Walking Back to Happiness (19 page)

She gazed around the kitchen, hoping for a clue. According to the gospel of television, a person’s soft furnishings held the secret solution to most problems. Mrs Cox had a whole set of novelty teapots on her dresser, and framed photographs of family everywhere Juliet looked. Children, teenagers, young people with babies, all extending the Cox line. Again, Juliet felt the pang of her own snapped-off family tree and squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden clutch in her stomach.

Down by her feet, Bianca mewed piteously. The imperious air had fallen away. She just looked sad. Abandoned.

‘You’d rather be with your mum, wouldn’t you? On a cruise. I can see you on a cruise, Bianca.’ Juliet picked her up and immediately she began to purr, her little body vibrating. Underneath the fluff there was barely any cat at all.

‘Poor Bianca,’ she murmured, as the elderly cat rubbed her silky head against her neck. ‘You just want a cuddle, don’t you? There was nothing about that in the notes. Silly Mummy, forgetting the most important part.’

But why would there be? Affection and the odd kind word was just something you did with your pets – with
anyone
you loved. It was so instinctive it wasn’t even part of the contract.

And you didn’t even notice it until it wasn’t there any more. That was what Juliet missed, the offer of a coffee when someone made one for themselves, the unexpected hug when she was washing up. The contact and thoughts that stopped each day feeling like solitary confinement.

The falling sensation rushed up at her, accompanied by that darkness, the rest of her life stretching out, alone. Minton was already eight or so, he wouldn’t be around for ever, and . . .

More pitiful mewling broke through Juliet’s thoughts and she looked down to see Boris scratching at himself on the floor, his white fur polluted with hideous black lumps like leeches. One giant blob was stuck to his face and he was batting it hopelessly with a paw.

‘Boris!’ Juliet dumped Bianca unceremoniously on the kitchen table and grabbed her brother. ‘What have you got on your—’

Treacle toffee. Lots of it. All stuck on his long, white fur.

‘Oh . . . no,’ said Juliet.

Back in the front seat of the van, Minton wasn’t thrilled to see Juliet come out of the house armed with a big wicker cat basket, and Bianca and Boris weren’t delighted to see Minton, despite what Mrs Cox had said about them fending off a Labrador at the vet’s, but Juliet didn’t think any of them had a choice.

It wasn’t even as though she had any bright ideas about how she was going to get the toffee out of Boris’s fur, but she didn’t want to do her panicking in Mrs Cox’s house, just in case a neighbour heard the squalling and popped round to check Juliet wasn’t torturing the cats.

But when she turned the key in her own front door, she realised her house wasn’t audience-free either: the strains of something loud by Guns N’ Roses drifted down her stairs, accompanied by singing and hammering.

Lorcan was in, doing something in the bathroom.

Oh
great
, she thought. This was the first time since Ben died that she could remember coming in to find music on, someone moving around in her house – which was disturbing enough on its own – but now she’d have an audience for her unprofessional cat panic.

Minton’s tail was beating against the door like a drum. He wasn’t hiding his delight at hearing Lorcan was in, the fickle creature.

‘Lorcan?’ she yelled up the stairs, then wondered why she was announcing herself in her own house.

‘Juliet?’ The music was switched off and Lorcan’s feet came pounding down the stairs. ‘Guess what?’

‘What?’ She put Boris and Bianca’s basket down on the sofa, and their flat heads appeared against the wire front, checking out the sitting room.

Lorcan appeared in the doorway, his broad face wreathed in smiles, his black curls flattened slightly with sweat. ‘I hope either Minton or yourself has come back from that dog-walking all covered in mud, because the new shower is . . . Oh.’ He stopped, seeing the cat basket and her distraught face. ‘Have you been crying?’

‘No. The shower’s in?’ said Juliet.

‘Yeah. Well, nearly. I was hoping to get it done before you got back, but . . . Is that a cat?’

‘Two.’ Juliet clutched her forehead, as Boris began mewling again, desperate to get out.

‘Can I . . . help?’ he tried.

‘I don’t know. Do you know how to get toffee out of fur? Any clever tricks with turps?’ she asked desperately.

‘No,’ said Lorcan. ‘I once singed my hair on a lighting rig. Had to shave the lot. Looked like a matchstick for weeks!’

‘Oh God,’ she groaned, sinking onto the sofa next to the cats. ‘That’s it, then. My career as a pet-sitter, over.’

‘But I know someone who will know,’ Lorcan went on.

‘Who?’

