Page 13 of A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews
The gates rattled again, and the squalling got even louder.
The best thing to do was to go back to bed, maybe put in some earplugs and … wait to be murdered in her sleep.
But Mattie was far too sensible to allow herself to be murdered in her sleep. With a resigned sigh, she turned away from the window so she could dig out her Ugg boots. She shrugged her big puffa coat over her pyjamas and before she left the flat, she grabbed one of her really heavy cast-iron pans.
The empty shop was no longer a comforting, warm space but full of terrifying shadows, and Mattie felt like the cliché in a horror film as she unlocked the front door. Instead of staying inside, she was going out towards who knew what fresh hell?
As soon as the door was open and Mattie heard the noise again, it chilled her bones. Because now she recognised the sound, which was why she broke into a run towards the electronic gates where, oh God! There was Strumpet trapped between the railings and very unhappy about it.
‘Strumpo! What on earth are you doing here?’ Mattie exclaimed and poor Strumpet gave her side eye, as much as he could, and yowled again as if to say, ‘What does it look like I’m doing, you foolish human?’
‘What on earth are you doing?’ echoed from the shadows beyond the gate, and Mattie tore her gaze away from the distraught cat to see Tom on the other side. Then he looked down too. ‘Oh God, you idiot!’
‘You are talking about Strumpet and not me?’ Mattie clarified sharply.
‘You’re not the one who’s trapped in the railings, are you?’ Tom took off his glasses so he could scrutinise Strumpet (which also kind of proved that he didn’t actually need glasses at all), who tried to turn his head to look back at Tom, but instead just meowed unhappily. ‘How did he manage to get here, all the way from Canonbury, when the furthest afield he ever used to get was as far as Stefan’s smokehouse?’
‘I have no idea,’ Mattie replied, crouching down so she could take stock of the situation. Strumpet had managed to get his head and his front paws through the railing of the gate on the right, but was stuck at his fattest part, his Buddha-like belly. ‘How about you push and I pull?’
‘Well, I haven’t got any better ideas,’ Tom admitted. Mattie gently took hold of Strumpet under his armpits and Tom grabbed hold of his hind legs but, despite their gentle wiggling, which Strumpet took in remarkably good grace, the cat was stuck fast.
‘You stupid beast,’ huffed Tom. ‘My old cat could wriggle through the tiniest gaps, like she was boneless, but Strumpet has far too much blubber. Should I come over to you?’
‘No! Don’t! Stop!’ Mattie screeched as Tom’s index finger paused over the keypad. ‘What if you electrocute him?’
‘I don’t see how,’ Tom grumbled but he stood back. ‘Well, what else could we try? Could we lubricate him? Have we got any butter?’
‘Yes! Good thinking!’ Mattie yelped. ‘I always have spare butter. Wait here!’
‘I’m hardly planning on going anywhere,’ Tom shouted at her back as Mattie took off towards the shop because, even in the middle of a dire emergency, Tom couldn’t resist having the last word.
But she was far more upset to realise that the only butter she had, ahead of tomorrow’s delivery, was her precious unsalted butter from Normandy, which you couldn’t even get in the UK. Every six months or so, Mattie and her mother made a trip across the Channel to stock up on all the French provisions that they couldn’t live without, mainly butter in Mattie’s case. And now she was going to have to donate it to a greater cause. She didn’t even have any vegetable oil left, she thought sadly as she put the butter in the microwave for a few seconds just to warm it enough for optimum cat manhandling.
When she returned, Tom was squatting down, his hand reaching through the gate to scratch Strumpet behind his ears. ‘I know that it seems like the end of the world right now, Strumpet, but I promise you one day we’ll look back on this and laugh.’ It was the nicest thing that Mattie had ever heard him say.
Then he saw Mattie standing there and he straightened up.
‘Let’s grease him up,’ Mattie said unenthusiastically. ‘And, you know, we don’t have to useallthe butter.’
But Tom had already taken a large handful and was smearing it around Strumpet’s belly while Strumpet squirmed and wriggled and tried to eat the butter. Then Mattie and Tom tried the whole push/pull thing again but it was little use, not helped by Strumpet’s now-frenzied licking. He’d clearly forgotten all about his current predicament and was in full-fat heaven. Verity had him on a strict calorie-controlled diet, so he was intent on slurping up all the very expensive butter he could reach.
‘We’re going to have to call the fire brigade,’ Mattie said after ten futile minutes during which Strumpet had managed to eat a good half a stick of butter but was still stuck fast.
‘I’ll have to call Very. If she knows Strumpet has gone missing, she’ll be frantic.’ Tom being all nice again was most unsettling. Mattie glanced through the gate at him as he pulled an ancient-looking mobile phone from the inner breast pocket of his old tweedy coat.
He dealt with Verity while Mattie called 999 and requested a ‘fire crew or someone that can rescue a very obese cat from the railings of an electronic gate. I swear this isn’t a hoax call.’
‘Honestly, Very, it’s not something I’d joke about. I can’t take photos on my phone but when Mattie’s finished talking to the emergency services, I’ll get her to send you a picture so you can appreciate the severity of the situation,’ Tom was saying crossly as Mattie reeled off the address and Strumpet yelled his displeasure at having polished off all the butter he could reach around his tubby forequarters.
‘I’ll make us a hot drink,’ Mattie decided when the phone calls were done: they would have at least a half-hour wait for a fire crew, supposing that no buildings went up in flames in the meantime. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea, I suppose … though have you got any of the hot chocolate you served at that book launch a couple of weeks ago?’ Tom asked hesitantly. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
It was like Tom had had a personality transplant – or maybe the crisis had brought out the best in him.
‘I have,’ Mattie confirmed. ‘I could even put a little French brandy in it.’
‘Sounds great. Thank you,’ Tom added, and Mattie was about to pretend to faint but decided that she didn’t want to ruin their littleentente cordiale.
