Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (9 page)

  'Well then, how's tricks?'

  'Good, especially now I'm not back here so much.'

  'Come on guv, you love the buzz. Imagine being stuck in Mallorca all the time. You'd be bored stiff.'

  'Maybe.'

  'As sure as
huevos
are
huevos
,' he says idiotically. 'Anyway, you're over that flying phobia nonsense, aren't you?'

  'Just about.'

  'Course you are. Now, more importantly, did you get my stuff in the post?'

  'If you mean the cat fetishist range, then yes.'

  'And?' He rubs his big paws together and eyes me keenly.

  'To be frank, squeezing into the cat suit was a bit of a challenge, but the cape just about fitted.'

  'Ha ha. Very funny, guv. Glad all that cava hasn't addled your brain.'

  'So what's with the cats and how's New York?'

  He takes a slurp of champagne. 'It's been surreal. You wouldn't believe some of the people I've met.'

  'Met or upset?'

  He gives me a shove. 'Both, now you come to mention it. There are a load of arseholes, but some good eggs too. Anyway, a few months back I banged into this hot chick at one of Bryan's cocktail do's and she asked me if I did bondage gear for dogs. Got me thinking.'

  'I'm sure. How is Bryan?'

  'Same old woofter. Tootsie, his rabbit, is still going strong. Daft bugger asked me to design it a leather jacket, can you believe?'

I sip my champagne and stretch back on the sofa, wondering how I've managed to keep sane all these years.

  George is still chortling. 'That's when the pet gear idea came to me. I mean, everyone's soppy as hell about cats and dogs in Manhattan. I'm starting production next week.'

  He rustles in a bag at his side. 'I've brought you some dog wear samples.'

  'You're all heart.'

  He spills the contents of the bag out onto the small square table and ferrets through it.

  'Ah, here we go. This is the dog's bollocks. A croc collar inlaid with emeralds. I'll retail that at around three thousand dollars.'

  'You're kidding?'

  'Course not. This stuff will walk out the door.'

  'I suppose you'll have a fashion preview for the press? Some little pooches and Persians mincing up a catwalk?'

  He ignores the irony in my voice. 'Not a bad idea, guv. I like that.'

  'So how soon would we be able to launch this pet wear range?'

  'I'm aiming for November to catch pre-Christmas sales.'

  'Perfect. That gives us bags of lead-in time.'

  He orders more champagne and for the next few hours we set about a marketing strategy for his new range. The PR team he has hired in Manhattan are predictably 'awestruck' at his brilliance, but given that they're being paid $20,000 a month, they jolly well ought to be.

  I scan my watch and realise that I have to leave. James and Sophie, some old friends of ours, have invited me to a dinner party at their home in Pimlico. Greedy George is off to the launch of a new jewellery store on Bond Street and promises to email me product information and images soon.

  'The sky's the limit, guv,' he yells coarsely as he strides through the lobby, stopping to stroke the bronze cat on the way out. 'I'll be the cat's whiskers of Manhattan, just wait and see.'

  And with that, he disappears into the night.

The sky is clear and the air as hot and fiery as dragon's breath. Boring through the kitchen window an intrusive sun rests its honeyed gaze on my fingers as I sit sifting flour into a large wooden bowl. It would be a misnomer to tag me domestic goddess, and yet with all the cocoa powder and energy I can muster on a day crackling with heat, I decide that the time has come to earn filial respect. This is no easy feat. Cake day beckons at Ollie's school, an occasion when mothers are encouraged to bake and deliver home-made morsels which are sold for a charitable cause. In London it might be acceptable to breeze along to Waitrose or M&S to snap up some pre-packed cup cakes without a thought, but here it's not so simple. There's an expectation, unspoken though it is, that real mothers bake their own. With some impatience I scan the pages of the tattered American cookery book splayed out on the oak table. I've decided to make chocolate muffins. What can be easier than that?

  Some time later Catalina bursts into the
entrada
holding a massive package. She dumps it on the table and in automatic pilot mode, fills the kettle.

  'Something smells good. Cooking Alan a birthday cake?'

  'He's on a diet, remember.'

  She pounces on the cake bowl and runs her finger round it. 'Life's too short for diets. Where is he anyway?'

  On cue, Alan strides into the kitchen. 'Is the kettle on?'

  'I'll make you a coffee as it's your birthday,' she gives him a wink. 'By the way, that's for you.'

  Alan follows the jerk of her head and approaches the table. 'Can I open it?'

  Catalina leans against the work surface and watches as he removes the outer packaging. Inside, the head of a bonsai tree pops up. A shawl of red foil and silver ribbon billows around its neck. Alan is entranced.

  'Just a little something from Ramon and me.'

  'I've never had a bonsai,' he declares, gently examining the gnarled bark of its miniature trunk. 'I can't thank you enough.'

  I look at my watch and declare that the muffins should be cooked. In anticipation, Catalina and Alan hover like vultures around the oven door. I lift out the trays one by one, immediately realising that something has gone awry. The muffins have risen up from their cases like enormous, brown mushrooms. How did that happen? We all look at each other.

  'Too much baking powder,' I lament.

  'So what? I bet they'll taste just as good,' says Catalina, helping herself to one of the largest. She takes a bite and then fans her open mouth with her hand. 'It's delicious.'

  Alan pulls one from the tray then juggles it in his hands. 'It's a bit hot.'

  I shoo them away. 'I haven't topped them with icing yet.'

  There's a loud tooting from the courtyard. Catalina, carrying a mug of tea, walks through the
entrada
to the front door. She shouts over to us.

  'Alan, it's a man from UPS. He has a delivery.'

