TWELVE

A CAT CALLED ZACK

5.30 p.m., The Cat's Whiskers, rural Dorset

There's a light drizzle of rain falling on the quiet country lane. The lush green hedgerows are full of wild flowers and tall weeds, dock leaves and nettles, reminding me that this is the rural England of my childhood. I am standing outside a substantial red brick manor house, watching the departing taxi dissolve in a mist of rain. There's no going back.

  I look up and down the road. There isn't a soul in sight and apart from the rather shabby manor house peeping up from beyond extensive foliage, there's nothing but swaying trees, fields of skittish lambs and rolling countryside. Grasping my suitcase by the handle, I wheel it over to the black iron gate on which a perfunctory wooden sign announces that I have arrived at Grove House and The Cat's Whiskers. It doesn't mention the word cattery but perhaps that's self evident. I peer through the dusty railings to the gravel drive and courtyard beyond. The gate wheezes as I drag it open and make my cumbersome way over the gravel, the wheels of my case stubbornly buckling against the small stones. No sooner am I half way up the drive than a gigantic Dobermann comes hurtling towards me as if from nowhere, teeth bared and growling ferociously. I stop in my tracks, foolishly considering running for my life, although secretly acknowledging that the beast would be upon me before I'd even reached the gate. There's nothing for it. I stand my ground and attempt to muster an ounce of dignity before facing my adversary. For a split second the hound draws to a halt, tongue hanging from its jaw, as it sizes me up. Then with a sudden gallop, it leaps up with powerful front legs resting on my shoulders and begins licking my face. I stagger backwards, tripping on my case and muttering 'Good dog' inanely to the rain. A rosy faced, burly chap in old corduroys and wellies now appears on the drive, squelching through the gravel and grinning from ear to ear.

  'Ah, you've met Beauty then? Come on, girl!'

  The dog drops its paws and stands panting by my side.

  'I think she mistook me for a bone.'

  'Yeah, she's a right little bugger with guests, but she's as harmless as a fly.'

  Try telling that to my Scotsman when I'm found mauled to bits in a ditch. I smile politely.

  'I'm here for the cattery management course.'

  'Sure you are. Let me take your case. I'm Willie Patterson, the glorified odd job man around here since I retired. My wife, Jessie, runs the cattery.'

  I offer him my hand and pat the dog a trifle self-consciously. Willie stretches forward and effortlessly lifts the case off the ground, his eyes resting on my suit and then shoes. He gives a little titter.

  'I hope you've packed some better kit than that because you'll get well and truly mucked up while you're here.'

  Oh shucks, if only I'd known! As a dizzy PR all I've packed are a couple of ball gowns, some four-inch heels and a bottle of Evian. He waits for a response.

  'Don't worry,' I say reassuringly. 'I had some business meetings earlier in London. I've got jeans with me.'

  He gives a slight nod and walks jauntily back up the drive to the courtyard, the dog and I following in his wake. We enter the house by what appears to be the back door. A narrow scullery leads into a rustic kitchen, with an old cooking range and suspended iron hoop from which copper pans dangle, and beyond that a small dining room and long bright hallway.

  'I'll show you to your room and then you can meet Jessie. She's looking forward to showing you the ropes.'

  Yippee. I follow him up the creaky oak staircase and into a small room with buttercup yellow walls and blinds. The windows are wide open and the sound of loud baa-ing seems to echo around the gardens. I wonder if there are any escapologist ewes amongst them. Willie drops the case at the foot of the brass bed.

  'Don't worry about the lambs. They just get a bit excited in the rain. Normally, they hardly make a sound.'

  He potters over to the window, hands on hips, peering at the blur of green beyond.

  'The bathroom's down the corridor,' he says dreamily. 'I'll see you in the kitchen in a few minutes.'

  He plods off, closing the door behind him.

  Some neatly folded yellow towels are piled on the bed along with a plump and efficient looking folder entitled, 'PRELIMINARY TRAINING COURSE'. Oh boy, what have I let myself in for?

9 p.m., dinner

'So you see, it all worked out in the end,' Jessie is saying, as she begins clearing away the plates. I watch as she loads a tray and disappears into the nearby kitchen. I find myself captivated by the story of how she and Willie came to own a cattery. Having run a successful furniture business in Sunderland for many years, this intrepid couple decided to retire, up sticks and run The Cat's Whiskers from a new home in Dorset. They had a nightmare with planning permission but persevered and after a two-year battle with local authorities finally gained a licence. Jessie admitted that at times she'd nearly thrown in the towel.

  I pick up a tureen, observing that only a few forlorn florets of broccoli remain at the bottom, and attempt to follow her into the kitchen.

  'Oh, you stay put. It's enough with the blooming cats getting under my feet in there!'

  I sink back into my chair. There's no standing on ceremony in this household.

  'The thing is,' says Willie with a cynical grunt. 'I was never keen on the idea. Seemed like a lot of work to me.'

