by H. Y. Hanna
I looked at her in wonder. The words sounded so incongruous coming from her lips. With her soft, fluffy white hair, wrinkled face and petite frame, June Driscoll looked the stereotype of the sweet old lady. But there was a steely determination in her eyes and a shrewd calculation in her approach to the competition that reminded me of a ruthless military commander planning his battle strategy.
“What about that fellow, Gaz?” asked Mabel.
June frowned. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten about him.”
I followed her gaze to the other side of the room where I saw Nicole—looking less dishevelled now—sitting in a chair, staring down at her hands. A young man was hovering beside her, trying to engage her in conversation. He had longish, almost shaggy blond hair and was dressed in a faded hoodie and ripped jeans, but somehow, the overall effect managed to be good-looking rather than unkempt. He radiated confidence and I could feel the strength of his charisma, even from this distance.
I saw Nicole say something to him sharply and turn her back to him. It couldn’t have been a more blatant (and literal) cold shoulder, but he simply shrugged and laughed, then slouched away, his hands in his jeans pockets and an easy grin on his face.
“Gaz is the comedian who does impressions, isn’t he?” I asked. “I remember catching one of the previous episodes and seeing a bit of his act. He’s very funny.”
“Yes, but he does use the most dreadful language,” said Ethel, putting her hands to her cheeks in a scandalised gesture. “Those… those horrible curse words—”
“Yes, someone ought to wash that boy’s mouth out with soap,” declared Mabel.
“Well, the audience don’t seem to mind,” said Florence.
“Yes,” June agreed. “They seem to love him. Hmm… yes, Gaz is a strong contender. We’ll have to watch him.” She paused thoughtfully. “If the twins are in the lead to take the top spot, then that only leaves one other chance for us.”
“I don’t understand—are you saying only two semi-finalists get through?” I asked.
“Oh yes, dear. After we perform before the judges and audience again tomorrow night, only two acts will be selected to go through to the Finals,” Glenda explained.
“And one of them has got to be us!” said June, shaking her fist.
I said nothing, but I didn’t share her conviction. A granny band might have been able to beat Gaz’s funny impressions and Trish’s canine dancing routine, but somehow I didn’t think they’d be any match for Lara. Sadly, “young and sexy” trumped “old and quirky” every time.
A young man with a walkie-talkie appeared suddenly next to us. “Pussy Puffs! You’re on next!”
“Ooh!” squealed Glenda. “I haven’t retouched my lipstick yet!”
I wished them luck and watched as they tottered off towards the wings. I was half tempted to go out and watch them from the auditorium but decided to save it for the real performance tomorrow night. As one of the perks of the job, I’d been given front-row tickets for the Semi-Finals and I was looking forward to a fun evening with Cassie and my other close friend, Seth Browning.
Carefully giving Trish and Skip a wide berth, I made my way across the large Waiting Area again. As I neared the back door, however, I stopped short as a grey tabby with white paws jumped down from a pile of props and trotted up to me. She looked exactly like my cat, Muesli, down to the black eyeliner around her wide green eyes and the little pink nose.
“Miaow…?” she said.
“Muesli! What are you doing here?” I demanded, shocked. I was sure I had left her safely locked up at home. I bent to scoop her up, but she darted away from me, pausing just out of reach to give me another cheeky: “Miaow?”
I hesitated. Was it Muesli? This cat sounded slightly different. But she looked so much like my little feline…
The grey tabby leapt onto a wooden trolley next to us, which held a large, round container shaped a bit like a witch’s cauldron. There was a lid on the container, so I couldn’t see what was inside, but something was leaking from under the edge of the lid, almost like frothy liquid that was boiling over and flowing out. Except that it wasn’t liquid—it looked more like a strange white mist or even smoke.
The cat approached the container and reached up to sniff the white smoke. I stretched a hand out too, curious. The smoke was unfurling in snowy, white plumes, surrounding the cauldron in a halo, and yet there was no heat emanating from the container and no smell of burning. What on earth was it?
I reached out to lift the lid, then froze as a voice behind me cried:
“Hey, be careful—don’t touch that!”
CHAPTER THREE
I jerked my hand back and turned around to find myself facing a lanky young man in his early twenties, with sandy hair and a bad case of acne which had left pockmarks on his cheeks. He was dressed all in black, including a long black cape hanging from his thin shoulders, and I recognised him as the magician I’d seen earlier, practising his card tricks.
“Don’t touch that container,” he said urgently. “And get that cat away from it!”
Hurriedly, I reached out and grabbed the tabby, picking her up and holding her firmly in my arms as I stepped away from the container.
“What’s in it?” I asked him.
“Liquid nitrogen,” he said.
“Oh…” I relaxed slightly. “The way you were acting, I thought it was something really dangerous—like acid.”
“Liquid nitrogen is dangerous,” he said, frowning. “It’s minus 195 degrees Celsius and can freeze your fingers off if you stick your hand in it. It’s true,” he insisted, seeing my sceptical look.
“If it’s that dangerous, why do you have it here backstage?”
“I use it in my magic act. And, okay, it’s not that dangerous, if you know how to handle it,” he added grudgingly. “It’s normally transported sealed in a dewar, but—”
“A what?”
