Kitten Cupid

by Anna Wilson

  She tried to smile. ‘Hello, Bertie. Perhaps you can talk some sanity into my daughter. Even her father and Aleisha don’t seem to be getting through to her.’

  Jazz was flailing down the hall behind her mum, shouting, ‘It’s just not fair! You don’t understand me! I HATE you!’

  Even for Jazz, this was pretty strong stuff.

  Mrs Brown whirled round on the spot and sucked her teeth harshly. She stood her ground in front of Jazz, towering over her and staring her down. Jazz immediately shrank about ten centimetres.

  ‘I think,’ her mother said in a dangerously cold voice, ‘you had better apologize, young lady,’

  ‘Sorr-eee.’

  ‘Fine. Now go up to your room and turn that appalling racket off. Bertie can go with you. You and I will talk later.’

  Jazz made a point of staring at a mark on the wall to the left of her mum and tried to keep her face set in a defiant expression, but it was clear that she had already lost this particular battle.

  ‘Whatever,’ she said. But very quietly.

  The last thing I wanted was to stay in their house while the atmosphere had the flavour of a war zone about it, but I had gone and got myself invited in now. So there was no getting out of it. In any case, part of me was a bit curious as to what the row had been about.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said as I followed Jazz into her room.

  Jazz turned and scowled at me. ‘Like you care,’ she said.

  ‘Er, like, yes, I so do,’ I said, mimicking her sarcastic tone.

  Jazz pushed open her door and went over to where her iPod was fixed on a massive docking station – a recent present from Sam which Mrs Brown had not been overly pleased about due to the size of the speakers. She whacked the volume up a couple of notches, but swiftly flicked it back down when her mum started yelling again from the hall.

  Jazz flumped on to her beanbag and folded her arms tightly, sticking out her bottom lip in a furious pout.

  ‘So,’ I said, sitting down on the floor opposite her and crossing my legs, ‘you OK? Only, it seems, as you would say, a tad stressy round here today. And what’s with you ignoring my texts?’

  ‘Like I said, do you really care? Seems to me like you and Fergus are so loved-up these days you couldn’t give a stuff about anyone else,’ she snarled.

  ‘Whoa!’ I cried, throwing up my hands in front of my face. Her tone was laced with so much acid, I felt physically stung. ‘For your information, Fergus and I are not “loved-up”, and as for me giving a stuff about anyone else, I could say the same to you!’

  Jazz’s face immediately crumpled and she buried it in her hands. I noted with alarm that her shoulders were shaking.

  ‘Jazz?’ I said sharply, shuffling over to squeeze next to her. I put a tentative arm around her.

  She shrugged me off and shifted slightly away.

  ‘Jazz! I’m sorry I shouted at you, OK? You’re obviously upset. Tell me what’s going on, please?’ I felt panic rising up in me. My best friend never cried.

  She peered through her braided hair, mascara-tears streaking her cheeks. ‘You’ll only say, “I told you so.’”

  I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. ‘Why would I do that?’ Then I stopped short. ‘Oh, Jazz – it’s not the auditions, is it?’

  Jazz hesitated for a split second and then said sullenly, ‘No.’

  I bit my lip. ‘Are you sure? Fergus reckoned . . .’ I stopped myself. Not a good idea to mention Fergus after what she’d just said about us. ‘Well, it must be something pretty important,’ I persisted. ‘You don’t usually shout at your mum quite like that, and I’ve never seen you in such a state.’

  Jazz wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her purple and silver T-shirt and snapped, ‘I’m just not having a ball at the moment, OK? And I don’t really want to talk about it. So can we change the subject?’

  I breathed deeply, forcing myself to think of something that might lighten the mood. Then I remembered Fergus’s plan and I said, ‘Hey! How do you fancy getting involved in some undercover work?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A covert operation to catch a mystery intruder,’ I said, laying on the suspense. I wiggled my eyebrows and twirled a fake moustache as if I were a mad detective.

