The Calico Cat

by Amanda James

‘I knew you would feel better for meeting James. And you have come to an understanding with your mother, too. So much in a short time.’ Louisa leans forward and pecks my cheek. ‘I’m so proud of you, love.’

  ‘I should hope you are. She’s my mother but you’re my mum, after all.’

  You know, quite near the beginning of my story, I said words to the effect that sometimes what I mean to say and what comes out are poles apart? In fact, more than sometimes? What I said to Louisa might be right at the top of those occasions. I can’t believe what just came out of my mouth. But having said that, I realise I did mean to say it. I wonder if I really am a new me. Not just metaphorically, but in reality. Do you think I have been actually replaced by a clone that has no issues whatsoever with showing deep emotion so easily? No, I think you’re right. That would be impossible.

  Louisa looks in shock but it’s a nice shock. She has her hugest dimpliest smile and her eyes are swimming a bit. ‘Oh, what an absolutely lovely thing to say,’ she says, dabbing at her mouth with a bit of kitchen roll.

  ‘Yes, it is, rather. But I meant every word.’

  She flaps her hand at me which I decide to ignore on this occasion. ‘Stop it. I’ll be in bits soon.’

  ‘I have never understood that saying. I mean a person can’t really break up into bits, can they? You know, like an ornament that’s fallen from the shelf?’ I chortle, which makes her do the same. Good, she’s unlikely to cry now. I don’t like seeing people cry, even if they are happy tears.

  We wander round the studio chatting about the right colours to use on the walls. Louisa says that she thinks blues and greens with perhaps a bit of lemon here and there. In that way it will reflect our surroundings – the main window faces the beach. I have been thinking along similar lines but not the lemon. She’s so clever – lemon is perfect, it’s like the sun.

  ‘When do you think you’ll open?’ Louisa perches on the windowsill and frowns at the darkening sky. The cloud’s waters have broken now, and the birth is well underway.

  ‘When I have enough paintings to sell. I only have three really good ones, and The Calico Cat, of course… though she has still whiskers to find and a few flowers in the garden. I intend to do some more over the next few months or so, perhaps even come to the vineyard again and paint there?’

  ‘Of course. You know you’re welcome any time, think of it as your second home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile and then our conversation halts while we listen to a grumble turn into a growl over the sea, and a few moments later we watch a sheet of lightning flash itself at a line of clouds. ‘Perhaps October half term might be a good idea. It gets quite busy again around that time here.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Louisa claps her hands. ‘Isn’t it exciting? Will you have an opening launch party?’

  This had crossed my mind but very fleetingly. ‘I think it might be a good idea, yes. I will have to advertise it properly, of course. I don’t have that many friends.’ An image of Caleb surfaces wearing a dog smile and I block him with one of a dragon. Don’t ask. I find it’s best.

  ‘Well, you have me, your parents, James and his wife, my sister will come and perhaps one of the boys, Anna from school? And—’

  The look on her face encourages Caleb to shove past the dragon so I cut in. ‘Peter the lottery man I told you about that we met on the walk said he wanted to be told when I’d opened, and perhaps even some ex-pupils might want to come.’

  ‘There you are then, and if everyone brings a friend.’ Louisa stares into my eyes and says, ‘There is another person that would—’

  I know who she means, and I don’t want to hear it. ‘Oh, and I can’t think of a name for this place. Nothing feels right.’ Then I tell her about me being asked to name my niece or nephew.

  ‘How wonderful! Have you any ideas?’

  I hadn’t until that very moment. ‘Yes, Louisa for a girl. No idea about a boy yet.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t think I can cope with you today – you’ll have me in—’ She stops, looks at me and grins. ‘You’ll make me cry.’

  Louisa is backlit by a flash of lightning and we both give a nervous laugh. ‘Let’s count down the thunder to see how near it is,’ I say, and we turn to face the ocean. In unison we say ‘One, two, three…’ The sky yells at us so loud that we clutch each other’s arms and laugh again. Isn’t it funny that thunder makes you nervous? We all understand that it’s a natural phenomenon, but it feels other-worldly somehow. Leastways it does to me.

