17
Kitten On The Trail
“I can look after Rose Anne for a bit, sure,” said Jay, hugging her, “but when are you actually going to Scotland, Kitten?”
She hadn’t been listening, of course. Kitten gave an exasperated sigh. “Not for ages, yet: I just said!”
“Aw, didja?” she replied, smiling vaguely.
“All I meant was, would you mind looking after her while I do a few errands in town?”
“Yeah, ’course; no worries!” she said happily, hugging her.
Kitten consulted her pocket diary. “I’ve got an appointment later this arvo and I probably won’t be back until quite late this evening: is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll give her her tea!” she beamed, kissing her rosy cheek.
“And if it works out, I’ll need you to take her for the whole night, Thursday after next.”
“That’s okay, Kitten,” said Jay mildly. “It’ll give us some practice for when Baby comes—won’t it, Rose Anne?” she said to her in a squeaky voice. “’Es, it will! ’Es, it will! He’ll be like a little cousin for you to play with, won’t he? ’Es, he will! ’Es, he will!”
Sighing, Kitten got up. “The baby food’s in her pink bag, okay? –Jay! Are you listening?”
“Mm? Sure. We’ll be okay, won’t we, Rose Anne? ’Es, we will! ’Es, we will!”
Muttering something under her breath about hormones, Kitten went over to the door. “Thanks, Jay!” she said loudly. “Bye-bye, Rose Anne!”
Obligingly Jay held Rose Anne up and waved her plump, pink little hand at her departing mother. The encouraging remark in her Chinese dialect that accompanied this gesture probably made as much sense to the infant, reflected Kitten grimly, going out, as anything else at this stage. That or the kid was gonna start spouting Chinese in the not-too-distant future. But there was no-one else who could take her during the day: Nikki and Brucey had gone back down to Crowsnest until his visa for Australia came through, and Melodie was in Spain with ruddy Michael Stuart, sending ecstatic postcards and, apparently, getting his herb garden established. And there were things Kitten needed to do.
Kitten had asked Jay and Graeme to call her Katryn when she was over here, and the good-natured Graeme, assuming that she didn’t like the nickname she’d had as a little girl, had obligingly introduced her to his friends under that name. Jay mostly forgot but it didn’t matter, none of them were the sort that took any notice of what women said, particularly other blokes’ women.
Charlie Shaw was happily under the impression that “Katryn” was a model, that her surname was Andersen, that she was half Danish and half Australian, that she’d worked—as a model, of course—in both Australia and Denmark, and that she’d long since broken off with the guy that was her little kid’s father. She’d had to admit to Rose Anne, since the infant had staged a bawling fit one night when they’d all been round at Jay’s place. He hadn’t mentioned her surname to Graeme—there was no reason he should have done so—and Graeme was blissfully unaware that he hadn’t grasped her real surname at the time he’d introduced them—hardly surprising, since at the time Kitten was half out of a pale blue sequinned thing that was more suited to a night out clubbing than a quiet dinner at a friend’s house. And if Charlie had said to Kitten “I thought your name was Manning?” she’d been quite prepared to say it was Rose Anne’s dad’s name but she’d dropped it since she dumped him. Only she hadn’t needed to.
Tonight they had a date—just a very casual date—for a drink after work.
Kitten was late. This was a deliberate ploy: if you turned up before they did it scared them off, they thought you were on the catch for them. Stupid, because they were on the catch for you. No, well—terrified of being trapped into a permanent relationship. Whereas what most of them were actually looking for was the complete domestic support system, of course—but they were too thick to understand their own motives.
“Oh, there you are!” said Charlie in patent relief.
“Hi, Charlie,” replied Kitten coolly, with the cool smile that went with the model-girl look.
“What’ll it be? Nice dry white wine?”
He himself was drinking beer. Why did they all imagine that young females only drank white— Forget it. Closed minds. “No, make it a dry vermouth on the rocks, thanks.”
“Uh—sure!” The bar was very crowded but Charlie ordered competently enough and they edged their way into the crowd with their drinks.
“It’s very full, isn’t it? I suppose there aren’t any spare tables?” said Kitten sadly.
“Uh—no, don’t think so. Look, we don’t have to stay here if you don’t fancy it. Tell you what, why don’t you drink up, and then we’ll go somewhere nicer!” he said eagerly.