  Jazz sniggered in spite of herself. ‘You are a nuthead,’ she said. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘First of all, I have to tell you what’s been going on round at my place . . .’ I told Jazz the whole story, just as I had earlier to Fergus. I finished by saying, ‘So you see, that’s why I’ve been pretty distracted. Not because I’m “loved-up”. And in any case, Fergus has been busy too.’ I risked saying his name again, cautiously watching out for any sign of Jazz launching into another tirade. She didn’t react, so I went on, ‘He’s either hanging out with Rashid and the guys in the band, or he’s surrounded by Kezia and her too-cool-for-school mates.’

  Jazz gave a little shiver. That was the worst bit about crying, I thought. Once you’d stopped sobbing you had to go through that cold, shuddery stage when your eyes felt raw and your nose dripped with snot.

  I got up to fetch her a tissue from a box on her desk.

  ‘So what’s this got to do with a “covert thing-ummy”?’ Jazz asked, taking the tissue and blowing her nose.

  ‘Oh, sorry! Yeah, erm, well, Fergus came up with this idea to catch Jaffa’s torturer on camera,’ I said.

  Jazz’s eyes regained some of their usual sparkle as I filled her in. ‘That sounds cool!’ she said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. ‘D’you reckon Fiona will go for it?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I said. ‘Then you can come over and watch the action!’

  Jazz beamed, her sore eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Fab!’

  ‘In the meantime – fancy cracking on with some of that horrendous homework? It’s got to be better doing it together,’ I said.

  Jazz groaned. ‘If we have to,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  I smiled, glad to see my friend behaving a bit more like normal.

  ‘Mates?’ I said.

  ‘Mates,’ she agreed, giving me a hug.

  But somehow I was still feeling uneasy. Jazz was definitely not herself.

  13

  Plan Number Two

  Jazz asked her mum if she could do her homework at my place; unsurprisingly Mrs Brown seemed only too glad to see the back of her stroppy daughter for a couple of hours. While Jazz gathered up her books, I asked her mum if it would be all right for Jazz to stay for a sleepover too.

  ‘Thanks, Bertie,’ she said. ‘That would be great. Anything to put a smile on that girl’s face,’ she added. ‘She’s been nothing but hard work ever since starting the new school. You don’t know if anything’s happened, do you?’

  What was this? First it was Fiona, checking up on Fergus, and now Jazz’s mum was quizzing me about her daughter! Was I the neighbourhood agony aunt or something?

  Taking a deep breath, I explained that I hadn’t seen much of Jazz. ‘We don’t have all our classes together, and the days are so manic,’ I said. ‘And she’s pretty busy with street dance and stuff,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Brown thoughtfully. ‘Well, I just hope you girls don’t drift apart. You’ve been friends for too long,’ she said sadly.

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll always be friends, me and Jazz, don’t you worry.’

  We had a laugh that afternoon. We holed up in my room with our homework scattered all over the floor, put some music on low (to help us concentrate, you understand) and brought a pile of snacks from the kitchen to sustain us. Jaffa was still shut in my room, to be on the safe side, and she padded to and fro the whole time, chattering away to me and distracting me by walking up and down my back, kneading me through the fabric of my T-shirt with her tiny paws. We waded through the science, maths and geography we’d been given, breaking off every so often to gossip about the people in our classes and about how sad most of the teachers were. It almost felt as thou
gh life had got back to normal.

  ‘That Mr Lloyd!’ Jazz shrieked, flapping her hands and jumping up and down in hysterics. ‘He dresses like my grandad! No, he dresses like my grandad’s grandad!’

  ‘Oh boy! And that Miss Stoodge,’ I joined in. ‘What a witch!’

  We had given up on the last bit of work and were rolling around on the floor, tickling Jaffa and singing along to the music we had cranked up on my ancient CD player, when Dad knocked on my door. ‘I can see you two girls are working hard!’ he teased. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’m back. No activity downstairs while I was away?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, but Dad – Fergus thinks he might have come up with a way of catching the culprit!’ I cried.

  Dad tried to look doubtful by crossing his arms. ‘So he reckons he can succeed where others have failed, does he?’ he said dramatically. He was smiling though. ‘I have to say it would be nice to have a quiet evening with no mention of intruders for once. Bex is coming round later with some food – do you want to stay and eat with us, Jazz?’ he added. ‘We haven’t seen much of you lately.’

