‘You think I should stop trying to help?’
‘I think you need to stop interfering.’
Cat glared at him, but she felt a coldness that was nothing to do with after-sun. Was that really how she was seen by everyone? It was true that dog walking was allowing her to meet lots of new people and, due to the nature of looking after their pets, find out about them. But interfering? She knew she’d done that to a certain extent when she’d thought Jessica and Mark were together, but she hadn’t gone too far, and things had turned out all right in the end.
More than all right. She gave a little shudder when she thought of the kiss.
‘Are you OK?’ Polly asked. ‘I’m nearly done.’
Mark hadn’t been in touch much since then, and their few text conversations had been fleeting. He was busy working on amendments to his script, popping backwards and forwards to London but, the last couple of occasions, taking Chips with him, so she couldn’t even spend time with his dog.
Joe sat on the sofa and started demolishing a cheese toastie.
‘I thought we could eat at the pub.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I can’t come. I’m behind on a commission, got to spend the evening doodling away.’
‘Something fun?’ Cat asked. She wasn’t going to make a thing of what Joe had said. If that’s what he thought, then she’d just have to let him think it and move on.
‘A new logo for a shoe shop in Fairhaven. It’s a good job, but not the most creatively challenging.’
‘Nothing…more cartoony?’ Cat thought back to her conversation with Phil at the Pooches’ Picnic. She wondered if he’d contacted Joe.
‘Nope,’ Joe mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘No such luck.’
Cat shrugged, then winced as her tight skin cracked. The doorbell chose that moment to trill through the living room, and Polly went to answer it.
Joe kept his gaze on Cat, and she looked at her knee, picking a bit of hair off it. Ginger hair. She wondered how Shed was coping with the hot weather, thought of him trotting along Mark’s wall, looking very unlike the solid, immovable lump she knew, but then Polly led Frankie into the living room and all thoughts of the cat disappeared.
‘Frankie, what’s wrong?’ Cat stood and put her hand on Frankie’s arm. She was wearing black trousers and a black T-shirt with Spatz written in red, but her face was pink and puffy, her long hair loose, some strands sticking to her mascara-streaked cheeks. ‘Sit down. Do you want a drink?’
Frankie shook her head, sniffed loudly and perched on the edge of the sofa Joe was sitting on. She glanced at him and Joe raised a hand in greeting. ‘I-I can’t stay long,’ she said, ‘I’ve left Lizzie with the others, and I need to get back. But I—’ She inhaled, closed her eyes, then seemed to give her whole body a shake. She opened her eyes and sat up straight. ‘I got fired today,’ she said. ‘They wanted me to give the top back, but I told them I wasn’t walking home in my bra.’
‘Oh God,’ Polly said. ‘I’m so sorry, Frankie.’
‘What happened?’ Cat asked. ‘What did they do?’
‘Henry wasn’t well this morning, so I took him to the doctor’s. I called work, told them I’d be late and why, and they said if I was late then I shouldn’t bother turning up. I thought they were joking.’
‘How can they fire you because your son was ill? Is he OK now?’
Frankie nodded. ‘He’s got a virus. It should clear up in a couple of days. But I’m not going to ignore my kids when they’re ill or they need something. The reason I’m doing this job is so that I can look after them. It’s just bullshit.’
Polly seemed taken aback by the expletive, but Cat was pleased Frankie was angry – angry was productive, misery was not.
‘Right then,’ she said, ‘so what are you going to do? Get a new job? Ask for your old one back?’
‘I’m never going back there, not for a million quid. I’ll get a new job, but…but I was thinking about what you said. A few weeks ago.’
Polly and Cat exchanged a glance. Polly drummed her fingers against her lips. ‘About the attic?’
Frankie nodded. ‘It’s not doing anything, sitting up there full of junk. I think we could cope with a lodger, as long as – as long as they could cope with us.’
‘You’re a lovely family,’ Polly said softly. ‘If they understand your life’s always going to be a bit hectic, then I’m sure you’ll find someone.’
‘And who wouldn’t want to live on Primrose Terrace?’ Cat raised her hands up to the ceiling. ‘In this house alone you can have all your dog walking, pet rescuing and scribbling needs sorted.’
Frankie frowned, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. She brushed hair out of her eyes. ‘Scribbling?’