Gee, that was easy. Kitten awarded him her sweetest smile and agreed that that’d be lovely.
They went somewhere much nicer, the lounge bar of a big hotel, and then, since it was so handy, decided to have a meal at the restaurant there, which Charlie knew did quite a decent fillet steak, and a very nice salmon dish if she didn’t fancy anything too heavy, his mother liked it. This was an encouraging sign, and over the meal, which was quite nice, if you could ignore the fact that everything was served in trendy little piles and had obviously been handled far too much before arriving at the table and was—QED—lukewarm, Kitten drew him out about his family and his interests, competently getting him off the sailing when it threatened to take over the conversation entirely, and onto how he liked his job, and his career path and ambitions for the future... There was a slight diversion onto his uni days, and another diversion onto the Algarve—he’d obviously forgotten he’d told her that before—and considerable detail about what he was going to do this summer, but an awful lot of just plain office gossip mixed in with it all. The more so as, when he told the first funny story—mildly funny story—about his boss, the coolly composed Katryn giggled like anything.
“So, what have you got planned for this summer?” he smiled as, having first refused and then, giggling, accepted pudding, Kitten tucked into the crème brûlée—the plainest dish on offer.
“I’m not sure, Charlie. I think I might go back to Denmark and stay with Aunty Ingrid for a bit. She’ll be up at the country house, I expect.”
“That sounds like fun. –You know, you sounded really Danish when you said ‘Aunty Ingrid’!” he said with a laugh.
Gee, had she really? Fancy that.
“Um, ye-es... It is very pretty round there in summer. But they’re all mad on fishing,” lied Kitten on a sour note. “You know: trout. They just stand round for ages and ages, throwing their fishing lines at the water.”
“I see,” said Charlie nicely, trying not to laugh. “Fly-fishing, eh?”
“That’s it, yes; I couldn’t remember the English expression!” lied Kitten.
He grinned. “What is it in Danish?”
Kitten didn’t have a clue, who’d she wanna talk to in Danish about ruddy fly-fishing, for Pete’s sake? So she told him the Danish for trout fishing and he laughed happily and admitted he had no ear for foreign languages. And so there was a lake, was there?
“Um, ye-es—I mean there is, it’s very pretty, but I’m not sure if they do it in the lake or the streams. Um, both, I think. Well, Bodo, he’s one of Aunt Ingrid’s boyfriends, he’s definitely got a favourite stream. At least, I think that’s what he said...” Kitten’s lips moved silently what time the innocent Charlie Shaw watched her in a mixture of kindly amusement and just plain lust.
“Um, yes,” she said finally, licking the lips—he swallowed, hah, hah! “A stream. Um, do people do that in England, Charlie?”
He jumped. “Uh—what? Oh, fly-fishing, you mean? Yes, of course: it’s a popular sport. Expensive, though.”
“Expensive?” said Kitten in bewilderment. “Um, you mean all the, um, rods and stuff?”
“Tackle,” he said kindly. “No—though I’m sure that isn’t cheap, either. No, you see—” He explained at length. Kitten knew all this already, of course: it was a rich person’s sport in Pongo: she’d boned up on it yonks back. You hadda pay to use the ruddy land-owner’s stream and—this was like something out of the nineteenth century, the early nineteenth century, in fact, the only diff’ being that these days you didn’t get sent to Botany Bay—if you went and fished in someone’s stream without paying for the bloody privilege and got caught it was poaching and you were prosecuted.
“Help,” she said, goggling at him. “I don’t think it’s like that in Australia. And Aunty Ingrid and my cousins, they just go down to the lake whenever they feel like it, I don’t think they ever pay anything.”
“Lake or stream!” corrected Charlie, laughing.
“Yes, of course, lake or stream!” agreed Kitten, obligingly laughing back. “So whereabouts in England would people go trout fishing, Charlie?”
Charlie didn’t actually know. Not specifically. He wasn’t in that income bracket. And Kitten hadn’t expected him to know, either. No, this was a bow at a venture.
“Well, it isn’t only England, by any means! Lots of the really keen fly fishermen head off to Scotland, you know!”
—A bow at a venture that had hit home.
