Page 6 of Hard Tail
Jay had this knack of furnishing a place on a shoestring and still making it seem cosy and welcoming. The mismatched easy chairs in the living room were squashy and covered with an assortment of bright throws and blankets, and he had one of those L-shaped sofas that seem to beg you to stretch out and make yourself at home. There was a forty-two-inch TV and a small table beside the sofa that was just the right height to park a drink on while you watched. All right, the table was actually an upturned crate, but since it was covered with a stripey Moroccan cloth, who was to know or care?
Something about the room made me feel overdressed. I crossed the tiny hallway to check out the rest of the floor. Downstairs loo: the usual facilities, plus a small shelf of humorous books and a variety of vaguely (and not so vaguely) druggy knick-knacks. I wondered if Mum had ever been for a visit, and if so, what she thought about Jay owning his own bong.
Then I told myself not to be so daft—she probably thought it was some kind of Indian teapot or table lamp or something—and went into the kitchen.
And stopped dead in the doorway. There was a cat in the kitchen. A large, fluffy, ginger cat with an outraged expression on its face when it saw me. It hissed once, then stalked off through the cat flap, tail in the air until the very last moment.
Why the hell hadn’t Jay mentioned he had a cat?
Come to that,didJay have a cat? I’d never owned one myself, but didn’t they usually come with bowls and litter trays, not to mention sad little rodent corpses on the doormat? There was no sign of anything like that in Jay’s cheerfully chaotic kitchen. I checked the cupboards. No tins of Whiskas or anything else with a picture of a cute fluffy kitten on it. There did seem to be a lot of tins of tuna, but that wasn’t conclusive.
Even I knew several recipes for tuna. Well, all right. I knew a couple of different sandwich ideas. And the cat flap might just be a relic from a previous tenant.
I decided I’d worry about it if it ever came back. I pulled one of the mismatched mugs off the mug tree and rinsed the kettle out thoroughly before setting it on to boil. Then I looked in the cupboard and sighed. I’d forgotten Jay only drank decaf these days. There wasn’t even a decent packet of tea in there—just some green stuff in organic, recycled teabags. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it was made from recycled leaves.
I flicked off the kettle and had a glass of tap water instead.
Then I started writing a shopping list, until fatigue hit me and I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. I idly thought of opening a can of tuna, but there wasn’t any bread for a sandwich—at least, none that wasn’t cheerfully turning green and furry inside packets proudly (and redundantly) emblazoned with the boast, “No preservatives.” And besides, would the cat ever forgive me?
Better safe than sorry, I decided. I hunted around for takeaway menus before remembering what a ridiculous idea that was. By now too tired to bother trying to find somewhere on my phone, I ate some sugar-free, salt-free, taste-free baked beans straight from the can, Mum’s voice chiding me in my imagination all the while, then dragged myself upstairs. The second bedroom had been turned into an office, so I crawled into Jay’s king-size, unmade bed that still smelt faintly of Olivia’s perfume, and slept the sleep of the terminally knackered until morning.
