Have your cake and eat it (Chicklit contest finalist)

Chapter seven

"What the hell is that?" I ask in surprise, looking into the carry case and recoiling in horror. It’s just shy of 8am on the first Saturday of half term. The kids and Steve are still asleep and I had just been about to sit down to have a cup of coffee and a leisurely browse through Marie Claire magazine when the doorbell rang, heralding the unexpected arrival of my sister Rose.

"It's a cat," my sister says, smiling pleasantly.

"I can see that," I reply, equally pleasantly. "But what's it doing on my doorstep?"

"He's come to stay with you for a few days as I'm going away," she explains, speaking very slowly as if to a simpleton. I wrinkle my forehead and try to remember whether I had agreed to this arrangement, or whether, as I suspect, Rose chose to take advantage of my poor memory and accommodating nature and has just decided to spring an extra member of the household upon me.

“Can’t it go in a cattery, or something,” I ask doubtfully, looking at its long white fur, which while admittedly magnificent, is bound to shed copiously all over my carpets. We’d be finding cat hairs in our dinner for weeks to come, I’d bet.

“He, not it,” my sister corrects sternly, stepping over the threshold to gently place the cat carrier on the ground and open its little door much like a uniformed guard might open the door to the Prime Minister’s private jet.

“Poor mister Pussykatkins can’t go in a cattery, can he?” my sister asks the cat in the type of simpering tone people usually reserve for very small, very cute babies. “They don’t serve smoked salmon or his special cat milk for starters,” she says, turning to me. “Can you imagine?”

I raise my eyebrows, thinking that Mr Pussykatkins was clearly not only spoilt rotten but enjoyed a more sumptuous diet than I did.

“That’s an…unusual name," I venture, resolving that the feline would stay inside for the duration of his holiday at Hotel Hunt as I as refused to go outside and call his name. What would the bloody neighbours think? They already think I’m a bit scatty after that incident a couple of years ago when I drove off to work leaving poor Jessica on the driveway, staring after me forlornly. In my defense, I had stayed up half the night preparing a really important pitch and had forgotten I’d promised the nanny that I’d take her to school that morning as a special favour. Not that Mrs Perkins across the road - aka the net curtain twitcher - believed that explanation. I’d seen her on the phone shortly afterwards, no doubt phoning the local paper or social services to inform them of a scandalous tale of neglect.

“He's not actually called Mr Pussykatkins,” my sister says scornfully. “That’s just one of his pet names.”

“Oh thank goodness,” I laugh, “for a minute there….”

“He’s called Prince Pom Pom the third, but you can just call him Pom Pom for short,” she interrupts.

“I er, OK,” I nod brightly, watching as the royal rat-catcher slinks out of his carry case, the bell on his powder blue, diamond studded collar tinkling softly as he begins to explore his new surroundings.

“You’d better come into the kitchen so you can tell me how to look after him and stuff,” I say, thinking wistfully of my now lukewarm coffee and untouched Marie Claire.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already prepared some instructions,” Rose informs me, opening her Karen Millen handbag and fishing out a neatly bound folder containing several pages of double-spaced text. I peer at it tentatively, catching phrases such as ‘wild, Scottish salmon only, flaked into bite-size pieces,’ and ‘marked preference for Vittel mineral water but Evian will do at a push.’

“Now,” she says, puffing herself out importantly. “He likes his chicken free-range and organic, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem as I assume that’s what you feed the children anyway,” her eyebrow arches in a question.