  ‘It won’t be long passing now – it’s obviously directly overhead,’ Louisa says, pulling her cardigan closely about her. The humidity has gone off somewhere and left us with a little chill breeze, so I shut the door.

  We talk about baby names for a while and possible names for the shop, until a light comes on in the corner of the sky. Slowly it pushes back the darkness until the sky and clouds agree on an uneasy truce between blue and grey. I ask if Louisa wants to come back to my place for a spot of supper and a look at my latest paintings. She does. Just as we’re leaving the shop she says, ‘You know, I’m not going to pretend that Caleb doesn’t exist, even though you might want me to.’

  I shrug and mumble something like ‘hmm’ into my bag as I search for keys.

  ‘It’s just wonderful what you’ve done to this cat and her friend since I last saw them.’ Louisa takes a sip of wine, stoops her shoulders and peers into the eyes of the calico cat. She glances at me and then stares into the distance, trancelike. ‘You have come so far, Lottie. You have taken little steps back into your past, and because of that, you’re now able to take big steps forward into the future. It’s wonderful to watch you.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say.’ Warmth rushes to my cheeks and I want to hug her.

  ‘The next big step, though, is one you might not want to take.’ Her turquoise eyes turn serious, hold mine, and I look down into my wine glass. I know what’s coming, I think. ‘It’s time you spoke to Caleb. He phoned me again a few days back and I told him that I couldn’t do more than I have.’

  I sigh and take a mouthful of wine. I don’t need this right now. Not when we’re having such a nice day. ‘I don’t think I can be faffed with all that, Louisa. Everyone seems obsessed with happy ever afters, don’t they? Life doesn’t always have them, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I do know.’ Louisa gives a sad smile and looks back to the painting.

  Fuck, of course she does. Images of dying olive trees overgrown with celandine flash in my head. What a bloody jackass I am at times. ‘That was a thoughtless thing to say, forgive me.’

  ‘Easy done. And I’m not suggesting that you go looking for wedding dresses, I’m just suggesting you at least phone him – even if it’s to tell him there’s nothing left to say,’ she says to the cat.

  I think about this and decide it seems like a fair idea. Otherwise he’ll keep bothering Louisa, and it’s not her problem, is it? ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ I pat her shoulder and go to check on the curry in the oven, which is currently spreading aromas of spice and piquancy around the whole apartment.

  Louisa follows me and perches on a high stool next to the kitchen counter. ‘Good. So what will you tell him? Is there anything left to say – to salvage?’

  I know her keen eyes are on me, so I look in a cupboard for nothing in particular. I don’t know the answer; I keep blocking any discussion of it when one part of my mind presents it to the other. ‘The truth is, Louisa, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, that’s encouraging.’ I look at her face for a trace of sarcasm. ‘No. I’m serious. When we were in Sennen you said you didn’t know if you loved Caleb and I said I didn’t think you were being honest with yourself.’

  ‘Yes, and I said that romantic love is a social construct. How am I to know what love really is when all we get as reference points are pink glittery hearts, heroes and happy ever afters?’

  ‘Look. Caleb hurt you – he knows that as well as you do. But you need to sort your head out. If
you can’t be honest with yourself, stop hiding behind social constructs and tell me how you feel.’

  ‘As I’ve said, I don’t know. I haven’t allowed myself to think about it with everything else that’s been on my mind lately.’ I take the curry out of the oven and give it a stir. Louisa is obviously trying to help, but I’m feeling bossed about and that’s something I’m not good with.

  ‘Did you love Gwendoline?’ she says, swallowing the last of her wine, her eyes sweeping the ocean view.

  ‘Of course, but that’s not the same thing, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. How do you tell?’

  ‘Well, romantic love and love that you have for a grandparent are different types, aren’t they?’

  ‘How do you know, if romantic love is just a social construct?’