Kitten opened her eyes very wide. “Scotland? Heck, isn’t that an awfully long way to go for some fish?”
That went down really well and he laughed and launched into the whole bit. Enlightening her ignorance, see? It had been pretty obvious from the word “go” that he was one of those types, but then, at least ninety-five percent of them were.
There was a lot of it, especially as the brandy was now flowing freely, but with a few prompts in the right places Kitten gathered the following hard intel:
1. Hugo Kent did often go trout fishing.
2. Martin Jarrod sometimes went with him, but he wasn’t really keen.
3. Hugo Kent did often go trout fishing in Scotland.
4. Martin Jarrod didn’t really like Scotland.
5. Hugo Kent usually went to the specific “Wee Highland Inn”—sniggers from Charlie, in which Kitten happily joined—on the specific Loch Dhu, not far from Lochailsh Town in the West of Scotland.
6. Martin Jarrod had really liked the sound of Charlie’s trip to the Algarve last summer so he and his wife were going there this summer.
7. Hugo Kent was going up to Scotland for the fishing this summer.
And—terrifically witty—it was an awfully long way just for a few fish, wasn’t it? Obligingly Kitten collapsed in giggles, nodding.
She didn’t get the actual date, that would have looked too pointed, but she’d done plenty of background research on all of Hugo’s hobbies and interests, and so she had a pretty fair idea of when the nobs did their trout fishing up there. All the way up there. Gee, six or seven hundred kilometres, would it be? Heck, by road it might even be as much as 800 K! The distance from Sydney to Melbourne—quite. These Poms didn’t know they were alive! Kitten looked at the happily grinning nice bloke in front of her and had to restrain herself forcibly from shaking her head madly.
Charlie was very dashed when it dawned that she had to collect her little girl from Jay’s place but immensely cheered when she suggested they could share a taxi. Oddly enough Graeme wasn’t all that surprised to see them together, in fact he merely grinned and said: “So you were the lucky chap this evening, Charlie!” Jay, who’d thought Kitten would have gone for the guy who looked like Hugh Grant or the really handsome Black guy that she’d raved over in her hearing, looked rather disconcerted, but smiled nicely.
Rose Anne was sleeping like an angel—she was still too young to realise when she was being dumped in her carrycot at someone else’s place—and so when Kitten, having let him “take” them home first—read, tell the taxi driver to go there—asked if he’d like to come in, Charlie, oddly enough, accepted.
He’d hoped rather than thought he’d cracked it—she was a pretty up-market girl, really, and an absolute stunner, of course—so although he was very dashed when, after having let him kiss her thoroughly on the sofa, she sighed and said: “I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow for a modelling job, I’m afraid,” he wasn’t entirely surprised, and took himself off with a fairly good grace—the more so as she’d agreed to another date!
Kitten went into the bedroom and looked thoughtfully at her sleeping cherub. Well, to be strictly accurate, lightly snoring cherub. “I will do it with him, he deserves that much. But I need to keep him hanging on a string, just for a bit.”
The oblivious Rose Anne snored on.
Suddenly her mother sighed. “He’s a nice bloke, actually. I do feel a bit mean. Never mind, sex is the usual quid pro quo in these interpersonal exchanges. And I don’t honestly think he’ll expect more, I’m an alien to him—that stuck out a mile, nice bloke though he is. Wogs begin at Calais, eh? –Tell ya what, after this we’re heading home, I’ve had more than enough of Poms and Pommy attitudes to last me several lifetimes—and I don’t want you to grow up in this atmosphere, even with your father’s ruddy money!”
