It’s not that I hate the cat. Okay, I hate the cat. But I don’t really want him to become snake chow. But I digress. The note.
Ben,
I forgot to mention that I have a cat. If you’re not happy about it, then believe me when I say that makes two of us. However, the cat—Smalls, named after the Notorious B.I.G. andnotmy idea—is part Norwegian Forest Cat, part Tasmanian Devil. You can check the internet. Both of those are actual things.
I should also mention he’s a special needs sort of cat in as much as he appears to be depressed.
Possibly suicidal.
Or likes getting high.
I’m not really sure.
That’s why you might notice that the dials on the gas stovetop are in a cup on the countertop. When you want to use the stove, just pop them back on, remembering to take them off again at the end. The reason? Smalls likes to turn said dials, stand on said stovetop and huff the gas.
If you don’t like him, why not just let him inhale the noxious fumes?I hear you say.
Well, that’s mainly because I like to come home to an actual home and not a pile of post-gas explosion brick. I also like my neighbour, Mrs Hoffman. She might be eighty-five, but there’s life in the old gal yet. Secondly, it’s precisely because I don’t like him that I refuse to assist him in his suicide. Or feed his habit. Whichever.
And finally, owning a pet is a little like becoming a parent in my mind. That is, if it were socially acceptable to let infants let themselves in and out of the house whenever, by way of their own special little door. It’s like the saying goes—with pet ownership comes great responsibility. I don’t shirk my responsibilities.
I should mention Smalls is vindictive. I once spilt half a glass of wine on him (it was an accident! I wouldn’t waste good wine on his bad temper!) The next morning, I found the cork from the wine bottle next to my shoes. My shoes had also been given a liberal dousing of cat pee, so be warned.
Also, he steals. Socks are his favourite. If you leave them lying around be prepared never to have a matching pair. Also, never leave your dinner unattended—he’ll eat anything except mice. Don’t worry—we only seemed to have mice the week I had the new boiler fitted. Humane traps did the trick after I watched Smalls let one cross the kitchen floor, right under his lazy nose.
Well, that’s my news! I guess I’ll see you around at some point. We’ll be like ships passing in thenightdaylight, at least until my nightshift rotation is over.
I wasn’t sure how to end it. Penny? Nell? Your New Landlord? In the end I’d left it blank.
I’d been on my way out the door when I realised leaving the keys on the countertop wasn’t going to help Ben get back in.Lord, I need more coffee and a week in bed.While I live in the almost bucolic surrounding of Hampstead, it’s still London, and no one leaves their doors unlocked or their keys under a plant pot. At least, they shouldn’t. I may as well put a sign in the front yard announcing “Free Shit, Help Yourself”. So I locked up and popped next door. My albatross of a house is a semi-detached villa on a pretty street on the south side of the Hampstead Garden Suburb. A brick façade and dark roof are reminiscent of the Arts and Craft design movement, an ancient wisteria wrapping its way up to the first-floor terrace. It’s a beautiful house that has the potential to be a beautiful home someday, and although Liam and I bought the place with a view to flipping, I’d always hoped to be able to buy in the suburb again. To raise a family here. I close the garden gate behind me, leaving my little Fiat on the drive for a moment, and make the exact same journey up the garden path of my neighbour, Mrs Hoffman. As predicted, I don’t get as far as ringing the original 1930s era bell before the front door swings open. Mrs Hoffman is the stalwart of our neighbourhood watch scheme. I doubt there’s a thing her rheumy gaze misses, and as she’s currently almost vibrating with eagerness, I know she’s curious about Ben.
‘Come on, come on in, dear,’ she says, patting her ebony permanent wave. The colour is so improbable for her fair skin I decided it had to be a wig, but I’ve since learned that Tracy, her hairdresser,the dear girl,pops in to do a root touch-up and blow dry every week. Mr Hoffman might be long dead, but she still likes to look smart, she once informed me. She doesn’t believe in letting the side down.
‘I can’t stop, Mrs H. I’m on my way to work.’
‘Yes, of course, of course.’ Mrs H often believes in saying things twice. It’s kind of endearing.
‘I just wondered if you’d do me a favour?’
‘Yes, anything. Absolutely anything, my dear.’
‘You might have seen I have a house guest?’ With a little smile, she nods as she pulls a snowy white handkerchief from the sleeve of her twinset cardigan. ‘His name is Ben.’ I know immediately what she’s thinking—Ben is a good Jewish name. I know she also seems to forget I’m not Jewish myself. ‘He’s Melody’s brother. You remember Mel?’
‘Yes, yes. The girl with the beautiful Rita Hayworth hair.’
‘Yeah, that’s her. Well, Ben’s staying with me, but I forgot to give him some keys before he left.’
‘Oh, yes. He left about lunchtime, dear. You would have been sleeping because you’re on the night shift at the minute.’ See? She doesn’t miss a trick. ‘Would you like me to pass the keys to him when he comes back?’
‘Yeah, that would be great.’ I place the small bunch in her hand, resolving to throw the Star Wars fob away at some point soon.
‘Consider it done, dear. Elsie, my home help, is popping to Sainsbury’s for me later. Is there anything I can ask her to get you?’ I laugh and shake my head. Apparently, I don’t eat enough for her tastes, and I’m rarely seen carrying groceries from the car to the front door. ‘Not even when there’s a strapping young man staying in your house?’
‘He can fend for himself, Mrs H.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he can,’ she says with a tiny smile. ‘But you know what they say. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind if I ever have to perform keyhole surgery on him.’