  She’s irritating me now. What is she trying to say? ‘Well, you have a bond when you have sex with someone you care about, don’t you? Sexual love feels different to the love you have for a grandparent.’

  ‘So, the love for a grandparent isn’t as strong as the love you feel for a sexual partner?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. Not just any old sexual partner, someone that you really care about. I’m also saying that that kind of love is just different – not necessarily stronger or weaker.’

  ‘So how did you know you loved your grandmother? Isn’t that a social construction too?’

  This was a possibility I’d not considered. A very quick assessment prompts, ‘To an extent, I suppose. You are taught to respect and learn from your elders and so forth, they give their grandchildren treats, are presented in a cosy way on film and in stories… but I don’t need that reference. I felt the love in here.’ I thump my chest. ‘It was real… still is.’ I chew the inside of my cheek and focus on pouring rice into a pan.

  Louisa nods enthusiastically. ‘Of course, you do. But I bet you can’t define exactly what that love feels like, can you?’

  My eyes flick to hers and away. I replace the rice jar on the counter a little too hard. If I thought about it for long enough I expect I’d come up with something, but all these questions are making me uncomfortable. ‘Not really, can we just change the subject now?’

  ‘Can you feel anything at all in your heart for Caleb resembling some of what you felt for your gran?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I pick up the wine bottle and fill both our glasses.

  ‘Okay. I think you should because we’re getting somewhere, but I don’t want to upset you.’

  While she sets the table, and I attend to the food, we chat about nothing in particular, though my thoughts are allowed free rein. If I’m honest I feel like we’re getting somewhere too, and it would be a shame to slam the anchors on.

  Steam is rising from the strained rice in the colander and I stare through it at a memory of how I felt after I had slept with Caleb for the first time. I told you about it, remember? It was about our connection deepening; it was no longer a connection, we almost became the same person – more than just physically – it was as if our hearts and souls were one, too.

  I give the rice a shake and tip it into a warmed serving bowl. Louisa takes the curry over to the table and crunches into a poppadum. She’s talking about the first time she and Jagger ever had a curry, and, quite unexpectedly I cut across her with, ‘I think I did love him… as far as I can tell. But that was before he betrayed me. I don’t feel as strongly now… although I do miss him. Quite a lot, really.’ I bite into a poppadum before my mouth has chance to say anything else.

  Louisa gives me one of her dimply smiles and raises her glass. ‘Good. At last it’s out in the open. Please ring him.’ She holds up her forefinger before I can say anything. ‘I don’t mean to tell him that you probably did and still do love him, just ring him and arrange to have a talk. If it doesn’t work out, then at least you tried, eh?’

  I ignore what she said about me loving him. ‘I suppose so. But as I said, happy endings might not be possible… or even good for us, really.’

  ‘How do you arrive at that one? Surely a person having a sad one isn’t a desirable option?’

  ‘No, but because it’s so important to us, we might be sad if it isn’t perfect, doesn’t live up to our high expectations of happiness. So, we might pretend that we have a happy ending when in fact we don’t.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you can overthink things, Lottie?’ Louisa says with a twinkly smile.

  ‘No. But I have told myself it a few times.’

  She laughs at this. ‘Right, that’s settled, then. You’ll phone Caleb tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wonderful. And so is this curry – you are a very good cook, my girl.’

  We then change the subject and have a lovely evening, but all the time there’s a little wriggling worry worm in my head, and I need to stop feeding it before it grows into the Loch Ness monster.

  24

  Honesty

  Why I feel the need to wear the ‘right clothes’ is beyond me. I mean clothes are just clothes, aren’t they? What on earth does it matter what one wears in the end? Having said that, I do realise that going out in a snowstorm in a bikini isn’t a good idea, nor is wearing wellies, thick socks and an Arran sweater in a heatwave. To that extent there is such a thing as the ‘right clothes’. The idea about wearing the ‘right clothes’ to impress or make a statement is wrong, though. People should be more honest about what they’re trying to do – why not just say how you feel instead of wearing bits of cloth to try and say it for you?