  Jazz nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘Can Fergus come round too?’ I asked. I put on a pleading expression, wringing my hands, making myself look as desperate as possible. ‘I really want you to hear his plan –’

  Before Dad could answer, there was a ring at the front door. ‘I’ll get that,’ said Dad. Then he fixed me with a mock-stern stare and pointed his finger, saying, ‘And just so we’re clear, I have not said yes to anything yet, Bertie Fletcher!’

  I shrugged and tried to look as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth as he turned to go back downstairs.

  Jazz and I sped out on to the landing and peered over the banisters to see who it was.

  ‘Nigel!’ Fiona’s crystal-clear voice carried up the stairs.

  ‘Ah, hello, Fiona,’ said Dad. ‘And Fergus too! What a surprise,’ he said with an edge of sarcasm, casting his eyes in my direction. ‘Come in, come in.’

  ‘It the prawn-lady!’ Jaffa mewed excitedly. ‘Me want to say hello!’ I scooped her up into my arms and Jazz and I rattled down to the hall.

  Wonders will never cease, as Dad says on the rare occasions that I tidy my room without being asked. But in this case the wonders were in the region of the unbelievably miraculous: Fiona Meerley, the woman whom only months earlier I had been ready to write off as my own worst enemy, had not only agreed to Fergus’s idea, but had also pulled out all the stops and arranged to get the equipment we needed for that very night!

  ‘You know how much I adore the little pusskins,’ she cooed. ‘I’d do anything to stop her being bullied in this beastly way.’ She bent down to stroke my kitten’s soft orangey fur while making the sort of kissy-wissy sounds that frankly turned my stomach.

  Fergus, Jazz and I exchanged smirks while Jaffa lapped up the attention, purring noisily. She closed her eyes in a satisfied expression that made it look as if she was smiling. ‘Me is pretty adorable,’ she admitted.

  ‘So, about this plan of yours. Run me through the details?’ Dad said as he poured coffee into mugs and went to the fridge for milk.

  Fiona cleared her throat and said, ‘A covert surveillance operation.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Dad turned to face her, the milk carton in one hand, his face creased in puzzlement.

  ‘It’s like in those films—’ Fergus began, but Fiona interrupted him.

  ‘Surveillance,’ she repeated. ‘Mark my words, we will catch this intruder red-handed – or should I say red-pawed! Ha!’ She let out a short sharp bark of a laugh. It was the first time I had ever heard her laugh, or make an attempt at humour, for that matter. As laughs go, it was pretty scary.

  Fergus grimaced.

  Dad gave a nervous snigger. ‘The thing is, Fiona, the whatever-it-is comes when no one else is around, so surely if we piled into the utility room waiting for it, it would know we were there and stay away.’

  ‘Aaah, that’s where a bit of creative thinking comes in, Nigel,’ Fiona said in crisp and efficient tones. ‘Thanks to my job, I have considerable experience in catching people unawares – on camera.’ She paused for effect, leaning back against the kitchen worktop and cradling her steaming mug of coffee.

  ‘Oh. My. Goodness!’ squealed Jazz. ‘You really are going to bring, like, a totally live camera crew into this house?’

  Fiona arched one eyebrow. ‘Not an entire crew, Jasmeena, no,’ she said condescendingly. ‘It would be a little . . . cramped. One man should do the job.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Dad doubtfully. ‘So you can rig up something to record any activity in the utility room and—’

  ‘—catch the culprit on film. Absolutely. Then we’ll know exactly what we are dealing with and we’ll be able to go from there,’ Fiona finished.

  Typical Fiona, I thought, stealing the limelight. This had been Fergus’s idea, but she was doing all the talking. I stole a glance at him, but he simply shrugged. Fiona did have a way of getting things to turn out just the way she wanted, I supposed, and if it meant we could put an end to Jaffa being bullied, then I was prepared to let her get away with it.

  ‘I’ve already taken the liberty of checking I can get everything we need from work,’ Fiona was saying. ‘We have night-vision cameras, microphones, you name it. And I can get one of the technicians to come and set it up. I’m on extremely good terms with a chap who works on the Naturewatch series – they’re always doing this kind of thing when they want to film animals in their natural habitat without disturbing them.’

  Jazz started bouncing up and down on the spot, looking a whole lot like her younger brother, I thought. ‘A telly guy! Here!’ she kept saying, clapping her hands.