‘I’m an illustrator,’ Joe said, finishing his sandwich.
‘Do you do kids’ books?’
He shook his head. ‘Branding, websites, logos. That sort of thing.’
‘He was going to do me a dog cartoon for the Pooch Promenade logo,’ Cat explained to Frankie.
‘I’ve started it,’ Joe sighed. ‘I’m just tied up with paid work at the moment.’
‘You know I’ll pay you – you said you didn’t want me to.’
‘I don’t. I’ll do your cartoon next, and for free, but I need to get this commission finished. When have I said no to you before, Cat?’
‘I can think of one or two occasions.’
Frankie looked between them and raised an eyebrow. ‘God, how long have you two been married?’ She sniffed loudly, then smiled.
Polly laughed. ‘See what I have to put up with?’
‘So this room then,’ Cat said quickly. ‘When shall we get started?’
It was a bright, sunny day, Cat was sure, somewhere beyond this landing, with its full washing basket containing a pile of colourful clothes and a small cocker spaniel. The room behind them, door ajar, was a pink palace: pink bedding, candy-floss walls, pink curtains that were still closed and turning the light a deep fuchsia colour.
Henry was asleep in the pram downstairs; Frankie hadn’t wanted to wake him after dropping Emma off at nursery. She was standing with Polly and Cat, looking up at the narrow flight of stairs that led to the closed attic door. At least whoever had done the conversion had fitted a proper staircase – Cat had had visions of lugging a load of boxes down, and then furniture up, a wooden stepladder.
‘So this is it,’ Polly said.
‘This,’ Frankie said, sighing, ‘is it. Sure you want to help with this?’
Cat folded her arms and nodded. ‘Of course.’ It wasn’t only dark on the landing, it was stuffy, and she could feel beads of sweat pooling at the waistband of her shorts. Her sunburn had begun to fade, and peel, and start to itch. ‘We came up with the idea, and we’re going to see it through.’
‘All right,’ Frankie said. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She gave them a grim smile and climbed the stairs. Olaf hopped out of the washing basket and followed her up, his claws ticking on the wooden steps.
Frankie opened the door and dust escaped, dancing below the ceiling light. ‘Oh my God!’ She closed the door.
Olaf barked.
‘What?’ Polly asked, panic at the edge of her voice. ‘What is it?’
‘Dead body?’ Cat asked. ‘Family of rats, mice, sparrows?’
Frankie stared at them, her mouth open.
‘Have you realized you’ve already got a lodger, just one you didn’t know about?’ Cat climbed the stairs and slid past Frankie, opening the door. Olaf stood just inside, his tail wagging.
‘Oh,’ Cat said, when she saw the challenge they were faced with. ‘OK. I see what you mean.’
‘What is it?’ Polly asked. ‘I’m about to die of suspense here.’
‘It’s…a treasure trove.’
‘It’s a crap hole,’ Frankie corrected.
‘Everyone has a different perspective, don’t they?’
From where Cat was standing, she could see boxes and bo
xes, some open, some closed, stacked almost up to the angled ceiling. There were crates with books in, an old standard lamp with the wiring spilling out, a clutch of broken umbrellas and what looked like a miniature totem pole. The air was thick with dust. It crept into Cat’s nose and mouth and eyes, making her blink. Olaf barked, skittered a bit and then sneezed. Cat picked him up and he buried his warm nose under her chin.
Polly joined them on the tiny landing and gasped.
‘So,’ Frankie said. ‘What happens now?’
‘Now,’ Cat said, ‘we start searching for treasure. Can Olaf help?’
Frankie grinned. ‘I think Olaf would be pretty upset if we didn’t let him.’
‘Right then, what’s in box number one?’
They worked until it was time for Frankie to pick Lizzie and Emma up. The girls were chatty and excited after their days at school and nursery, and their excitement grew at the boxes piled up in the living room. There were newborn baby clothes and toys, knick-knacks from Frankie’s mum’s house, candlesticks and tea-light holders of all shapes and sizes. Frankie, Polly and Cat had been putting things into piles – things to sell, things to keep, things for the charity shop and the tip.
‘If there’s enough,’ Polly said, ‘you could do a car boot sale. Some of these art deco holders would be snapped up.’
