Heavenly Pleasures (5 page)

This is, in fact, what happened. George condescended to sweep the floor, the chocolates were carefully covered with a cloth and the display cabinet glass and the window were cleaned. George left, followed by Juliette. Vivienne remained in the shop. She turned away into the back room and shut the door behind her.

‘Fin,’ said Daniel. ‘Applause.’

‘You know, watching too many of these could make you feel very sorry for the human race,’ I said, leaning on him.

‘It does,’ he responded. ‘It also makes me want to go to bed with you,’ he added.

That sounded like a good idea. We did that. And Horatio, who is a perceptive animal, stayed where he was on the couch.

C
_HA
PTER FIVE

Horatio was there, purring, when I woke, however, promptly and automatically at four. I stroked him, momentarily regretted the lack of Daniel, and did my favourite Saturday morning thing: I turned over and went firmly back to sleep. Extra sleep is such a luxury. One reason why I had never had children is that I might have been woken up once too often and then had to donate them to the Salvation Army to get some sleep, and that isn’t socially responsible behaviour.

Another reason is that James would have been their father and I would not wish that on any child. Poor creatures, isn’t a world with George Bush in it bad enough, without adding James to the mix? Out of the question. Whatever Jason might say, I am not a cruel woman.

I snuggled down into my pillow and only had time for one groan of pure pleasure before I was waking up again and it was ten in the morning and high time to get some breakfast. As this was also Horatio’s opinion we went into the parlour, picked up our current novel, and settled down with pasta douro toast, marmalade and coffee—and kitty dins for him—

53

to spend a quiet morning. I took my breakfast out onto the balcony where Trudi’s green leafy things were (remarkably) still alive and idly watched the alley. Always something to watch in Calico Alley.

The day had clouded over. We might actually get some rain. Horatio, who is a very good forecaster (he hates getting wet and is convinced that rain is caused by some negligent human omitting to keep the sky in good repair), had moved under the canopy and was washing his ears. Rain coming, all right. I didn’t have to go out. I had yielded to laziness and emailed my grocery order to the supermarket. I was tired of hauling all those heavy tins of cat food up to the apartment. Did the cats thank me for it? They did not. Let someone who is paid to haul things haul them. My excuse was that bakers put a lot of strain on their backs already, heaving sacks of flour around, and I should preserve my spinal health. It was a good excuse and I was sticking to it.

And here came the grocery van, on schedule. Brisk persons in dustcoats got out those ingenious trolley things and began wheeling boxes into the building. I opened my door for a young man who wheeled the trolley in, unloaded the boxes, smiled, and was gone in an instant. But not before I noticed that the other boxes were marked for Pluto, and that Mr White had laid in really quite a lot of booze and what looked like the whole range of frozen cuisine.

I put away the groceries. Since someone else was carrying it I had bought a new sack of kitty litter, enough tinned cat food to feed a group of full grown tigers, and a lot of heavy things like new bottles of brandy and gin, a fresh chateau collapseau, a lot of potatoes, ingredients for a number of meals and soups: lentils, dried beans, chicken stock, vegetables and both ham hocks and lamb shanks. I stuffed all the perishables into my commodious fridge and went back to the balcony. I had a new Jade Forrester. And another cup of coffee. And although slightly sore in several places which hadn’t felt any friction since I left James, I was very happy.

Mrs Dawson came past just as it began to rain, and opened one of the most beautiful umbrellas I had ever seen. It was patterned with Van Gogh sunflowers. It cheered the whole alley until she disappeared inside, furling it as she went. Her silk shirt was mushroom pink today, softening her severe grey serge trouser suit. We at Insula were lucky to have a woman of such impeccable taste living amongst us. I made a mental note to be watching when she went to church tomorrow. I was quite sure that Mrs Dawson would go to the cathedral for matins.

I could see down the lane a little. Heavenly Pleasures was open and doing good business, to judge by the number of people who passed with little blue and gold boxes in their hands or tucking them into pockets. I reflected on the strange position which chocolate held in my society. How had a paste made of crushed cocoa-beans become so important? How had a bitter bean come to mean comfort, reconciliation and kindness? These were deep matters.

I finished my coffee and pottered off to do Saturday things. The washing. Feeding the Mouse Police and cleaning out two litter trays. Reading all the bits of the paper which did not concern politics, due to politics at present not being good for my digestion or my temper. Meroe came to the door at noon with her furry yoyo and a basket of her special salad leaves, which (despite what she says) I know are flown in by express broomstick from Fairyland every morning. Nothing earthly tastes that good.

