‘Not so fast. We haven’t established what you were doing there in the first place.’
‘Yes, we have. I was chasing this!’ Less than pleased to be used as a prop, David Meowie begins his bid for escape, digging his claws into my forearm.
‘Ouch! You little—’
‘Allow me.’ He takes the bag of skin and claws from my outstretched arms as I attempt to stop further injury and tucks him firmly against his chest.
‘You were saying?’
‘I don’t believe I was saying anything. I believe I’d said all that was to be said.’ I also don’t believe I’m having this conversation standing in the moonlight in nothing more than a pair of lurid green and black Batman knickers and my shirt.
But it might’ve been worse. Yesterday, I wore Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ones, I think.
‘You were about to tell me why you aren’t a cat burglar, and why you seem to think my neighbour’s much-loved cat belongs to you.’
‘You got me. I was stealing him—stealing him in order for an underground cat fighting ring.’ I bend forward and sweep up my shoes. ‘I’m the cat-sitter, for goodness’ sakes. I was on my phone, the cat escaped, and I chased him into your kitchen, mostly, and got stuck. You arrived and saved the day. Huzzah!’ I wave my shoes in the air as though they’re pompoms. ‘So are you going to give me the cat back or what?’
‘I think... or what.’
‘What?’
‘Forgive my caution, but I’d like to be sure you are who you say you are. Also, I think it might be prudent to escort you back, given your current state of dress.’ My gaze follows his down my bare legs. ‘You’ve grazed your knees.’
‘No. Well yes, but earlier. I fell over a plant pot.’
‘You’ve had quite the evening,’ he answers, amused. ‘Shall we?’ He moves sideways, allowing me to pass.
Oh well, I guess I’m getting an escort. Or a carer. It’s hard to tell.
We don’t speak as I open his garden gate, cross the cobblestoned lane, then repeat the open the gate to the place I’m calling home this week. At the back door, I press on the handle but don’t open it.
‘This is me going inside now, through the back door. Almost like I live here, right?’
His hand covers mine, the resultant sensation of his skin against mine sweeping across my skin like wildfire. ‘Come on,’ he says, pushing the door wide. He reaches for the light switch, confident of its positioning. ‘I’ll show you where the first-aid kit is.’
‘What?’
‘You say that an awful lot.’ His words float behind him as he walks confidently into the kitchen, placing Davie Meowie on a kitchen chair before exiting the other side of the room. ‘Close the door, would you? You don’t want to have to chase him down again.’
‘Hey!’ Belatedly, I begin to follow him, my movements not quite as fluid as the cuts on my knees begin to stiffen. ‘Come back here—you can’t just wander through a stranger’s—Oh. I didn’t know there was another room there.’ Through a slender panelled door, I spot him in a brightly lit room of small proportions. Cabinets to match those in the kitchen line one wall, a deep sink under the window, the adjacent wall filled from the floor to ceiling with shelves.
‘It’s a butler’s pantry. A throwback to the days when one had to remove the family silver from the temptation of the help.’ Before I can answer that little insult, he carries on. ‘Marjorie always kept the first-aid kit on one of the shelves. Ah, here it is.’
‘You know this house? And the owners?’
‘Considering I spent as much time in it growing up as I did next door, yes. Come on. Let’s get those knees seen to.’
‘Honestly, they’re fine,’ I protest as he passes me, making his way back into the kitchen again. And honestly, I don’t much care to wander around in my knickers in front of him. Yet I find myself following. What else am I supposed to do?
In the kitchen, his back to me, he unpacks the contents of a large first-aid kit onto the kitchen table as I stand on the other side of the kitchen, my bare legs now shielded by the cupboards.
‘It looks like she’s had some of this since Eamon and I were haring about on skateboards,’ he says, holding up a familiar brown bottle as though examining it for an expiration date. ‘I’m sure this stuff doesn’t expire.’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter because you’re not using that on me.’ I point at the bottle of antiseptic liquid my granny used to use on cuts and scrapes. ‘TCP stinks. And stings like buggery.’
He barks out a laugh as I consider going back to the butler’s pantry to give myself a time out. ‘I’d suggest you haven’t been doing it right.’
‘Not actually buggery,’ I counter carefully, rounding the counter to take the offending bottle out of his hand. ‘And stop laughing. It’s just a phrase.’
