She leaned back against the countertop and swirled the leggy liquid around before raising the glass in a toast — to herself for decoding the enigma of Francesca? Or to Francesca for being cracked open enough that Catherine had finally glimpsed all the pieces? Or was it a toast to her younger self because she hadn’t bled in vain?
Maybe all three. Catherine tipped her head before bringing the amber liquid to her lips. As the warm rush of alcohol hit her chest, her fingers twitched, restless with unspent energy. She moved through to the lounge, flicked on the table lamp, and set her drink on a coaster.
From under the sofa, Catherine pulled out a puzzle mat. She unfastened the Velcro straps, rolled it out and smoothed it down on the coffee table. She settledon a cushion on the floor, back against the plush sofa and legs stretched out under the table. The half-finished puzzle was a tricky thousand-piecer; a fresco of Sappho holding a stylus and tablet — or at least it was a high-society Greek woman commonly alleged to be her. It had been an ironic Christmas gift from Penny, who found it hilarious that Catherine enjoyed jigsaw puzzles. But Catherine refused to be embarrassed by her hobby, no matter how much her friend teased. She’d always found calm in the ordering of chaos — that satisfying click when an elusive piece slotted into place.
Catherine sipped her drink and rifled through the box. She picked up a piece with three blanks and a tab that looked like it was the curve of a cheekbone or the crook of a finger. She popped it into the ‘Sappho pile’ and spotted a section of the background, part of a loop from a swirling mosaic pattern. With satisfying ease, she pushed it into place, finally anchoring two sections together. As she rewarded herself with a warming sip of Scotch, a dull thud sounded from above. Catherine glanced up, her eyes widening with realisation.Shit.
With a sigh, she drained the dregs from her glass before stretching up from her spot on the floor. She slipped on her mules and put her door on the latch. At the top of the stairs, she retrieved the key from under the doormat and entered the flat. The streetlight outside dimly lit the hallway, casting eerie long shadows from the boxes and her new neighbour’s scattered belongings. Unlike the shy cat who’d greeted her the day before, Juniper pounced over and threw himself at Catherine’s feet, stretching androlling around, exposing his furry belly. Catherine bent to pat him and he arched up, pushing his soft head into her hand.
Something inside her lit up — all this time she’d seen cats as arrogant and aloof; she’d never witnessed a display of affection like this. And yes, she realised it was probably because she could open the fridge… but even so.
Juniper chirped, and with his tail held high, the end of it beckoning like a curled finger, he sauntered down the hallway. Catherine followed him into the kitchen and set about getting his dinner as he wove his lithe body around her ankles, in what she supposed was some sort of ritualistic food dance. Catherine read the label of the can she’d pulled from the fridge.
“Shredded chicken tonight; does that sound good?”
He chirruped, which Catherine took as a yes.
Whilst Juniper devoured his food, Catherine returned to the photograph on the fridge, wondering which of the two smiling faces was Juniper’sneglectfulowner, if indeed it was either of them. Perhaps it was both?
Catherine’s eyes drifted back to the woman’s smile. She squinted, again struck by the familiarity of that grin. If only the photo were a little clearer. She glanced down at Juniper. “You don’t mind if I have a little look around, do you?”
Juniper chirped but remained engrossed in his food, which Catherine took as authorisation to go ahead. Perhaps the Scotch had emboldened her, but her curiosity about her new neighbour (plural?) suddenly had her flicking on lights as she moved into the lounge. The Scotchmust have numbed her senses too, because the mess wasn’t spiking her anxiety the way it had before.
A small stack of postcards sat at the top of one of the open boxes. Catherine shuffled through them.
New York City.The Village isn’t the same without you. Miss you, babe. Will x
Buenos Aires.This fucking place! Why aren’t you here when I need you? Depressed without you. Will x
Dublin.Hey, slut bag! Miss you so much. Big sloppy kisses, Will x
Lisbon.It’s three months until we get married. I CAN’T WAIT!! Love you, Will x
The date stamp on the Lisbon postcard was from last year.Ah, so the smiley pair on the fridge are a couple. The photograph was probably from their honeymoon.
Great.Just what Catherine needed; newlyweds with their bedroom stacked right over hers. And this Will character sounded like a treat.I mean, who calls their fiancée a slut bag?… on a postcard of all places, for anyone to read. Catherine tutted and went to toss the cards back into the box, but an envelope caught her eye, specifically the name peeking through the plastic window — Ms. J. McPherson…McPherson?
Bridie’s last name was McPherson.What was her daughter’s name again?Catherine tried to cast her mind back to their many late-night chats, from most of which she’d staggered down the stairs after Bridie’s liberal pours of Scotch.
“Christ!” Catherine started as Juniper nudged at her ankles again, demanding attention.
“I really don’t like cats, you know?” She reached down to fuss him and he leaned in as she ruffled her fingers through his soft fur. “You can schmooze me all you like, but I won’t change my mind about you.” He purred as she rubbed his chest and chin.
She really should get back to her jigsaw and think about microwaving something for dinner, but she didn’t feel hungry yet and Juniper seemed to be enjoying her company. Almost as if she were looking for an excuse to stay longer, Catherine’s gaze landed on the abandoned flatpack construction project taking up the middle of the room.
What’s flatpack furniture if not a giant jigsaw puzzle?
Catherine unbuttoned her shirt sleeves and rolled them up to just above the elbows. She picked up the screwed-up instruction manual, smoothed it onto the coffee table and regarded it for a moment. But the empty wine bottle and dirty glass kept looking at her, as did Juniper, from the tower of boxes he’d climbed onto.
“How am I supposed to work in these conditions?” she asked him.
Juniper slowly blinked.
After ferrying the offending articles into the kitchen, she returned with a tall glass of water, took a sip, and perched on the sofa to give the instructions a thorough read. It was always harder starting a project partway through. She’d experienced it from time to time with Jeremy, when she’d taken on a patient of his; she felt off-kilter because she hadn’t done the groundwork herself. But as on those occasions, she took the time to assess andorder the parts, putting all the pieces into neat piles for ease and efficiency.
When she’d gathered up the scattered screws from the floor, everything was accounted for, except a packet of dowels. She emptied the remaining big parts from the box and stacked them in order, then she turned the box upside down, and a small packet tumbled out.
“Ah-ha!”