  A tall, cumbersome figure stands by the front door, holding an enormous box in his arms. He wrestles it to the marble floor and then returns to his car to fetch another, smaller carton. Catalina is full of excitement.

  'What can it be?'

  The Scotsman looks on, mystified. 'I've no idea.'

  I wipe my hands on a tea towel, secretly amused at their growing curiosity. The parcels, I was informed by UPS, would have to be stored over the weekend at the Madrid depot. Given the nature of the content I was concerned that some catastrophic incident might occur, but the manufacturers in the UK assured me that nothing could escape and that everything would arrive alive and intact. I'm relieved that UPS has finally made it to the valley. The man mops his moist brow with a hankie.

  'Could you sign this delivery note?'

  Alan scrawls his name on the sheet and the man takes his leave.

  'I suppose you know what's in here?'

  'Maybe,' I give a small shrug.

  'Let's get some scissors!' cries Catalina.

  'Wait a minute,' I say, sounding a deliberate note of caution. 'Please be careful with the smaller package. The contents are very delicate.'

  Alan is puzzled. 'Delicate?'

  The telephone rings.

  'Wait a second,' I hiss and flit back into the kitchen. It's Manuel Ramirez from H Hotels. His timing is always immaculate.

  'Hello, I am Manuel,' he announces with aplomb.

  In Spanish it would be considered normal to pick up the telephone and say, '
Soy Manuel
', but, of course, it sounds silly in English.

  I greet him warmly.

  'Is this line safe?' There's a twitchiness in his voice.

  'Of course. Why?'

  'You never know who is listening.'

  In Panama City, Manuel rides around in a limo with bulletproof glass and his trusted PA will never reveal either his home address or personal telephone numbers. Last time we spoke he mentioned
en passant
that he'd ordered some super lightweight, bulletproof outer wear from an ingenious tailor in Colombia who, he told me, kitted out the presidents of every Latin American country. He's an intriguing chap.

  Manuel's voice takes on a strange huskiness. 'Listen, I will be brief.'

  Thank heavens for that. I potter into the
entrada
with the cordless phone to my ear. Catalina has already fetched some scissors from the kitchen drawer and is jabbing at the outer packaging of the smaller box. Alan is trying to make head or tail of the label. Without pausing for breath, Manuel babbles on, swinging between English and Spanish. H Hotels has signed up another hotel in Tribeca in New York, and two in Cuba, he tells me.

  'Marvellous,' I say distractedly, clicking the fingers of my left hand to attract Catalina's attention. She's already managed to yank up one of the side flaps of the box.

  Catalina frowns at me.
'Que?'
she mouths.

  I frantically click my fingers again and point at the box with a warning grimace hoping this will stop her from delving any further inside.

  Manuel stops dead. 'What was that? I think someone's tapping the line.'

  'No, Manuel, I can assure you everything's fine. Carry on.'

  Catalina ignores me altogether and with Alan's help begins pulling at the polythene inner wrapping.

  'We will have a November launch for the Tribeca hotel,' Manuel is steely. 'And I expect you and Rachel to attend.'

  'Of course, but is there any chance of it coinciding with the marathon? You remember I'm running in it?'

  He suddenly breaks into hysterical, manic laughter. 'Of course, woman. I've timed everything to coincide. The hotel launch will take place the day after the marathon. As far as that's concerned, you will run in under four hours and I will give you a donation of two thousand dollars.'

  'In
under
four hours?'

  The Scotsman is thrusting his hand into the package. I jump up and down and shake my head, but he and Catalina are too engrossed.

  'A second over and you fail me,' Manuel says darkly.

  Perhaps that's when he'll pull the gold Kalashnikov from the wall and finish me off.

  'That's very generous of you, Manuel, but it's a bit of a tall order.'

  He is deadpan. 'I have made you my final offer. Tomorrow, I'll send you the hotel launch brief for your comments. Don't show anybody. Now I must go.
Adios
.'

  The line hums. He's gone. The man's a completely paranoid lunatic and now he's my client. Thanks a lot, Rachel. I drop the telephone onto the sofa.

  '
Ah!!!!!
'

  It's too late. With fumbling, eager fingers, Alan has delved into the smaller cardboard box and with a sharp cry of surprise, pulled out his hand which in turn releases several wriggling worms. Catalina recoils in horror.

  'I told you to wait. It's full of worms.'

  The two of them stare at me in disbelief.

  'I can see that!' snaps the Scotsman. 'I thought it was a box of bulbs.'

  'There are two thousand worms in there. It's a wormery.'

  Catalina pokes the soil inside the box. 'This is full of
cuques
? Two thousand of them?'

  'Well, so they say, but I'm not going to start counting.'

  Alan wipes his hands on his shorts, a troubled expression on his face.

  'You could have warned us,' he mumbles.

  'What is a wormery?' Catalina persists.

  'I suppose you'd call it a
Cuques
Hotel in Catalan. It creates great compost.'

  Although somewhat shaken, Alan opens the larger box to reveal sections of wood ready for construction into a wormery. Having coped with the initial sensory shock of touching an untold number of squirming little bodies in the dark soil, he is clearly delighted with his new toy. He gives me a wry grin.

  'Don't you
ever
spring a surprise like that on me again!'

  Remembering my towering, deformed muffins, I return to the kitchen and begin reviving the icing, which has become rigid. Adding some hot water from the kettle and some melted chocolate, I whip it up and hurriedly spread it over the muffins. The hot mixture dribbles down the sides of the cakes, but I pay no heed. With a flourish I take our various small packets of brightly coloured sugar and chocolate decorations and sprinkle them over the tops. Catalina is suddenly at my side, clucking. 'I never see a worm hotel before. My father won't believe his eyes.'