Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (13 page)

  'Are you still there?'

  'Sorry, Rachel. I was just thinking.'

  'I've warned you about that.' She gives a hoarse laugh. 'Now, can you put together a presentation? I'd do it, but this is your baby.'

  'Leave it with me.'

  'Excellent. Well if we play our cards right, we could be winning two new clients next month. Wouldn't that be fab?'

It's late evening as we sit by the pool drinking
herbes
, the local Mallorcan herbal
digestif
. A fat ivory candle glimmers from the belly of a wrought-iron elephant sitting in the centre of the old Moroccan table. Here and there in the deep blue circular mosaic pattern, tiny slivers of coloured stone are missing, casualties perhaps of torrential rain during one of our inclement winters. Underneath the table my bare foot brushes the rough leather of a discarded sandal. Its owner is Pep who lies back in his chair, replete and patting his stomach.

  'I've eaten too much.'

  'What do you expect, eating two slices of lemon tart?' says Juana.

  'As usual my wife is very sympathetic.'

  Ignoring him, she tosses her head back and stares up at the sky. 'You can almost kiss the stars. It's so peaceful here.'

  'Not for long.' Alan gives Pep a meaningful look.

  'Why?' she asks.

  'Well, once Pep and I have built our corrals, the cocks will be crowing.'

  'Yes, and if your mad wife opens this cattery, you'll have loud caterwauling night and day.'

  Over supper, Pep, like Alan, has already expressed his misgivings about my cattery concept and so I don't want to encourage further discussion now.

  'Leave my cats alone. They'd be as good as gold.'

  'Yes,' says Juana. 'At least they'd be contained. I'm not sure about having a corral with hens running about all over the place.'

  Alan exhales smoke and props his
puro ag
ainst the ashtray in front of him. 'Oh come on, Juana. That's absurd! You want fresh eggs, don't you?'

  'Yes, but not at the expense of sleep.'

  
'Per favor!'
exclaims Pep. 'We're going with Ramon to buy the pullets next month and that's the end of it.'

  Catalina's husband, Ramon, is a bit of a hen expert, having a corral of his own, and has promised to organise a boy's trip to the livestock market in Sineu once Alan and Pep have their corrals constructed.

  'I'm surprised you'll have time for your hens with all this acting and looking after our holiday flat,' says Juana crisply.

  'Well, I think that advert was a one-off. To be honest, all that hanging around on the golf course was a bit boring.'

  'Maybe next time you can get a speaking role instead of driving a buggy around in the background,' I say.

  Pep tries to stifle a laugh. 'Yes, near, rather than distant talent.'

  Orlando does a sweep of the table, brushing up against the legs of Pep and Juana.

  'You don't need to open a cattery. Look at all these flea-bitten cats you're already feeding for free,' goads Pep.

  Alan picks up Orlando, whose thick, fluffy grey fur gives him more the appearance of a bear cub than a kitten. Wincing at the candlelight, his little paws paddle in the air until Alan sets him on the ground again.

  'This one's a mischief. He's been stealing Ollie's marbles. We've had to hide them.'

  'You see,' says Pep theatrically, 'They can't be trusted like dogs. You know, in some of the nearby villages, they lay down poison twice a year to get rid of the strays.'

  I try not to rise to the bait.

  Juana is embarrassed. 'It's horrible, but what do you do? They breed so quickly and no one takes responsibility.'

  'You mean that we don't cut off their
collons
.'

  Juana gives him a kick. 'Don't be so crude.'

  'It's true,' Pep shrugs. 'We Mallorcans think it's cruel to turn our cats into eunuchs.'

  'You think it's kinder to poison them instead?'

  Pep sits up in his chair and squeezes my arm. 'Actually, no I don't. Not at all.'

  Alan gives a small cough and re-lights his cigar. 'It's a full moon,' he murmurs.

  'So,' I say, gulping down a bubble of irritation, 'when do your first holiday tenants arrive?'

  'Mid July,' says Pep, perking up. 'I'm surprised Alan hasn't told you. It's a nice group of Swedish girls.'

  'A hen party?'

  He gives me a wicked grin. 'No, a birthday celebration, I believe. There'll be five of them. I'm sad I won't be here to help out.'

  'Where are you going?'

  Alan answers for him. 'Pep's on a business trip to Switzerland.'

  'So he says,' Juana scoffs. 'I can't think why any bank would give him consultancy work. I never see any of the money, that's for sure.'

  'That's because I leave it in Switzerland where you can't get your paws on it.'

  Alan puts his arm round Juana's shoulders. 'He's a devil!'

  'You're telling me?'

  There's a shrill ringing from the house.

  'Someone must be at the front gate. It's a bit late.'

  Alan gets up and saunters into the kitchen, releasing the front gate's electronic catch. Moments later he cheerfully welcomes two hazy figures at the front door and ushers them through the
entrada
and into the garden. It is our nearest neighbours, Wolfgang and Helge, who live most of the year in Berlin, hopping back and forth to the island for short holidays. Ollie is always delighted when they arrive because Helge plays football with him while Wolfgang spends many an evening sitting on his terrace teaching him card games. Our dinners together are a chaotic and entertaining verbal mixture of German, English, Spanish and Russian.

  'Where is my little Ollie?' cries Helge in Spanish, given that she speaks no English.