‘And even broken things,’ Cat added, hefting a box of spare towels down the stairs. ‘People at car boots are vultures. If they see something they think they can fix and sell on for a pound more than they bought it for, they’ll go for it.’
‘Or sell it on eBay. That’s a huge business now.’
‘I considered being an eBay seller,’ Cat said, ‘very briefly, when I lost my job.’
‘What were you going to sell?’ asked Lizzie. She was rifling through a box of Christmas decorations.
Cat shrugged. ‘I hadn’t got that far. Thought I might slowly go round our house and take things I thought Polly and Joe wouldn’t miss.’
‘Hey,’ Polly said, laughing. ‘Our house is pretty minimalist.’
‘Yes, apart from the foxes.’
‘Foxes?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I have a thing about foxes,’ Polly admitted. ‘I’ve collected them since my mum bought me a cuddly one.’ She smiled and looked away. Cat knew that Polly found it hard to talk about her mum, who had walked out when she and Joe were still small. ‘Now I have ornaments and pictures, a hot-water bottle…’
‘Curtains?’ Emma asked. ‘I have pretty curtains.’
‘You have Disney everything,’ Lizzie said.
‘I don’t have curtains,’ Polly said, ‘but that is a good idea.’
‘Where would you get fox curtains from?’ Cat wiped her forearm across her grubby forehead. ‘And more importantly, why would you want to?’
Polly ignored her. ‘Have you seen the fox that lives round here? I mean, there must be a few, but there’s a really glossy one that’s often about.’
Lizzie and Emma shook their heads, Emma’s eyes wide.
Frankie brought in a jug of iced squash and five glasses. ‘I’ve seen it on my way back from the restaurant, trotting down the street after dark, sniffing in bins. It doesn’t look hungry.’
‘I-is it big?’ Emma whispered.
‘Quite big,’ Frankie admitted, running her hand over Emma’s long hair, ‘but there’s nothing to be scared of. If anything, Mr Fox is a scaredy-cat. He wouldn’t come near us.’
‘W-what about Olaf? Will he eat him?’
Frankie crouched in front of her daughter. ‘No, my poppet, Olaf is safe with us, and with Cat and Polly. Mr Fox wouldn’t be interested in him, and even if he was, we’d look after him, wouldn’t we?’
‘Of course!’ Lizzie said brightly. ‘And Olaf wouldn’t go near him. He’s more interested in shoes. Look.’ She pointed, and they all turned to see Olaf sitting in a box of old wellies and walking boots, chewing happily.
‘Oh God, Olaf.’ Frankie lifted him out, and a red-and-white spotty wellie came with him. Frankie set him on the ground and he stuck his head inside the boot, his tail wagging madly.
Cat laughed, took out her iPhone and snapped a photo. ‘That is one cute spaniel you’ve got there. And entirely safe from foxes.’
‘Foxes are just like dogs anyway,’ Polly said. ‘They’re from the same family. The main difference is they’re wild, whereas all the dogs we know are tame.’
‘Olaf doesn’t look like a fox,’ Emma said.
‘Which dog is most like a fox?’ Lizzie asked.
Cat sat cross-legged on the floor, and thought of all the dog breeds she’d come across.
‘There’s a dog called a spitz,’ Polly said. ‘They have thick fur because they come from where it’s really cold, and mostly they’re white, like Arctic foxes, but some are like a red fox.’
‘It sounds like Mum’s job,’ Emma said, ‘and we hate them now.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Frankie said, ‘Spatz. Well done, Ems.’
‘There’s a papillon,’ Cat said. ‘I met one at our picnic, the same day I met you. They’re really small, smaller than Olaf, with a much pointier face, and big ears. The one I saw was called Paris. I’ll see if I can introduce you to her.’ She had asked Elsie about Captain after their picnic, and Elsie had shrugged him off as just a friend, but Cat had noticed the way the older woman became suddenly fidgety, pouring more tea and rearranging the sofa cushions.
‘Should we get back to it?’ Polly asked. She downed her squash and stood up, brushing dust off her shorts. ‘That room’s not going to clear itself.’
‘Can we help?’ Emma asked.
‘As long as you’re careful,’ Frankie said. ‘No carrying anything down the stairs, and if you don’t know what something is, ask me before you pick it up. Understood?’