Traditionally there were two big annual parties at KRP’s Head Office: one at Christmas, of course, with a big tree in the foyer, huge amounts of food and drink, small presents for everybody, and bonuses for the younger execs who’d done well that year, and the annual summer party, which took place just before most of the staff were slated to take their annual leave. At one stage this had been the annual summer picnic plus a cricket match for staff and families, but what with the uncertainties of the English weather and the difficult logistics as the office staff expanded, over time this had metamorphosed into a bus trip to somewhere on the south coast for the lower echelons plus their families or boyfriends/girlfriends, with lunch at a big hotel and beach, pier or whatever in the afternoon according to taste and the weather, and a cocktail party for the executive staff. The latter was always on a Friday and on the Saturday the execs who could make any sort of pretence at all at throwing or hitting a ball and who weren’t passed out from the night before or hadn’t cunningly booked their holiday flights for that very day were expected to roll up for the cricket match at Michael Pointer’s house in the Cotswolds. Those who were upwardly mobile in the firm or wished to be so usually made sure that they did in fact turn up—whether semi-conscious or not. Wives and girlfriends were also expected to attend these functions. In fact the scuttlebutt at KRP had it that if your current girlfriend was at all presentable you presented her at the cocktail party to see whether she got the nod from Jarrod and if she didn’t you’d better dump her right smart if you expected your career to go anywhere. Then if she had got the nod you took her along to the cricket match and if Pointer also gave her the nod you’d be safe to pop the question. Of course the young execs didn’t expect their girlfriends to get the nod from Hugo Kent himself, or even to be noticed by him—though if he was in London he always turned up at the cocktail do and was usually at the cricket match, too, where he played tenth man in for the veterans’ side, which was always captained by Michael Pointer in person. It was amazing how many inept young fielders managed to fumble easy catches from Hugo’s bat. And the only person who’d ever had the temerity to bowl him out was Ward Reardon, who’d been over for meetings one summer and insisted on being on the opposing team, since the younger players were a man short in the aftermath of the previous evening’s crate of tequila from a Mexican business connection.
This year Graeme was of course taking Jay—and the ring—to the cocktail do, and, funnily enough, Charlie Shaw was taking Kitten. Jay wasn’t surprised—once he’d gone out with Kitten it was inevitable—but she did point out weakly that she couldn’t not go, her and Graeme wanted to keep on his father’s good side, so who was gonna babysit Rose Anne? Kitten, however, had that all planned out: Carol and Wendy from downstairs would gladly have taken her—don’t look that that, they were reliable enough, anyone could get stranded at the other side of London and have to phone at four in the morning to ask you if you could pay the taxi driver for them, and they’d paid her back faithfully—but as a matter of fact Nikki and Brucey were coming up to stay in the flat for the weekend.
“When did you arrange that?” asked Jay weakly.
“Soon as I knew the date of the cocktail party, of course.”
“But that was ages ago, wasn’t it?”
Kitten peeled a piece of purple bubble gum. “Yeah. So?”
“But Kitten, had you even met Charlie Shaw back then?” she asked weakly.
“No. Sho?” she replied thickly through the bubble gum, breathing artificial grape fumes all over her.
Suddenly Jay collapsed in a terrible giggling fit, gasping: “I might—have known!”
Kitten just eyed her drily, chewing. So she might.
“Going quite well, I think,” murmured Martin Jarrod as the decibel level in the thrown-together main conference room and reception room swelled.
Hugo nodded tolerantly. “Mm.”
Martin looked round the room again. “Ah—that’s James Withers and his wife: he'd appreciate a word, I think,” he murmured.
Hugo nodded tolerantly. “Remind me of his wife’s name, again, Martin.”
Martin refrained from frowning but it was an effort: they'd discussed the man, his prospects, and his background very fully only the previous week. “Penny.”
“Of course, yes. –Good evening, James. Good evening, Penny; so glad you could come,” he said smoothly as they came up to them.
Martin smiled and nodded in all the appropriate places but he didn’t have to say anything: Hugo was saying all the appropriate things in all the appropriate places and, as expected, James and Penny were both responding appropriately. Well, at least he hadn't lost it to the extent of no longer remembering his lines, but honestly! Once upon a time he wouldn’t have needed to ask—and he wouldn’t have needed to be monitored, either! Was the bloody man losing interest in the firm, was that it? At one time damned Michael Pointer had warned that this might happen, but Martin had merely assumed that it was Pointer’s jealousy speaking and had retorted sourly that Hugo wasn’t his bloody useless father and that he wasn’t even his bloody grandfather, and he hadn’t lost interest in everything but bloody lawn bowls until he was well into his seventies, might he remind him! …It all dated back, reflected Martin savagely as Penny told a mildly amusing anecdote about their little Cressida’s exploits at her prep school and Hugo laughed just the right sort of temperate, mildly amused and kindly laugh, to that time in Australia and that damned little blonde bint! He’d stupidly thought that Hugo was over her and that once they were back home he’d never give her another thought—and at first he had seemed perfectly okay—but gradually he’d begun to... deteriorate was too strong a word. Lose interest? Not quite that, yet—no. Lose motivation? Inwardly Martin grimaced. Yes, that was pretty much it. Lose motivation. True, he’d divorced that bitch, the Lady Persse, but as she’d found other fish to fry—a fat middle-aged Arab businessman who owned more shiny racehorses and more shiny hotels than Hugo did and was a lot more willing to shower her with shiny bling—this was presumably not due to anything approaching motivation on his part.