  'In bed, I'm afraid.'

  I usher her to a chair.

  Pep gets up and pads, shoeless, into the kitchen and helps himself to some glasses from a kitchen cupboard. He returns and pours them both a drink. Alan hovers by the kitchen door, puffing on his cigar.

  'So', says Wolfgang, with a solemn face as he settles into his chair next to Juana. 'What's with the Berlin Wall?'

  We all look puzzled.

  'You have built a new wall and gate,' says Helge softly.

  Alan puts his hand on Wolfgang's shoulder. 'But it's only a low wall. While you've been away we've had a terrible problem with sheep… '

  Wolfgang shakes his head, mirth crinkling his face. He turns and gives Alan a good-natured punch on the arm. 'You know, even after all this time, you British still don't know when a German is making a joke.'

I pull back the metallic doors of the lift and swing straight into Bernadette's arms. She staggers back, a look of surprise on her face. I notice that she's wearing a light raincoat, but there's no evidence of an umbrella.

  'Sorry, I didn't see you there.'

  'That's all right, my lovey. Look at you now in that nice suit! Where are you going today?'

  'I'm doing a hotel pitch.'

  'And what in heavens name is that when it's at home?'

  For a crazy moment I imagine whisking Bernadette with her feather duster into a taxi and bringing her with me to Leatherhead. I could just picture her bustling into the doubtless staid and airless boardroom where we will be doing our pitch, and telling the directors exactly what she thought of their dreary concept for a country house hotel while munching on a pungent tuna sandwich.

  'There's no such thing as a six star hotel, you bunch of wallies, and in Leatherhead? Are you off your heads?' she would cackle.

  Bernadette is eyeing me curiously. I snap out of my reverie.

  'A pitch? Well we have to go and sell ourselves to a potential new client and hope we win the account.'

  She sniffs into her hankie. 'Is this in London?'

  'Unfortunately not. We have to go to Leatherhead.'

  'Nice bit of country air, though,' she sings. 'Do you the world of good. I must be off to clean the old ladies' rooms now. Ta-ra, darling!'

  She pops into the lift I've just vacated while I drop my key with its round leather fob on the reception desk and head out into the windy street. An anaemic sun is peeping from behind a sheet of grey cloud as I jump into a taxi. South Audley Street is fairly deserted but I know that within half an hour it will be choked with traffic and clouds of exhaust fumes will fill the air. Lazily, I glimpse the dossier of notes Rachel prepared and left for me at reception the night before. Today we will be meeting the executive management team of The Glade, a new golf and country club which they claim in their brief will be a six star venue, attracting the likes of Tom Cruise, Tiger Woods, Michael Douglas and a whole list of golf-loving, celebrity A-listers. I re-read the client brief and snigger. Hollywood comes to Leatherhead. It's not that I have anything against the place but in truth this stretch of leafy suburbia is hardly a likely hang out for Hollywood divas. Someone at The Glade must have a good sense of humour. We have arrived at Waterloo Station. I fight my way across the concourse which is teeming with early commuters and head for the Leatherhead platform where I am supposed to meet Rachel and Sarah, one of our young account executives. In some bewilderment I listen to the deafening tannoy announcements, the brief snatches of loud conversations, music blaring from a cafe, the urgent tooting of a passing rubbish cart, and imagine by contrast the sounds of the Sóller Valley at this hour of the morning. I close my eyes and hear Rafael's cockerel, the plaintive meowing of the cats, the bird call and the sound of a distant tractor. Someone rudely shakes my arm.

  'Well, hello. What on earth are you doing?'

  Rachel is staring into my face and laughing. 'I told you to meet us on the platform, not by the flower stall. You're hopeless!'

  'I was on my way.'

  'Yes, well, let's get going. We can discuss the brief on the train and do a mini-rehearsal.'

  She leads the way, the powerful, determined heels clip-clopping ahead of me and the long hair swinging like a pendulum behind her back. Standing pale-faced and anxious at the platform gate is Sarah. She's wearing a tailored black trouser suit which accentuates her slight frame, and is gripping a thin leather briefcase. She looks relieved to see us.

  'I've got our tickets. We'd better get on.'

  Rachel gives her a cheery smile. 'OK, all present and correct. Now, let's get down to work.'

We are sitting in a makeshift boardroom within a grey, prefab workmen's hut plum in the middle of a drab and barren expanse of terrain which will one day house The Glade Golf and Country Club. For more than an hour an earnest group of men and women in suits have been pounding us with questions and the pitch isn't going well. Despite Rachel and Sarah's best efforts I have been unable to feign even the slightest enthusiasm and have an overpowering dislike of the man leading the questions, a beefy red Irishman named Frank O'Connor who will be The Glade's general manager. I listen to Rachel eloquently highlighting our spa credentials and excellent knowledge of the travel and health press, and have a terrible desire to yawn. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a mouse running the length of one wall, scurrying into a tiny crevice near the door. A moment later, it pops out and stands on its hind legs, eyes bulging and ears twitching as if listening in disbelief to the droning going on at the table. There's a cough. Frank O'Connor, like a squat toad in a shiny grey suit, is glaring at me.

  'Sorry?'

  He exhales impatiently. 'Why do you think celebrities will choose to stay at The Glade?'