‘Yes!’ both girls squealed. Cat drained her drink and followed Olaf back up the stairs. She’d surprised herself by enjoying the clear-out so far, despite the heat and the dust, but she was still holding out for a secret stash of gold or a valuable antique vase. That way Frankie wouldn’t even have to rent the room out, but could refurbish the whole house exactly as she pleased, give up the idea of having to find a new job, and spend all her time with her kids, watching them grow up.
‘What I need now,’ Polly said, as they dawdled up Primrose Terrace towards their own house, ‘is a long hot shower and a huge glass of cold white wine.’ ‘Or pink wine.’
‘Or pink fizzy wine.’
‘Mmmmmm.’
‘It makes a change from revision though,’ Polly added. ‘I needed a break.’
It was still warm outside, the sky slowly turning the colour of peach juice, but compared to the stuffiness of Frankie’s attic room it felt cool and delicious. Primrose Terrace was basking in its summer glory. The primroses had faded now, but the grass was a lush green, the windows of the elegantly curved houses reflecting the glowing, lowering sun.
‘Would you have a spitz?’ Cat asked. ‘If you could have any dog?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it. I’d like a large dog, an Alsatian or a Weimaraner. God, I’d love a husky or a St Bernard, but I think you need to live on a farm to do them justice. They need so much space and I don’t think our place quite cuts it. What about you?’
‘I’d love any dog,’ Cat said, ‘except maybe a chihuahua.’
‘You don’t want a handbag dog?’
‘I’m worried I’d lose it, under the bed or in the dishwasher. Also, I think I’ve had enough of dogs in handbags for the time being.’
Polly laughed. ‘Fair point.’ She unlocked the door to the sound of swearing, and Shed shot out between her legs, faster than Cat had ever seen him run, and then assumed a casual stroll as he made his way up the terrace.
‘Joe?’ Polly called. ‘What’s wrong?’
Joe was standing at the dining table, pressing his palm over his left forearm. A Budweiser bottle lay on its side, bubbly liquid seeping into pieces of paper that were fanned out on the
table. ‘Sodding bloody cat. He jumped up here and scratched the fuck out of me.’
‘Let me see,’ Polly said. At first he shrugged away, but Polly took hold of his arm and prised his hand away from the wound.
Cat peered over her shoulder. ‘Ouch, that looks nasty.’
‘It’s quite deep, Joey. Have you washed it?’
Joe shook his head. Polly had assumed her authoritative tone, and Joe looked so crestfallen, his head cast down, that Cat wanted to reach out and ruffle his mess of blond hair.
‘Come on then,’ Polly said. ‘It’s going to sting, but you need to clean it out or it could get infected. You might even need a tetanus shot.’
‘I don’t think it’s that bad.’
‘You don’t know what that cat’s been scratching. Trees or carpets or—’
‘Expensive leather handbags,’ Cat chimed in.
‘Don’t start,’ Joe said.
‘Right. Rinse it under the hot tap – as hot as you can stand – and I’ll go and get my kit.’
‘You’re going to clean it with animal medicine? Isn’t that a bit twisted?’
‘I have some straightforward antiseptic, Joey. Stop being so stubborn.’ Polly disappeared upstairs and Cat started tidying the sodden papers on the table, seeing if any could be rescued. They were cartoons, rough pen sketches without colour or shading. Cat turned one round to see what it was.
The title Curiosity Kitten was scrawled across the top, a drawing beneath it of a cat with huge, Disney-esque eyes, peering round a door. There was no order to the sketches and they looked as though Joe was trying things out: the kitten peering in through a window, its back legs scrabbling to stay on a precarious pile of boxes; the kitten lifting the lid on a large pan, the inside of the pan visible for the reader’s benefit, a piranha waiting to jump up; the kitten tiptoeing to a door, behind which was a pair of cats on a sofa, their tails entwined, a heart pulsing between them.
Had Joe already been contacted by the local newspaper? It looked more like a cartoon strip than any kind of logo. Was he working on this in secret, not wanting to tell anyone until it was confirmed? And what would happen to the kitten each time? Did he have a happy outcome, or, as the sketches suggested, was he destined for death or heartbreak? Maybe if Shed had scratched Joe earlier, Cat could imagine that the cartoons were a form of revenge, but there was no way Curiosity Kitten was modelled on the fat ginger cat. This kitten was undoubtedly cute.
Sunshine and Spaniels Page 6