Set down, Lucifer immediately dived on Horatio, who, woken from rightful slumber, hissed and swiped before he realised that he was slapping a kitten. Then he ascended the sofa and sat with his back to us, mortified.

‘How is Belladonna taking this invasion of kitten?’ I asked, laying out cheese and bread and various fruits of the earth.

‘With complete lack of poise,’ sighed Meroe. ‘She refuses to leave the shop if Lucifer is in my apartment and is presently not speaking to me at all. And he’s such a dear little thing,’ she added, watching fondly as Lucifer sprang onto the table, investigated the cheese and butter, and was gently dissuaded from curling up for a brief rest in the salad bowl. Exhausting the possibilities of the table, he dived down again and devoted some time and energy to finding out whether a silk tassel from the curtain would unravel. It held out gamely, even when bounced on and then pinned down under paw and chewed. I was getting tired just watching him.

‘I’ve an idea about Lucifer,’ I told Meroe. ‘I think he needs broader pastures and new challenges,’ I went on.

‘That,’ sighed Meroe, ‘is true.’

‘Therefore I suggest that we pay Trudi to take him around with her, safely secured in his harness, on all her worldly occasions,’ I said. ‘She’s on the move all day, gardening and so on. Get him out into the fresh air. Get his paws dirty.’

‘But Trudi doesn’t like cats,’ objected Meroe, taking a large helping of salad.

‘I bet she’ll fall for Lucifer after a week or two,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it ought to give him something to do. He might even learn sense,’ I added, though not with any real confidence.

‘I’ll go halves,’ she said, as the tassel finally gave way and enveloped the kitten in about a hundred metres of yellow thread. In which he rolled, entangling himself like a fly in a web. Then he lay there, waving his one free paw and waiting for someone to get him out. I was all for leaving him there until we finished lunch but Meroe insisted and eventually we had to cut him out. Then he bounced up onto the couch to try for Horatio’s tail.

Horatio glanced around, glared, and returned to his station. His back conveyed his immovable resolve not to come down until this small detestable beast was gone, and probably not for some time thereafter. Lovers are bad enough, he seemed to be trying to convey. But kittens are the end.

By mutual consent, Meroe and I put off our cup of coffee (me), camomile tea (her) and took Lucifer up to Ceres. Trudi was home, looking through a bulb catalogue. We explained our problem. Lucifer sat on the table, paws together, looking as though he was plotting something dreadful.

Trudi is Dutch, sixty-ish, with short white hair and strong hands. She is responsible for fixing recalcitrant machinery, replacing light bulbs, understanding the cargo lift, maintain
ing the garden, harassing tradesmen and letting people in when they have forgotten their keys or their passcodes or, like Andy Holliday, who they are and where they live. Since he got his daughter Cherie back, he has been going easier on the bottle, but he memorably once woke the whole building with his feeling rendition of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. Trudi had hauled him up to his apartment single-handedly. She is formidable.

And she didn’t look very happy about being landed with Lucifer. But she needs the money and after Meroe had explained that Lucifer needed scope for his adventurous nature, agreed to take him for a week.

Before she could change her mind, we provided her with a litter tray and a bag of litter, kitten food and dishes, and instructed her on how to remove and replace his harness. The kitten dived on Trudi and, as we were leaving, was trying the edge of her bulb catalogue for edibility.

Meroe and I retreated to my apartment for our beverage of choice.

‘I hope he’ll be all right with her,’ said Meroe guiltily, as though we had just sold the little ratbag to a furrier.

‘Of course he will be,’ I said bracingly. ‘Now Belladonna may forgive you and Horatio may forgive me, and Lucifer will get to see the wide open spaces. Have a citrus muffin?’

‘Few situations cannot be improved by a muffin,’ she said, and bit. ‘Lovely! One of Jason’s inventions?’

‘He’s working on new ones all the time,’ I said. ‘This is made orangey by candied orange rind. He candied it himself. He has the instincts of a really good pastry chef. I’ll have to let him go in a few years, to do a proper apprenticeship. But he’s still a little shaky on reading and writing and of course he might go bung at any moment. He’s always messed things up before, he says so himself.’

‘Self-fulfilling prophecies,’ said Meroe. ‘He might not. Well, that was lovely. Thank you for lunch and the solution to the Lucifer problem.’

‘Thank you for the salad,’ I said, really meaning it.