‘Emer.’ He nodded next door. ‘You don’t want to know the things that Roisin’s had stuck in her hair. And she won’t let anyone cut it out – show her a pair of scissors and she’s like a vampire with garlic.’

Faint hope flickered in Juliet’s chest. ‘Will Emer be able to do it on a cat, though?’

Lorcan gave her an amused glance. ‘Let me tell you, whatever you’ve got in that basket’s going to scratch a lot less than Roisin.’

Lorcan didn’t bother to knock, but yelled, ‘Emer?’ and went straight on into the hall, Juliet following at a polite distance with the wicker carrier.

Immediately the twins appeared – not silently, but with a fanfare of pounding feet on the bare floorboards.

‘Loorrrccaan!’ they yelled, throwing themselves at his legs as if he’d been away at sea for months, instead of next door for half a day.

‘Calm down,’ he said, detaching their hands without embarrassment. ‘No autographs, no pictures.’

Was he
really
just a family friend? Juliet wondered. They seemed much closer than that, almost like an uncle. The more she thought about it, the more weird it was that someone like Lorcan didn’t live with a girlfriend of his own.

Lorcan caught her confused expression and grinned. ‘They’ve seen too many tour videos,’ he said. ‘They think this is the way you’re meant to greet people.’

‘Florrie! Look! It’s a cat! Juliet’s got a
cat
!’

Juliet was flattered that Roisin had remembered her name, but her ears buzzed at the shriekiness of her voice. She wasn’t used to so much noise, so close, and neither were Bianca and Boris. They shrank back inside the carrier, as Roisin’s sticky fingers probed the wire and Florrie kneeled and cooed.

Emer appeared at the back of the hall, drying her hands on a tea towel. Today she was wearing a striped cook’s pinny over a patchwork dress, and her hair was piled up on her head, but she still exuded a warm sexiness, like a rock’n’roll Nigella Lawson.

‘Jeez, would you dial it down a notch, Roisin?’ she bellowed, only slightly less loudly. ‘Hello, Juliet! Oh my God, please don’t tell me you’ve brought us more pets. Florrie, don’t even look at them,’ she instructed as Florrie flung herself at the basket. ‘Don’t. Even. Look.’

‘Florrie’s forever filling this place with furry randoms,’ Lorcan explained over the sound of Florrie’s cat-soothing mews. ‘Anything with one leg, or no ears, or traumatised by the school kids. Then they come here and get traumatised properly by Roisin. Emer, Juliet was hoping you could help her with a little problem.’

‘I’m looking after these Persian cats for someone and . . .’ Juliet was conscious of Emer taking her in, noting her jeans, her hair, her voice, her amused half-smile never changing. ‘I don’t suppose you know how to get toffee out of fur, do you? Without cutting it?’

‘Now, what made you think I might have experience in sticky, messy, toffee-related dramas?’ she asked.

‘Lorcan thought . . .’ Juliet stammered, unsure whether the outrage on Emer’s face was serious.

‘Like the time Roisin got bubblegum stuck in my hair and you had to put peanut butter on it,’ suggested Florrie. ‘Or when Smokey walked in the toffee for the toffee apples you were making and we had to go to the vet’s and the vet said that Smokey would have to have an operation and Lorcan put oil on Smokey’s paws and you said if it didn’t work, we could make mittens out of—’

Emer reached forward and placed her hand over Florrie’s mouth. ‘Smokey is not big enough for mittens. And we love him.’ She winked at Juliet. ‘You could say we have some experience of confectionery accidents and long hair, yes. Bring it through. Let’s have a look.’

Juliet let out a relieved breath.

‘If you cat experts don’t need me, I’ll just nip upstairs and freshen up,’ said Lorcan. He pulled at his T-shirt and Juliet realised it was damp in patches.  ‘You smell,’ agreed Roisin.

‘Urgh,’ said Florrie.

Lorcan raised his eyebrows at Juliet but she grinned and shook her head.  ‘Not disagreeing.’

‘Right, then!’ commanded Emer. ‘Bring the cat to the operating table!’

Juliet followed Emer down the dark-green hall to the kitchen, bookended by Roisin and Florrie. They had a friendly curiosity that made Juliet feel as if she was the child and they were the grown-ups. She didn’t remember being so open with strangers at their age, but then her dad had been a quantity surveyor for Longhampton Council, not a tour manager.

‘Excuse the chaos,’ said Emer, sweeping a stack of paintings off the kitchen table. The room was a jumble of activity. Huge framed tour posters filled the walls, and two large pans of peeled potatoes were standing on the side, with some sort of school science project on the counter, and a basket of unironed laundry by the door.