The evening was proceeding on an expectable course. The younger and sillier execs were starting to drink too much, the unsuitable girlfriends, of whom there were many, had been drinking too much all along and were getting very giggly, all the little nibbles—not terribly original and not all that up-market, Kitten could have done better with both hands tied behind her and, quite probably, less than half the budget—had vanished, some of the older men and their wives had vanished also, and the big combined room had now sorted itself out into quite distinct little clumps. Or peer groups, you could put it like that, reflected Kitten sardonically, watching them expressionlessly. She had no intention of letting Charlie drag her away just yet, she hadn’t achieved her aim for this evening.
“Ooh, thank you: lovely!” she said with a smile as he presented her with a brimming glass.
“I told him not to spare the ice, since you’re from Downunder,” said Charlie with a grin.
Er—yeah. The ice didn’t seem to have remained in the shaker. The caterers were supposed to be doing the serving but some of the younger execs had taken over at the bar. Oh, well, dry martini on the rocks it was. Kitten awarded him a seraphic smile over the rim of the glass and said: “It’s yummy, Charlie, really cold. –Who’s the tall, bald man over there with your boss? He looks interesting.” She pointed artlessly.
Charlie looked, and gulped. “Don’t point!” he hissed. “That’s the boss! Hugo Kent!”
Kitten ceased pointing hurriedly. “Help! Have I put my foot in it?”
“No, he didn’t notice,” said Charlie in huge relief. “Uh—no!” he added quickly, registering what had just come out of his mouth. “Don’t be silly, you couldn’t possibly!”
“At least I seem to have worn the right sort of dress,” replied Kitten on a frank note.
“Of course! You look wonderful!” he said fervently.
She ought to, it had cost enough. It was a little black number. Slim-fitting, narrow-skirted but not tight, the hemline ten centimetres above the elegant little ankles—whereas half the younger women seemed to be in full-length affairs, or over-tight mini-skirted things. The fabrics tended to be satin or cotton jersey-knit, both somewhat unsuited, in their different ways, to the hour and the occasion. Kitten’s black cocktail dress was a heavyish crêpe with an off-the-shoulder effect achieved with a lowered collar that sat just below the points of the shoulders. Over the bosom the collar dipped a little into a bowed shape, but still remained entirely modest. At the back it was likewise. The collar itself was adorned by a scattering of tiny brilliants. Her shoes were black suede ankle-strapped sandals, very light on the foot and worth a small fortune. They featured small, neat bows of the suede over the toes and no bling at all. Kitten had refrained from ornamenting the perfect pearly neck and shoulders—they didn’t need it, as the straightened hair now fell to a hand-span below her shoulders. It was swept back simply behind the ears, which featured small diamond studs. It was true that Hugo had bought these last for her but they were a standard line: there was nothing about them that could have identified them. Well, not to the naked eye. She looked completely elegant and very unlike the old Kitten Manning—more, in fact, like Sloane or Ingrid at their best.
“Actually, I think we’d better go and make our bows!” said Charlie with a nervous grin.
“To your bosses, you mean? Of course, if you think so, Charlie,” replied Kitten politely.
As this was entirely the right answer and the right tone, Charlie did think so—the more so as not three yards away Grant Jenkins’s latest girlfriend was giggling and starting to squeal as the good-looking Grant and two of his idiot pals from Arbitrage dropped olives into her mouth from a great height—which certainly explained where all the olives from the bar had got to. Charlie put a proprietorial hand under Katryn’s elbow and led her off to meet Martin Jarrod and Hugo Kent.
“Charlie Shaw,” murmured Martin as the pair approached.
“I do remember the names of your staff, Martin,” replied Hugo amiably.
Martin reddened—that had been a slip. “The girl’s new, I think,” he said evenly.