  'He's a dog man, you see,' cuts in his wife.

  'As I was saying,' he continues a tad impatiently. 'I thought it would be a lot of hard work for little return.'

  'And was it?' I ask.

  He passes his napkin over his face and slowly returns it to the table, folding it into a neat triangle. I wonder why he does this when, judging by the dessert spoons in front of us, we still have pudding to come. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

  'Too darned right it was.'

  His wife bustles back into the room carrying a crusty pie and a jug of cream.

  She eyes her husband critically. 'The truth is that when I was growing up in Wales my old mum ran her own cattery and kennels so I knew what I was in for. It doesn't make you rich but it does keep you busy and that's good when you retire.'

  Willie stares at his napkin with renewed interest and places it on his lap.

  'Jessie's just potty about felines. Besotted.'

  'It's true,' she concedes. 'The cats are our family. We don't have kids.'

  A pause. 'I like dogs, mind, but they're not the same.'

  'You always know where you are with a dog,' says Willie firmly.

  'I'm sure,' I say, for want of anything insightful to add.

  I watch as Jessie cuts into the steaming pie, placing hefty slices onto dainty floral dishes which she passes to us. It smells heavenly.

  'Apple pie! That was one of my grandparents' treats when I used to visit them in Carmarthen. I love it.'

  Jessie rests her gaze on me briefly. 'Well, you can't be all bad if you've got Welsh blood.'

  'Actually, some Irish and Scottish too,' I counter.

  'Oh, heaven help us!' mumbles Willie, dolloping thick cream onto his pudding.

  'So, why do you want to open a cattery then?' He observes me with his rheumy blue eyes.

  'I love cats and I've adopted countless ferals.'

  'That's fine if you want to be Mother Teresa of the cat world but if you want to earn a living...'

  'Give her a chance to speak, Willie,' hisses Jessie.

  'I'd like to create the sort of cattery that I'd want to put my own cat in. A small oasis for cat owners who loves their pets. I'm not looking to make it my main income. More a hobby.'

  Willie clicks his teeth. 'We'll knock all that rubbish out of you tomorrow!'

  His wife gives a little giggle. 'Leave her be. The truth is, love, that it's no picnic, so you really need to be sure you're doing the right thing.'

  Willie finishes his apple pie and licks his lips.

  'You'll find out soon enough. If I were you, I'd get yourself plenty of sleep tonight.'

  Ominous words. I offer to help wash up but Jessie's having none of it. She shoos me away from the table and so, wishing them both good night, I make my way upstairs to the bedroom.

  'Remember, six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning,' Willie calls after me. 'And make sure you're wearing some decent clobber.'

Thursday 12 a.m., in bed

The laptop is purring like a contented cat, its screen basking in the bright rays cast by the bedside lamp as I tap away. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with a pile of pillows pressing against my back, I give a heavy yawn and decide to call it a day. Somehow I've managed to edit three press releases and put the finishing touches to a detailed planning document for the Crown jewels event. That'll keep Rachel off my back. I shut down the computer and rub my eyes. According to the energetic Jessie, we'll be cleaning out litter trays and doing the breakfast round very early so I must get some kip. A lorry rumbles by in the distance as I plod across the room and dump the laptop on the desk. Outside it is eerily silent and dark. There's not the braying of a donkey or the tinkling bell of a mountain sheep to be heard, and why would there be? Mallorca seems a million miles away from this picture of English rural bliss. Even the air smells different. I shiver with the chill and, turning off the bedside lamp, snuggle under the covers, my mind swivelling back to the curious evening just spent in Jessie and Willie's company. It's a pity Alan isn't with me. He'd have hit it off immediately with Willie and enjoyed his remarks about my Mother Teresa pretensions in the valley. The Scotsman is exasperated by the growing number of scraggy moggies hanging about our land and largely blames this phenomenon on Ollie and me for sneakily feeding them when he's not looking. Much as we hotly deny the accusation, he regularly stumbles across empty feeding bowls in the long grass so that our guilt is self-evident. Just recalling his recent outburst when a clumsy feral cat crash-landed on his shoulder from a lemon tree has me giggling. And that's how I fall asleep, laughing. A good thing, because I have a feeling it will be my two hosts, Willie and Jessie, who'll be having the last laugh over the next few days.

Friday, The Cat's Whiskers

I am installed in my blue work overalls at The Cat's Whiskers, a vast wooden outhouse with a corrugated iron roof situated in the field beyond the main house. This exclusive cat hotel consists of a small office and twenty indoor suites which run in a vertical line on one side of a long central concrete corridor, each one being capable of housing two or more cats. On the other side of the corridor is a low concrete wall above which is fine wire meshing, allowing gusts of cold air to infiltrate the building. The suites themselves are meshed on two sides for greater air ventilation and each has a cosy, heated sleeping zone tucked away at its rear and a sizeable exercise run for stretching the legs and paws. A bolted, wire-meshed door ensures the captive is kept in and any unwelcome visitors out. I am told that in a separate stone clad annexe in the garden are some large and luxurious duplexes for cat families and Dietrich diva moggies who von- to- be- a- lawn and whose owners are willing to pay for the privilege. The duplexes have special names such as Fishy Hall, Tuna Towers and Garfield Gables. According to Jessie, many cat owners fight for their chosen suites and book months, sometimes years, ahead. And I thought I was one cent short of a euro!

