Not any more.
‘Who chose Mr Belding from the RSPCA, Summer?’ I ask her with as much calmness as I can manage.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Hebelongsto us both.’
‘It was me. I chose him. You were busy getting your hair dip-dyed, if I remember correctly. You phoned me from the hairdresser to remind me that I had to get the most photogenic one. And who signed the adoption papers?’
‘That doesn’t mean a thing!’
‘Doesn’t it? I don’t own any ofSummer in the Citybecause I didn’t sign anything, remember? But I did sign the papers for Mr Belding. Sotechnically, he’s mine. And … I’m giving him his freedom.’
I lift my chin. I am Jessica Beam – brave and noble rescuer of Internet cats in captivity.
‘You can’t do that!’ she splutters. ‘You … can’t!’
I shrug. ‘You know what, Summer? I think I just did.’ I turn to Peach and link her arm through mine. ‘Come on, Lady P. Let’s … let’s blow this joint.’
I’ve never, ever saidlet’s blow this jointbefore, but I heard it on a film once and it seems the kind of hard-core thing you should say at a moment like this. Peach links my arm, a look of blatant admiration on her face. And with that, we strut out of the club, leaving Summer staring furiously after us.
* * *
In an effort to re-buoy the mood of the night, Peach and I end up in a late-night karaoke bar, wailing 80s power tunes until the small hours. Of course it works – there’s nothing a bit of ‘Love Is a Battlefield’ at full blast cannot fix. It’s past curfew when we get back to Bonham Square, munching on greasy kebabs from a dubious nearby takeaway and quoting our favourite jokes from 30 Rock.
In order to avoid waking Grandma by even attempting to navigate the hallway of doom, we scramble up from the bottom windowsill to my bedroom balcony instead, clutching onto the cast-iron railings for dear life. Jamie was right. This is much harder and more dangerous than it looks. Luckily, Peach manages to yank me up quite easily with her mega farm-girl strength.
‘I think this was the besht time of mah life,’ she whispers as we tumble into the quiet, darkened bedroom, trying to muffle our laughter like a pair of giddy teenagers. When the single working grandfather clock echoes throughout the house, chiming three times, Peach laughs even harder. ‘Three a.m.,’ she breathes in delighted disbelief. ‘I feel alive! I feel like I can achieve anything! What a night!’
I grin back at her. In spite of the unexpected and grim altercation with Summer – maybe even because of it − itwasa pretty damn good night, all things considered.
Once Peach has drunkenly wobbled off to bed, I pick Mr Belding up from the stripy tub chair where he’s lazily stretched out beside Felicity, the world’s most ominous looking doll.
I give him a merry smile. ‘You’re my cat now,’ I tell him, wonkily carrying him over to his spot on the pillow. ‘And, as Felicity is my witness, I promise you this, Mr Belding: you will never,everhave to wear shit cat clothes again. I …’ I take a deep breath. ‘I release you.’
Mr Belding doesn’t respond per se, but I like to think I can see a smidgeon of relief cross his furry face.
I am so drunk.