“Oh? Looks vaguely familiar. Very elegant.”
Martin had thought so, too—not the vaguely familiar bit, though. Now his gaze sharpened. She did look... But slim blondes, even those with dress sense, were two a penny in London, after all. “There you are, Charlie,” he said kindly. “It’s going quite well, I think?”
“Good evening, Martin: yes, it is, isn’t it? –Good evening, sir,” said Charlie politely to God, hoping he didn’t sound too bloody servile.
“Good evening, Charlie,” replied Hugo, awarding him the standard pleasant-smile-to-promising-young-person.
“May we have the pleasure?” added Martin, smiling kindly at the girl.
With some relief Charlie picked up the cue and introduced “Katryn Andersen” to God and His Archangel. She responded politely, with just the right sort of smile, not too eager or too fawning.
Hugo wasn’t interested in young Charlie Whatsisface or his pretty girlfriend but he said nicely: “That sounds rather like a Danish name. May I ask where you’re from, Miss Andersen?”
Yes, thought Kitten grimly, you may, and I may tread on your bloody foot in these high heels that cost five times as much as I’ve ever earned in a week, Hugo Kent! “From Australia, but my family is Danish originally.”
That hadn’t really been what Hugo wanted to know. He swallowed and refrained from meeting the girl’s eye. He could cheerfully have strangled young Shaw. But it wasn’t the boy’s fault that he, Hugo Kent, had fallen for a pretty blonde Aussie girl of Danish descent who was less than half his age.
Kitten hadn’t expected he would look her in the eye, really, so she wasn’t disappointed—though she’d braced herself in case he did. But she’d been watching him all evening and he’d been consistently doing the standard lovely smile to subordinate and subordinate’s female belonging, and there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t treat her the same way. That was all right: she didn’t want to be recognised. She just wanted the likeness to... gradually register, afterwards. And fester—yes.
“She’s thinking of popping over to Denmark this summer, actually, to visit the relations,” added Charlie. “But it’s the fishing that’s the sticking-point, I’m afraid, sir!” he added with a laugh.
“Oh?” replied Hugo nicely, looking away from the girl’s direction with considerable relief.
“They do a lot of it, and it’s very boring,” agreed Kitten. “Help, I’ve forgotten the English expression again, Charlie!” she added with a laugh. “Trout fishing,” she said in Danish.
“Fly-fishing!” replied Charlie gaily.
“I’m rather fond of it, myself,” said Hugo nicely. He was beginning to pull himself together. The girl was as blonde as Kitten—and hadn’t her sisters been blonde, too? But very much thinner, and quite a bit taller.
“Oh, yes, I think Charlie did mention it. Well, it’s a man’s sport, really, isn’t it?” said Kitten without interest. She turned her head away from Hugo and said to Charlie: “Shall we go and see if we can grab a drink with an actual olive in it before Grant’s girlfriend gets down on the lot? –It was lovely to meet you both,” she added, turning back.
Martin glanced politely at Hugo, expecting the usual gracious conventional reply. Shit! Now what? He’d gone a sort of greyish colour. Uh—maybe just a tooth playing up? He didn’t utter; Martin said on a lame note: “Yes, of course, run along. Uh—see you tomorrow, Charlie?”
The innocent Charlie replied happily: “Rather! Looking forward to bowling you out, Martin! Good evening, Mr Kent: hope to see you tomorrow,” and towed the false Katryn Andersen away.
“What the Hell’s up?” hissed Martin. “Not ill, are you?”
The girl’s profile was exactly—exactly—like Kitten’s! The same adorable little straight nose— “No,” said Hugo tightly.
Martin looked uneasily after the pair. That pretty girl did sort of remind him—in a much more elegant, not to say ladylike way—of that hot little blonde Australian bitch of Hugo’s. “Um, Scandinavian looks,” he muttered.
Hugo took a deep breath. “Yes. I suppose they’re not uncommon over there,” he said stiffly. “Some of the younger set seem to be getting a trifle loud: shall we go?”
Had they spoken to everyone they should? Oh, what the Hell, if Hugo couldn’t be bothered remembering, Martin was damned if he was going to bother!
