboard, Rachel. No, not in the bowl, Laura – no I’m not bloody washing it up again. Laura! Come on!
I want to have a shower and we’ve still got all that to do over there…”

  “Whinging isn’t going to get it done quicker, Henna.”

  “You just don’t understand! Your face is smooth! Sod that stupid bloody mud treatment. I’m going to sue.”

  “Whatever you decide to do, Henna, that bowl still isn’t clean.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, give it here then!”

  “Come on you two,” I said, standing in between them in case crockery started to fly. “Laura, Henna really needs to have time to get ready. Can you clear away the table for us – that would save time? Come on, we’ve all got to pull together now Cathy’s gone. Please?”

  “It’s not what it says on the rota,” muttered Laura, crossing her arms, “but I suppose I can spare a minute from my filing.”

  Filing what??

  Laura walked out of the kitchen, mumbling.

  Henna gave me a soap-suddy high-five and attacked the plates with renewed vigour. “Thanks, Rach, you’re a real pal. I think you’d make a much better organiser than Lieutenant Killjoy over there. And anyway, you’re practically in charge of the weekend, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes! You sorted out the farmer for us, and you kept your head better than any of us when Heath came calling.”

  “Thanks, Henna,” I said, delighted to be praised, but a bit sad all the same, “but does it mean that I’m just a boring person who doesn’t get hammered on a hen weekend?”

  “No!” She slapped me on the back with a soapy hand. “Anyway, you got hammered as I remember. It was just earlier than the rest of us when you were ‘cooking’.”

  “I guess so.”

  Laura came back in, frowning. “Henna, Rachel, have either of you seen the gong? I can’t find it anywhere.”

  22

  I started to get myself ready, washing my hair before setting it in the giant rollers I’d snaffled from Louisa’s room. I’d never used rollers before so it was a bit of a gamble, but when I loosened them free and combed my hair, it shone and curled down over my shoulders and made me feel, in that remote Welsh valley for one night only, a little bit like a film star. I would definitely be picking up rollers when I got back to town tomorrow.