As they all came in, Smokey leaped out of the laundry basket and vanished into the garden, leaving the cat-flap clattering in his wake.

‘Can I get him out?’ asked Florrie, as Juliet put the carrier on the table. ‘I’ll be really careful.’

‘We all have to be very careful,’ said Emer. ‘Remember what happened to Hammy, Roisin.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ whined Roisin. ‘But Hammy wriggled . . .’

‘He’s gorgeous,’ cooed Florrie. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Boris. Um, can we leave Bianca where she is?’

Bianca stayed firmly on her side of the divider, while Boris emerged blinking into the bright light, his toffee leeches even more grotesque than they had been at Mrs Cox’s.

‘That’s a
witch’s
cat,’ breathed Roisin. ‘Like in Harry Potter.’

‘We’ve been here before.’ Emer inspected Boris briskly, pulling the toffee to see how stuck it was. ‘No problem. We can sort this. I just need to get my magic tools. Now, you stay here,’ she said to the girls. ‘Offer Juliet a drink.’

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Florrie politely, as Emer vanished back up the stairs.

Was she going into the bathroom? wondered Juliet. Where Lorcan was showering? The pipes were clanking, just like hers did when the hot water was running. Maybe there were two showers. Or an en suite.

Both girls were staring at her with their spooky blue eyes. ‘Oh, er. Thank you, yes,’ she stammered.

Roisin went over to the huge American fridge and pulled it open. Unlike Juliet’s, it was crammed to the gunnels with food and Tupperware containers, and all different kinds of milk.

‘What would you like?’ She began rhyming off the options, starting with Diet Coke, Coke, Cherry Coke and heading towards rum and Coke.

While she was listing away, Juliet could hear voices upstairs – Lorcan’s and Emer’s. In the bathroom?

Stop it, she told herself. This isn’t daytime telly, where you can be nosy.

‘I’ll have a Diet Coke. Please.’

‘Ice and a slice?’ enquired Roisin. ‘Or straight up?’

‘On the rocks. Thank you.’

As Roisin reached up to get the glasses, Florrie stroked Boris and regarded Juliet with a clear look that Juliet found far more unsettling than Roisin’s ghost outfit.

‘What’s Lorcan doing in your house?’ she asked.

‘He’s fixing my shower.’

‘Don’t you have a man to fix it?’

‘No.’ Juliet swallowed. ‘My man . . . My husband died.’

‘Like a ghost?’

‘No,’ said Juliet. ‘Not like a ghost.’

Since they were obviously fine with questions, she thought she might as well try one of her own. ‘Does Lorcan live here all the time?’

‘Not all the time,’ said Florrie. ‘Only when Daddy’s away.’

‘Really?’

‘Lorcan’s Mum’s bodyguard,’ explained Roisin, pushing her very full glass over the table at her. ‘Like in the films.’

‘Right . . .’ Juliet wasn’t sure what to make of that.

‘Lorcan looks after Mummy. And fixes the house. And does the thing with the bins where you tie up the bags. She can’t do that on her own.’

‘Well, neither can I,’ admitted Juliet. Ben had had a knack, a way of spinning the bag that she could never master. He used to laugh about the way she always ended up with yoghurt somewhere. It had slipped her mind till now, and of course now she couldn’t forget it.

‘And Lorcan
loves
Mummy,’ Roisin went on.

‘Roisin!’ Florrie turned red.

‘Yes, he
does
,’ said Roisin. ‘I heard him saying that to her once, in the kitchen.’ She widened her eyes. ‘He gave her a hug. She was crying, and he told that he
loved
her, and . . .’

‘Roisin! You were listening! You know what Mummy says about listening!’ Florrie mimed something pinching off her nose, then, after a second’s thought, reached over and pinched Roisin’s nose for her.

Roisin howled in amplified agony and lashed out at Florrie with a surprisingly swift punch.

‘Hey, hey!’ Juliet stepped between them. ‘That’s enough!’

She felt like Supernanny for about two seconds, until she absorbed Florrie’s retaliatory punch right in the side of the hip.

‘Ow!’ she groaned. ‘Florrie, you’re meant to be the nice one . . .’

‘What’s going on here? Fight Club’s Sunday, right?’

Lorcan appeared in the doorway, his hair wet from the shower and a crumpled T-shirt pulled over his head.

He did look very much at home. Roisin wasn’t the most reliable source of info, but even taken with a pinch of salt, it didn’t take a lot of imagining. Those weird arrangements rock-music-type people had. Why wouldn’t you turn a blind eye to some mate looking after your woman while you weren’t at home?