“A dewar. It’s a specially designed vacuum flask which keeps the liquid nitrogen below boiling point. At room temperature, it would evaporate and turn into this white mist, see? But I need an open container so the mist can flow out and cover the floor of the stage. It’s fine as long as people aren’t nosy and don’t try to take off the lid before my act,” he said, looking reproachfully at me. “The other contestants and the crew all know not to touch it.”
“Sorry…” I said, thinking that I seemed to be spending the whole day apologising to various contestants. “Anyway, I know now and I’ll be more careful.”
Without another word to me, he grabbed the trolley handle and began wheeling the container towards the double doors that led to the wings and the stage.
“Miaow!” said the cat in my arms, squirming slightly.
I looked down. Now that I was holding her, I could tell immediately that she wasn’t Muesli; I couldn’t explain how, since she looked so alike that she could have been a doppelgänger, but somehow I knew that this wasn’t my cat. She squirmed again, trying to wriggle free, and I was just wondering what I should do with her when I heard a voice behind me.
“Misty…? Misty! Oh, thank goodness you found her!”
A woman rushed up to join us and scooped the grey tabby out of my arms. It was the lady with the puppets. She hugged the cat close to her and looked apologetically at me.
“I’m sorry—she must have escaped from her carrier when I wasn’t looking. She’s terrible about wandering off—she disappears for days sometimes. I hope she hasn’t been bothering you?”
“Oh no, no,” I assured her. “She was just getting a bit too close to a container of liquid nitrogen and that magician guy—”
“Oh, that’s Albert,” she replied.
“Right… Albert… yes, well, he was worried, so I picked her up, just to keep her out of harm’s way.” I gave her a smile. “So this is your cat? She looks so much like mine, I nearly had a shock thinking that she’d somehow escaped and managed to come here.”
She returned my smile. “Yes, I’m Cheryl and th
is is Misty. She’s part of my act—or at least, she’s supposed to be, although she’s been so naughty today she’s driving me crazy!”
I laughed. “That sounds familiar.”
Cheryl gave me a rueful smile. “It’s not even as if I’m asking her to do that much. All she has to do is walk on stage with me in a leash and harness—”
“Oh, if you’re managing that, you’re already doing well,” I said, chuckling. “I’ve trained my cat, Muesli, to use the leash and harness too, but trying to get her to walk anywhere with me is a challenge!”
“Well, I didn’t say Misty walks in a straight line,” said Cheryl with a twinkle in her eye. “Half the time, she walks two steps then decides to sit down and wash herself.”
“That’s exactly what Muesli does!” I cried, laughing and feeling an instant camaraderie with the woman.
She seemed to share the feeling too, because she gave me a warm smile. “Still, I’m hoping that once I get Misty on stage, things will be okay. All she has to do is sit in a little basket next to me while I sing and do the puppet show. We’ve practised a dozen times at home and she’s been pretty good.” Cheryl leaned towards me and said in a conspiratorial voice: “I put a blanket sprayed with catnip in the basket, you see, and Misty loves catnip. She just nestles in and rolls around on the blanket.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea—why didn’t I think of that? Muesli loves catnip too and I’ve got a little bed for her at my tearoom, but I’m always having trouble trying to get her to stay in it. She’s very friendly, you see, and she’d much rather be wandering around the tables and jumping up into customers’ laps,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I must try your catnip trick and see if I can convince her to stay on her bed more.”
“Your cat sounds like the cheeky twin sister of mine,” said Cheryl with a laugh. “I’d love to meet her.”
“Well, if you’re ever out in the Cotswolds, do pop into my tearoom. It’s just on the outskirts of Oxford, in a little village called Meadowford-on-Smythe.”
“A traditional English tearoom? That sounds lovely. Do you do scones and finger sandwiches and all those sorts of things?”
I nodded. “All the favourites. And all freshly baked on the premises.”
“Oh, wait… are you the one who’s been providing all the delicious treats for our morning and afternoon tea?” she asked, suddenly putting two and two together.
“Yes, hi… I’m Gemma. Gemma Rose.”
“Oh my goodness, your baking is absolutely scrumptious! I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such wonderful Chelsea buns. So soft and moist in the centre and with just the right mix of lemon zest and cinnamon sugar.”
I flushed with pleasure. “Thank you. Yes, I was very lucky to get this catering job.”
We were interrupted by the sound of one of the producers calling the magician on stage.
“Oops… I’d better go and get ready,” said Cheryl. “I’m on after Albert.”
“Good luck,” I said.
She looked down at the tabby in her arms and said with a sigh, “I think I’m going to need it. I just hope that after this rehearsal today, Misty will calm down enough to behave for the real show tomorrow night. She was so good at home, but I think she’s too distracted here—all these new sights and smells—she keeps wanting to go off and explore.”
“I’m sure everything will work out fine tomorrow night,” I assured her. “Although maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give that blanket a really whopping dose of catnip!”
She laughed and then, hugging the cat tighter to her, she walked away.
***
Several hours later that day, I picked up an identical-looking grey tabby cat and shoved her into a cat carrier, which I then placed in the front basket of my bicycle.
