‘Fat. Squat. And not yours.’
‘I’m aware.’ I stand quickly, bumping my head on the corner of the thing.Ouch!
‘Come on, Mir. You’ve got to move on.’
‘I am—I have!’ I press my hand over the smarting area as my nose begins to prickle with the onset of tears, the cause of which is hard to tell. Physical pain or drunkenly emotional?
‘One more thing, then I’ll shut up. This cat-sitting gig is over soon, right? If you get a chance, at least have a conversation with the man. I mean a properadultconversation.’
‘I’m not having an adult conversation with him in my underwear, Heather.’
‘I’m not asking you to molest him. Just talk to him.’
‘You don’t let up, do you?’
‘Nope. Anyway, the train is pulling into the station now, but I have one more thing to say.’
‘Go on, then.’ My sigh is the song of the long-suffering.
‘I bet Cameron’s got moobs. Pudgy little ones with pasty pink nipples.’
‘He does not.’ Much.
‘And you know who doesn’t have moobs? Hot neighbour dude.’
I’m distracted from answering by the sight of a disconcerting streak of pink shooting across the tiny lawn.
‘There you are, you furry felon! He’s here—David Meowie. Hang on.’ I stick my phone into the breast pocket of my shirt, my heels sinking into the earth as I follow the cat back across the grass and patio, over the table—at least, that’s the way the cat goes, but I stick to going around. Following her, I duck around the corner of the house just in time to see his snake-like tail disappear into the house via a medium-sized doggy door.
‘Ah, hell,’ I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket again. ‘Heth, you’re sure he’s there waiting for you?’
‘He’s standing on the platform, on the other side of the doors, with a smile the size of half a bike wheel.’
‘And he’s a decent human?’
‘Well, he’s male,’ she answers, ‘some would consider that sort of human.’
‘Okay. Have fun. Use condoms. And call me if you need anything,’ I mutter, getting down on my knees on the patio. ‘I’ve got to go. The cat has just disappeared into hot neighbour dude’s house.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Go in after him,’ I answer as though obvious. Though it would only be obvious if she was looking at what I am; the sight of a partially open doggy door.
‘Don’t be stupid. That’s breaking and entering.’
‘I can’t let him run free in someone else’s house. Besides, he’s a prize-winning Sphynx. If I lose him, I’ll never get a gig again. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Wait—this is drunk Miranda talking, not sensible, regular—’
‘No, this is desperate Miranda speaking. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ I hang up, deciding I might still be a little tipsy after all.’ Tipsy and desperate, but the only thing that matters right now is: can I pretend to be a golden retriever?
I push the flap upwards with my palm, then wiggle my head and shoulders inside sort of sideways. And there in the middle of the kitchen table, in a beam of moonlight, sits David Meowie with one leg in the air as he inelegantly grooms himself.
‘Come on, David. We both know you don’t have the testicles for it.’ I twist forward, my palms on the cool kitchen tile, then wiggle in a little farther, forward momentum stopping as I reach my hips. ‘Get off the nice, hot neighbour dude’s glass table.’
One thing I won’t miss about living in the homes of London’s wealthy—in addition to cleaning kitty litter and dishing up smelly food—is cleaning cat butt puckers off glossy furniture. Sphynx cats are strange, strange creatures.
There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to twist back onto my side and slide in that way. But as I try, the waistband of my skirt snags on something.