Over by the bar Kitten watched with a little malicious smile as the two men went out. Right, that was gonna fester, all right, or her name wasn’t Katryn Pernille Manning!
Charlie Shaw was very surprised the next day when she wouldn’t come to the cricket match. He tried to point out without actually saying so that it was an honour to be asked. But she only said in a bored voice: “Yes, I know cricket’s popular in Australia, Charlie, but I’m not into these quaint vestiges of Empire, myself. And even if you were the actual Richard Gere, I still wouldn’t be interested. You run along and have fun.”
He and the Porsche were halfway to the Cotswolds before it dawned. Bloody Pretty Woman! Well, shit, he wasn't a bloody billionaire with a taste for girls off street corners and Katryn most certainly wasn’t a Hollywood tart and—and cricket wasn't polo, what the Hell was she on about?
He was asked to stay for the weekend, it was really flattering—not that Mrs Jarrod’s hospitality was exactly exciting, church on Sunday morning and a ramble in the lanes after the roast lamb was about it. When he got back to town Katryn had vanished. Her and the baby, both. Not a trace. The flat in fact was occupied by a strange girl who turned out to be a friend of the girls from the downstairs flat, and none of them had a clue where she was. And bloody Graeme claimed he didn’t have a clue either, and that irritating little Chinese bimbo he'd got himself mixed up with only giggled. Presumably she’d taken off for Denmark. Well, shit! Shit, shit, shit!
“He doesn’t know what a lucky escape he’s had,” concluded Jay.
“What was that, darling?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Shall we have another look at those houses for sale in Sydney that you found on the Internet? And then think about dinner. Um, just a stir-fry?”
“Not just a stir-fry, a miraculous stir-fry!” replied Graeme gaily, heading for his computer.
If he said so. Anybody could do it, it was just chopped veggies and a bit of meat or chicken. And you either poured boiling water on the noodles or did the rice in the rice-cooker: easy-peasy! –All those houses were far too dear, but never mind, he was really keen on the idea of Sydney, and Grandfather Wong could find them somewhere much more suitable at a much better price!
“Actually,” said Graeme thoughtfully, the houses having been duly admired and the stir-fry being under way, “I don’t want to bad-mouth your little friend, darling, but if you think about it, Charlie’s had a lucky escape, really. I don’t think she’s the right girl for him.”
Jay had jumped a foot and dropped the fish slice—fortunately only into the wok, not on the floor. “No,” she said weakly, picking it up again. “I don’t think she is, really.”
Mrs Macdonald of the Wee Highland Inn on Loch Dhu, not far from Lochailsh Town in the West of Scotland, had been really surprised when a young lady rang up—all the way from London, too!—to ask if they had a room free for the summer. They got lots of summer bookings but not usually ladies. But they did have a room free, as one of their regulars had decided not to come this year, but it was only for a few weeks, not the whole summer: would that do, Miss? It would, if it was all right to bring her little girl? She’d only need a cot or if that couldn’t be managed she could sleep in her carry-co— Mrs Macdonald was off and running. The wee girlie would be nae trouble at all, and of course they could put a wee cot in there for her, she’d get her cousin, Charlie Macdonald, to bring over that one their Glenda had had for their wee Catriona—she was five, now, and in a proper bed. It’d be just like old times to have a wee bairn in the hoose again!
Yes, well, of course there’d be a room free, it was the one she’d have been keeping, no doubt at a vastly inflated premium, for bloody Martin Jarrod. Kitten had thanked her fervently, booked the room, and hung up, reflecting that if Mrs Macdonald wanted to play surrogate grandmother to Rose Anne for the best part of a month she was welcome to, it’d suit her plans nicely. And until it was time to head up there they’d go over to Denmark and stay with Aunty Ingrid. While she changed her look back to the old look.
“What are you eating?” gasped Ingrid Andersen in horror.
“Cho’late cake,” replied Kitten with her mouth full.
Ingrid looked at the litter of pots and plates on the table. “Chocolate cake on top of pâté and pork sausage and—is that Edam cheese? Kitten, are you mad? You’ll get fat!”
“Mm,” agreed Kitten through more of the cake, nodding hard.
“She wants to,” said Christina wanly.
“I hope you’re not stuffing yourself on cake!” replied her mother vigorously.
“Only one slice.”