“Meorrw?” said Muesli, peering out through the bars of the carrier.
“We’re late, Muesli, and it’s all your fault,” I muttered, climbing astride the bike. “If you hadn’t jumped on the bloody bromeliad and knocked it over, I wouldn’t have had to spend the last twenty minutes trying to get soil out of the carpet!”
“Meorrw!” said Muesli indignantly.
“Yes, you did! You did it on purpose!”
Then I stopped as I realised what I was doing and gave a self-deprecating laugh. I couldn’t believe that I was arguing with my cat. I was barely thirty years old, and already I was turning into a crazy cat lady! I smiled to myself. And to think that I never even used to like cats. I had always thought I was more of a “dog person” and it wasn’t until Muesli came into my life nearly a year ago that I’d realised how fun and fascinating felines could be. Yes, there had been many times since the day I’d adopted her when I could have happily wrung her little neck, but now I couldn’t imagine my life without the naughty tabby.
With winter finally here and the days getting shorter, twilight had already fallen as I set off, and I was pleased that I had invested in new bicycle lights recently. The towpath along the river was not particularly well lit and I went slowly until it joined the larger road which led into central Oxford. My cottage was situated at the south end of the city whilst my parents lived in North Oxford, but traversing the city didn’t take long, especially when you knew all the shortcuts and back streets like I did. My days as a student here—coupled with a childhood growing up in the outer suburbs—meant that I probably knew the university city even better than the back of my hand. I could probably cycle around it with my eyes closed!
Tonight, however, I kept them peeled, carefully scanning the road ahead. I was pedalling fast and cycling at this speed in the dark was asking for an accident, if I wasn’t careful. Oh, I wasn’t normally such a reckless speed demon, but in my mother’s book, “Thou shalt always be punctual” was one of the Ten Commandments.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrived huffing and puffing outside an elegant Victorian townhouse in a quiet tree-lined street. I secured my bike to the front fence, then grabbed the cat carrier and hurried inside. Pausing only long enough to scoop Muesli out of her carrier, I rushed into the sitting room.
“Sorry I’m late!” I gasped as I burst into the room. “I was delayed at the tearoom and then Muesli knocked over the—”
I broke off in embarrassment as I realised belatedly that my parents had a guest. A tall man with a thin, clever face was sitting on the sofa with my father. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, and he also looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t figure out where I had seen him before. Perhaps he was a colleague or a foreign scholar who had come to visit the university? My father, Professor Philip Rose, was a semi-retired Oxford don, and over the years I had got used to various academics and scholars coming to visit or even stay at my parents’ home.
Still—I eyed the guest thoughtfully—this man wasn’t dressed like a typical academic. Unlike my father, who spent most of his days in brown tweed jackets (yes, the kind with elbow patches) and even the occasional bow tie when he was lecturing at the university, this man was wearing dark jeans that I’m sure had a designer label on them and a tight-fitting cashmere top in a trendy shade of teal. His hair was receding but long at the back and caught up in a grey ponytail, and he looked, for all the world, like an ageing pop star.
“Ah, Gemma, darling… how nice to see you. Your mother was just wondering where you were—she’s gone upstairs to find her phone to ring you.” My father gestured to the man next to him. “This is Stuart Hollande—but of course, you know him already, don’t you?”
I racked my brains as I went forwards to shake hands with him, embarrassed that we might have met previously and I’d completely forgotten.
Stuart extended a hand and said with a smile: “You must be the young lady who’s been providing us with all those delicious treats at morning and afternoon tea. Your father has just been telling me all about your tearoom.”
Then it clicked, and I cried: “Oh! You’re one of the judges!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Although we had never been formally introduced
, I had glimpsed Stuart Hollande a few times backstage, especially when the crew had been filming the judges’ segments for the show. I must have also seen him during some of the show trailers and previous episodes, but I had to admit, I’d never really paid much attention.
He inclined his head and said with a chuckle, “Yes, I’m one of the terrible trio. I hope you won’t hold it against me.” He turned back towards my father. “In fact, I’m honoured that you’re still willing to speak to me, Philip, given that I’ve ‘sold out’ and gone into commercial television. I was almost embarrassed to contact you and let you know that I was in Oxford.”
“Nonsense,” said my father gallantly. “You know I’m always delighted to see you, Stuart, and I’m sure you’re bringing pleasure to many people, even if you’ve left the more classical arena.”
“I used to work for the big theatre companies—places like the Royal Shakespeare Company,” Stuart explained at my puzzled look. “Then I was headhunted by a studio in London for a music producer job, and it’s been all downhill since then,” he laughed. “Now I’m a judge on a TV talent show… Still, at least I have more legitimate claim to the role than the other two judges, I suppose. Monty Gibbs is only on the panel because he owns the show and Zoe Carlotti is only there because we needed a bit of totty and she was the only B-list actress available. Gibbs was pleased to get her because she was really hot for a while, following that ‘Filler Pout’ scandal—you didn’t hear about that?” he asked as I looked blank.
“Sorry…” I gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I don’t keep up with celebrity gossip.”