Meroe left to go back to the Sibyl’s Cave, her magic shop. It has a little doll in a bottle by the door, marked ‘A Present from Cumae’, which always makes Professor Monk laugh. I keep meaning to ask him about that. There the seeker after knowledge can purchase anything from sheep’s shoulderblades for divination to herbs, runes, books of spells, occult jewellery, holy water from a variety of sources, little statues of any given deity, Egyptian oils, incense and tarot cards. They may also have a refreshing look at Belladonna, a cat so black that light almost falls through her, who lies in the tiny window and attracts custom by batting idly at the Celtic symbols and looking inscrutable, depending on mood. It is considered lucky, in the occult community, to stroke Belladonna upon entering the Sibyl’s Cave. I had detected amongst the magicians a tendency to talk to Bella as though she was Meroe. I suppose, under some circumstances, she might be. You never know with witches, and you certainly never know with cats.

I cleared the table and sat down to read some more of my Jade Forrester. She has been diversifying into sci-fi lately. She’s very good at it, if light on for detail of where the crew got this ship and how it works. But how she was going to get her Avon and Roj together—given their mutual loathing and total refusal to understand that they were made for each other— I could not imagine. I read on, through another cup of coffee. Horatio got down from the sofa, sniffed the areas which Lucifer had marked with his profane little paws, sneezed, then levitated to the table for a conciliatory scratch behind the ears.

‘He’s gone now,’ I said soothingly. ‘Trudi has him.’

Horatio sneezed again, implying that Trudi was welcome to him. Then he settled down next to my book rest in his usual loaf shape, paws folded under, and began to purr. What with the rain and the purring and the Jade Forrester, I was well occupied until about five, when Daniel came to my door. He rang, even though he had a key. When I let him in he was carrying a rucksack.

‘I thought you mightn’t mind if I left a few clothes and things here,’ he said. ‘In case I come in like I did before, in need of first aid and smelling like a drain. If you don’t mind? I don’t want you to think that I’m moving in on you, Corinna.’

‘A good idea, there’s an empty wardrobe in the spare bedroom,’ I offered.

‘I’ll stash the stuff, then,’ he said.

My spare bedroom is always ready for anyone who wants to sleep amongst the things which somehow I can’t throw away and might still need, like old clothes, and the things which I will need but needn’t keep on display, like my sewing machine and box of fabrics. I also keep my To Be Read pile of books there. The TBR is now taller than me, and never seems to get any shorter. The wardrobe, however, is empty, if hard to get to. Daniel had brought two changes of underwear, a pair of jeans, a pair of boots, two t-shirts and a jacket. He also had a plastic bag which contained shaving things and spare keys, judging by the clunk as he put it on the shelf. I delved for an emotion. When men start leaving clothes in your house, sooner or later they move in, that was the maxim. I did not feel threatened.

Besides, it was Daniel. I made him some coffee and we sat down. Horatio elevated his chin for Daniel’s attentions. I explained about Lucifer and Daniel approved.

‘Nice for him to get out into the fresh air,’ he remarked. ‘Trudi may not like cats but she will take care of him. A good solution, ketschele. By the way, I met your mystery man in the lift. Most odd.’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘He wouldn’t look at me,’ said Daniel, puzzled, ‘yet I’m sure that I have seen him somewhere before.’

‘In person?’

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I really can’t remember. I might have just passed him in the street, of course. But I agree with Meroe. There are shutters behind his eyes.’

‘What did he look like?’ I asked.

‘Tallish, dark hair turning to grey at the temples. Brown eyes, what I could see of them. Nice suit, but not handmade. Glasses. Well-kept hands. Looked like an accountant, something like that. Maybe forty years old. He had a shopping bag with him. I didn’t try to talk to him.’

‘Good move, why set out to be snubbed? What shall we do tonight?’

‘Do you feel like going out? I’m in favour of an earlyish night, but I’d like some dinner.’

‘Not to the club,’ I said. Blood Lines needed preparation, like black nail polish and a full cosmetic makeover, which I did not feel like doing. ‘Just for a bite of dinner?’

‘Nice. Anywhere in the city?’

‘Let’s be bold,’ I said, ‘and go to my favourite cafe in the world. In Brunswick Street. And we shall travel by tram.’

We had negotiated our first date! I was elated. Daniel had said what he wanted to do, it happened to be what I wanted to do, and we were agreed. I leaned over and kissed him, just because I could. The kiss was deepening agreeably when we were interrupted by the doorbell.