Ingrid took a deep breath. “Look, Kitten, stop it, this is stupid! Whatever went wrong in England—and I’m not asking—this isn’t the answer!”
“Nothing went wrong,” replied Kitten calmly.
“She keeps saying that,” said Christina sadly. “Um, she is going for long walks.”
“Long walks? She’d have to walk to the moon—and back!—to walk off that lot!”
“It’s part of her plan,” she muttered.
“Plan to eat herself to death, I presume?” said Ingrid coldly. “Kitten, this muck’ll harden your arteries, I’m warning you! Not to say, give you spots!”
Kitten’s hand retreated from the cake. “Um, yeah, I’ll give up the cream. But I need to put on weight before I go to Scotland.”
“What? It’s not the Arctic,” said Ingrid feebly, goggling at her. “And you’re not an Eskimo!” she added, getting her second wind. “For God’s sake! At least eat some greens!”
“Yes, I’d better, I’m a bit—I don’t know the Danish word,” Kitten discovered. “Constipated,” she said in English.
“Consti— I’m not surprised!” snapped her aunt. “Where’s dratted Melodie?” she said grimly to her daughter.
“Um, still in Spain, I think. She’s redecorating the villa,” said Christina feebly, eyeing Kitten uneasily. “And then they thought they might go to Australia to see Aunty Karen and Uncle Dick. Um, when it’s warmer, I think. Um, warmer over there, I mean.”
“What’s her number?” replied Ingrid tersely, cutting to the chase.
“Um, Kitten won’t take any notice of Melodie, she never has,” Christina reminded her.
“What’s her NUMBER?” she shouted.
Glumly Christina found it for her.
“Stop EATING, Kitten!” shouted Ingrid as Kitten went over to the freezer and returned with a pot of ice cream. “Hell—sorry,” she said quickly into the phone in English. “Is that Michael Stuart? Yes, it is me, as a matter of fact; how are you, Michael?” she added feebly.
Kitten at this point gave a smothered snigger and Christina awarded her a glare.
“Re’nised the shouting,” she said through the ice cream.
“Ssh!” hissed Christina.
Kitten swallowed ice cream. “If that's Melodie you’re yacking at, don’t bother,” she said loudly as Ingrid said crossly, still in English, “You could well say something’s the matter! Your idiot sister’s eating herself to death, that’s what is the matter!”
“‘What the matter is’,” she corrected her aunt placidly. “She knows.”
Ingrid lowered the receiver. “She’s telling me it’s all part of the plan!” she said crossly.
“I did tell you that,” murmured Christina.
“Well, what is the plan?” she shouted angrily.
“They won’t tell me,” she admitted.
“Melodie,” said Ingrid grimly into the phone, “what is this plan? –WHAT?”
Christina looked at her in alarm but she then lowered the receiver and said crossly: “She’s trying to tell me it’s just Kitten being silly!”
“I suppose it is,” agreed her daughter in relief.
“Melodie,” said Ingrid grimly, “put Michael back on, will you?”
“I don’t think he knows,” said Christina uneasily, as Kitten didn’t react.
Ingrid ignored her. “Michael, what is this silly plan the girls are talking about?”
“‘On about’, in the English vernacular, I think,” murmured Kitten. She ate ice cream, ignoring the agonised look Christina was now giving her.
The phone quacked for some time. “I see,” said Ingrid grimly at last. “Very well. Thank you, Michael.” She hung up. “Apparently Melodie’s told him you want to get back to your old weight in order to fascinate some man you met ages ago, before the baby.”
“I see! Before you lost weight, Kitten!” said Christina in some relief.
“That’s about it,” agreed Kitten placidly.
“Well, do it sensibly! Eat—eat roast meat, or something, not sweet rubbish!” urged Ingrid.
“You never do roasts, Aunty Ingrid.”
“I’ll do a roast tonight,” said Ingrid feebly. “But you must eat greens with it. And plenty of wholegrain or rye bread, not that white stuff—no wonder you’re constipated!”
Kitten smothered a grin. “Righto, then. Thanks, Aunty Ingrid.”
Ingrid was so stirred up by it all that she never—as her niece registered in some amusement—stopped to ask who the man was. Let alone how long before the baby it had been that Kitten met him.
Next chapter:
https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/sloanes-breather.html
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