  ‘Genius,’ said Dad. He seemed at a loss for words.

  Fiona nodded curtly. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘So we’ll come round in an hour. Nev said he should be free by then. It just so happens he was already filming in the area.’

  ‘Nev? In an hour?’ Dad repeated, looking pretty shell-shocked. He blinked and took his glasses off to clean them on the edge of his shirt. Then, finding his voice again, he mumbled, ‘Er, I’m not sure we can do this tonight actually, Fiona. You see, my f-friend is coming round and—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Fiona, waving a dismissive hand.

  Dad blew his cheeks out and shrugged, a look of complete surrender on his face.

  ‘Fine,’ he said eventually. ‘Whatever. See you in an hour. With Nev,’ he added. Then he looked at me as if to say, ‘What on earth am I letting myself in for?’

  14

  Lights, Camera, Action!

  Fiona and Fergus returned as promised an hour later. Bex had arrived by then as well, and was engaged in a heated debate with Jazz over the takeaway she had brought with her. (According to Jazz, takeaway is not takeaway unless you get to go to the place yourself, see the menu with your own eyes and choose it in person. She was not impressed that Bex had made the selection without consulting her.)

  I couldn’t help smiling to myself as Bex tried in vain to explain that she hadn’t known Jazz was eating with us. I knew Jazz was being rude, but there was something reassuring about seeing my friend being her usual confident self.

  ‘You so cannot have a curry without poppadoms!’ Jazz said, her face contorted in outrage.

  ‘OK, so next time I’ll get poppadoms,’ said Bex wearily.

  ‘And you’ve not got that rank naan bread with raisins in? Urgh!’ Jazz went on.

  I left them battling it out and went to open the door. Fergus and Fiona were in the middle of an animated conversation with a man dressed in baggy combat trousers and an outsized brown jumper with frayed sleeves and holes in the elbows.

  ‘Hi,’ I said shyly.

  Fiona looked up. ‘Ah, Bertie. This is Nev Greenshield. From the Naturewatch team.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Nev. He was so tall I was worried I might get a stiff neck from looking up at him. He was really
skinny too: all arms and legs like a daddy-long-legs. Maybe he wore such baggy clothes to hide how thin he was. He smiled warmly. I was going to like Nev, I decided. He seemed like a real gentle giant.

  ‘Come in,’ I said, stepping aside. ‘I’ll get Dad.’

  Nev had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the door frame. Fiona followed him and I stood there, waiting.

  Fiona looked puzzled. ‘You can shut the door now, Bertie. It’s just us.’

  ‘Oh, I, er . . . I thought you might want to bring all the equipment in,’ I said, glancing out to see if they’d left any bags on the path.

  Nev held up a black bag a bit like a bulky laptop case. ‘All in here,’ he said.

  Jazz had joined us, still muttering about Bex having ‘no idea’ how to order a takeaway. She took one look at Nev and his little black bag and said, ‘Is that it?’

  I had to admit, it didn’t look very impressive.

  Fiona let out a tinkling laugh. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, dear. Nev knows what he’s doing, I can assure you.’

  Jazz curled her lip in disgust. ‘Sure,’ she said, hands on hips.

  Fergus rolled his eyes. ‘Jazz, she’s right. Nev does know what he’s doing.’

  ‘This is all I normally use in the field,’ Nev explained, thankfully unfazed by Jazz. ‘I’ll unpack and talk you through it, shall I?’

  Dad finally emerged. ‘Ah! You must be Nev – pleasure to meet you. I’m Nigel.’ He beamed and held out his hand. Nev took it and pumped it up and down energetically. ‘Come through into the kitchen. We’re just sorting out some supper. There’s plenty for everyone.’

  We followed Dad into the kitchen, where Bex was laying out foil dishes of steaming food. She looked rather alarmed at the number of people who were crowding into the room, but did a quick headcount and went to get plates. Fergus and I busied ourselves sorting out drinks while Jazz pestered Nev with questions about life as a cameraman. Fiona finished off most of Nev’s sentences for him. Poor guy, I thought, looking over at him. Working with Fiona must be even worse than working with that bonkers bird-watching guy on the telly, the one with the beard as big as a golden eagle’s nest and the temper like a wasps’ nest.