A Christmas Cracker: The only festive romance to curl up with this Christmas!. Trisha Ashley
not harassing anyone,’ I said, with more calm than I actually felt, because I knew from the other girls that putting a single foot wrong once I was let out could well mean being sent back to prison to serve the whole sentence.
‘In fact, I don’t give a damn about either of you. All I want to know is, what have you done with Pye?’
‘All this is about a stupid cat?’ Kate said incredulously.
‘He’s not just any cat, he’s my cat,’ I said fiercely, ‘and I love him.’
‘I’ve already told you that he went to a good home,’ Jeremy snapped. ‘There was no point in you coming here.’
‘Then tell me the name of the people you rehomed him with. I need to see for myself that he’s all right and that he’s settled with them. What’s the name and address?’
He avoided my eyes. ‘I can’t give it to you.’
‘Look, this is my cat we’re talking about and he’s microchipped as belonging to me, so it wasn’t even legal to give him away without my permission.’
‘I don’t think that will wash, because in effect, you abandoned him through your illegal actions,’ he said smugly.
‘Listen, you pompous prig, I’m not going until you tell me where Pye is,’ I insisted.
‘Shall I call the police?’ asked Kate helpfully.
‘Yes, why not?’ I said, throwing caution to the winds. ‘Perhaps you’d rather explain to them what you’ve done with my cat?’
Jeremy ran his fingers through his dark marmalade-coloured hair. There seemed suddenly to be a lot more forehead and a lot less hair than I remembered …
‘Oh, just tell her so she’ll go away,’ said Kate impatiently.
‘The Leafy Lane Pet Rescue Centre,’ he replied defiantly.
‘You mean, you put Pye in a cats’ home?’ I said, stunned.
‘It’s a good home, I told you.’
‘But … you let me think you’d rehomed him with nice people! If no one adopted him, he could have been put down by now!’ I exclaimed, panicking, for although Pye was very dear to me, I was aware he wouldn’t be the easiest cat to rehome.
‘They said they never put a healthy animal down, so he’ll be OK,’ Jeremy said. ‘You’re making a fuss about nothing.’
‘How could you? And how was it that I used to think you were so kind and wonderful, when really you’re callous and cruel?’
‘There’s no need for insults. You’ve got what you wanted, so why don’t you go away?’ Kate suggested.
‘I can see you got what you wanted, too, Kate,’ I said, then added to Jeremy, ‘You deserve each other, you poor, credulous mutt!’
Then I hefted my bags and walked off down the drive, feeling glad I’d bought a belt at the station when I’d got the holdall, because losing my jeans halfway down the drive wouldn’t have done a lot for the dignity of my departure.
I knew where the cats’ home was: a good couple of miles away. I managed to balance my bag on top of the wheeled suitcase and drag them both together, but I was still exhausted by the time I’d walked there.
The girl behind the desk had a doughy face and scarlet-tipped black hair exploding out of a high knot, and I could see from her guarded expression that she’d recognised me the moment I walked in. I suppose the case had been a seven-day wonder locally.
I pretended I hadn’t noticed and explained the situation anyway: that I’d been away and my cat, Pye, had been brought there without my permission, so now I needed to know what had happened to him.
‘Oh yes … Pye,’ she said uneasily. ‘We renamed him Pip because it sounded more friendly, though he isn’t, is he?’
‘Not to strangers, no.’
‘You must be Tabitha Coombs.’
‘Give the girl a coconut,’ I said shortly. It had been a long and stressful day already and the tension was slowly building inside me. ‘I’m the person his identity chip is registered to, if you checked it?’
‘Yes, but he was brought in by a man living at the same address as that on his chip, so—’
‘My ex-fiancé. We shared the same address, but not the same name. Pye is my cat.’
‘He told us he couldn’t keep him and you’d agreed that he should be brought to us for rehoming.’
‘Well, I didn’t – and he told me he’d found Pye a good home, he just didn’t tell me it was a cat rescue one. So … have you rehomed him? You didn’t … put him down?’
‘No, of course not! He was healthy enough to go straight onto the rehoming wing of the cattery, though actually, black cats are the most difficult to rehome, especially adult ones with odd eyes and …’ she paused, wondering how to put it tactfully, ‘… difficult temperaments,’ she finished.
‘He does have his little ways and he’s very vocal,’ I conceded, and then, like music to my ears, a far-away, familiar wailing noise began to slowly work towards what I knew would be an ear-splitting crescendo.
‘Pye? He’s – still here?’ I demanded.
‘I— yes, but I’m not sure where we stand about …’ she began, but I was already heading for the inner door.
She moved quickly to block me. ‘I’m afraid that visiting time for future rehomers has finished for the day, but if you could come back tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to discuss the matter with the manager—’
I faced her. ‘I’m going to see my cat now,’ I stated, and I expect I was giving off a powerful vibe that I was prepared to knock her down and trample over her to do so, if necessary, because she backed away a little.
‘Please,’ I added, attempting an ingratiating smile that was probably scarier than my previous expression. ‘I’ve missed him so much.’
‘Oh, well …’ she said, giving in suddenly and ushering me through the swinging door to the cattery. ‘Let’s see if he recognises you.’
We walked down a short corridor and then along a row of cages, the unusual wailing noise now rising and falling like some kind of demonic lullaby.
In the very last pen, thin, angry and bristling with displeasure, was a very large black cat. He stopped wailing and stared at me coldly from mismatched eyes, one blue, one green.
‘Pye?’ I whispered tremulously.
He turned his back disdainfully and sat down.
‘He doesn’t exactly seem pleased to see you,’ the girl commented.
‘He’s just angry with me because he thinks I abandoned him,’ I explained. ‘Pye? I came back as soon as I could.’
Pye, his back still turned, began to wash one paw, as if he wasn’t listening.
‘You are sure this is your cat?’
‘Yes, of course it’s my cat! Could you let me inside the pen?’
‘Sooner you than me,’ she said, unlocking it so I could step in. ‘And I wouldn’t touch him, because he’s all claws and teeth and …’
Pye, when I picked him up, made a weird snarl and then went limp and heavy. I held him in my arms and a fat tear dropped onto his sharp, furry face. ‘Oh, Pye, I’m so sorry!’ I told him.
He gave a galvanic jerk, painfully rabbit-kicking me, before scrambling up and attaching himself like a burr to my neck, where he butted my chin so that my teeth clicked together. There was more