  Apart from the obvious practical necessities to choose the right clothes that I have mentioned, I normally choose clothes for aesthetics. Cost is also a factor, as is where they are made. I avoid clothes that might have possibly been made in the sweatshops of the ‘developing’ world, but sometimes you just can’t be sure, can you? Therefore because walking around naked in public can be an arrestable offence, I have to take a risk.

  So far this morning, I have tried on three different sets of clothes and am currently sitting on the edge of my bed in just my underwear. I’m angry with myself because I have allowed the ‘right clothes’ theory to influence my decisions. As you know, I pride myself on being unconventional, but because Caleb is due here in half an hour I wanted to make sure my clothes didn’t ‘say’ anything to him that could be misconstrued. Bloody ridiculous. It’s all just peacockery and flimflammery and I won’t be a party to it.

  I pick up the green lacy top that I think suits me, having previously discarded it because it’s a bit low cut and I thought it gave the ‘wrong message’, and pull it over my head. Then I slip back into red shorts and reapply the eye make-up that I wiped off a few minutes ago and loose my hair from the clip I strangled it with. Okay, that will do. The discarded clothes are gathered up and rammed back into the wardrobe and I leave the bedroom before my head has time to consider the ‘right clothes’ theory yet again.

  Are you a bit surprised that Caleb is on his way here? I am. I phoned him and before he had time to say very much at all apart from, ‘Lottie, thank God!’ I said he should come round here at ten thirty, so we could have a chat. He said it was a bit short notice and he’d have to cancel something. I said take it or leave it. He took it.

  My bossy attitude isn’t because I want to be a puppet master or anything, it’s because I can’t bear the thought of arranging something with him for tomorrow or the next day, or even later this afternoon, because that will give me time to ponder and fret and the wriggling worry worm is already so fat inside my head that it’s pressing against each temple. Perhaps I’ll take a couple of paracetamol.

  Coffee is on, cherry scones are in the oven and my gut feels as if it’s in a lift descending from the thirtieth floor and then immediately going back up again. At least the paracetamol are doing their job. Twenty-eight minutes past – is there enough time to go for a quick wee? I have had four quick wees in the last hour so it’s hardly necessary. The human body is a wonderful mac
hine, isn’t it? But sometimes it goes a bit mad when it’s full of adrenaline. Fight or flight. Why should I need to do either? Calm breaths and a clear mind. I walk to the kitchen. In through the nose, out through… the doorbell.

  On the way to the answer the door I tell my mind to stop screeching at me that everything might go wrong and take a deep breath as I open it.

  Caleb’s face is hidden behind a huge bunch of purple flowers and I’m straight back to the first time he came to my place. Perhaps that’s why he’s bought them, you know, to fill me full of nostalgic and welcoming thoughts? This idea isn’t very charitable, so I push it away and concentrate on Caleb’s face as he lowers the flowers to chest height.

  ‘Look, it’s me,’ he says, and does the dog grin that I’ve missed so much. ‘Bet you wondered who it was at first, eh?’

  ‘I did. I thought you were a flower salesman and was about to give you short shrift.’

  ‘Wonder what that is, short shrift – and is there a tall one?’

  That sounds so much like something I’d say that my lips curl of their own free will. Perhaps he’s been contaminated by my influence. ‘I expect there is a tall one and even a middle-sized one. We just need to find out what the origin of shrift is now.’ I stand aside and sweep my arm back towards my hallway.

  As he steps inside he holds out the flowers out to me. ‘These are called honesty. I wanted to say it with flowers, but I couldn’t find any called so-sorry-for-being-a-complete-fucking-idiot.’

  My big laugh surprises us both, not least because it is amplified in the small hallway. He laughs too, and I can’t help but look into his lovely eyes. A fire is starting under my skin, so I take the flowers and he follows me to the kitchen. I say, ‘I don’t think you were a complete fucking idiot, you were extremely misguided though and I think honesty is a great choice.’ I find a vase and run water into it. ‘We need to be perfectly honest with each other for the future, Caleb, if this is to work.’