  At six this morning Jessie shoved a cup of tea into my hands outside the bedroom door and told me where to find breakfast items in the kitchen. At that ungodly hour, prolonged sleep rather than breakfast was on my mind so I followed her like a sleepwalker out into the cool garden and through a wooden gate into the field where a path led up to the office of The Cat's Whiskers. Once there I had been swiftly delivered into the care of Emily, one of the cheery, young cattery assistants, while Jessie beat a hasty retreat back down the path. I had been given a nylon overall and set to work.

  First of all we prepared cat food and fresh water for each of the sixty pampered inmates. And don't let's for one second think they all ate the same grub. Not a bit of it. Some felines liked dry pellets, others wet food, some a mix of the two. Then there were the fat cats on diets, the sickly ones on special medical regimes and the prima donnas who only ate fresh fish or chicken. Last but not least, in a league of his own, was Zack the Korat. This spitting bundle of fun only consumed lightly cooked tuna and a costly dried seaweed supplement. When I asked for an explanation, Emily just rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently. 'He's an actor, bless him!'

  And she wasn't being ironic.

  Having delivered food to all the feline guests by seven o'clock, Emily asked me to tag along with her for the next task, which was cleaning out the dirty litter trays. A treat was in store! If I ever thought my own cats made a mess with their litter, this lot could teach them a trick or two. Now, some cats were considerate, just as you'd find with the ideal guest at a hotel who folds back his bed covers neatly and doesn't leave toothpaste all over the sink, or loo paper streamers on the floor. These moggies did their business in their tray, covered it over with gravel and didn't leave a trail of devastation in their wake. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case with Marvin the Manx. His concrete run appeared to have been hit by a snow storm and tornado at precisely the same moment. Tiny fragments of white litter were sprayed all over the floor, in the water and food dishes and, in his tortoiseshell pelt, he'd even trailed it back into his basket. Squeaky rubber toys were strewn everywhere and he'd peed in a corner of the run. Emily had waggled a finger at him and then cheerfully offered to let me clear it all up.

  'You're too kind,' I said.

  'No bother,' she replied sweetly.

  She had held him lovingly in her arms. 'You know they say that the Manx cat was the last animal to get on the Ark and when Noah shut the door too fast, its tail snapped off.'

  I looked at the tail-less cat thoughtfully. 'Anything's possible, Emily. And what about the reason why the tails of Siamese cats curl upwards? The story goes it's because the Queen of Siam used to keep a precious ring on her pet Siamese's tail.'

  She gave a little frown. 'Is that true?'

  'Why not ask one of your Siamese inmates?'

  'I might just do that,' she said.

  By the time duty calls for the hosing down of a run in preparation for an incoming guest, I'm not in the best of humour. I've been on my feet for two hours and I'm beginning to wonder what a girl has to do to get a tea break around here. According to Emily, we don't break until eleven o'clock. On the dot. Inside the rubber gloves my hands are numb with cold as I fumble about with a mop and soapy water in the vacated cat run. My nylon overalls make a swishy sound every time I move, in much the same way, I imagine, as the crisp satin of a ballroom dress might do during a waltz. Having a ball I may be, but at a ball I am not. Emily issues instructions.

  'That's right. Give it a good clean. Ooh! You've missed a bit over there.'

  Well, of course I've missed a bit over there. It's hellishly cold and I'm in desperate need of a cup of warming tea. Does it really matter? As if she's read my thoughts, Emily folds her arms and views me sternly.

  'Hygiene is really important in a cattery. It's the number one golden rule.'

  'So you keep telling me.'

  She drums a finger against her cheek. 'When I trained I found that KITTEN helped me. It goes, "Keep It Tidy, Totally Efficient and Neat".'

  'A mnemonic,' I say gruffly.

  She gives a little shrug. 'Whatever.'

  I slop the mop over the area I've missed.

  'That's better. Now, go and swill out the bucket and get going with the hosing. You remember how I did it?'

  Does the girl think I'm a complete fool? I mean, how difficult is it to hose down a near empty space? She made it look simple enough.

  I drag the green hose over to the run under Emily's steady gaze.

  'Where's Jessie?' I say a tad impatiently. 'I was rather hoping we could go through some admin aspects of the job.'

  'All in good time,' she beams, removing a soapy rubber glove to brush a stray blonde tendril back behind her ear. 'First of all, it's best to get to grips with the physical work.'

  Harrumph. That's put me in my box. I go in search of the tap, dropping the hose on the floor. It spasms for a brief moment like a snake caught in its last death throes and then lies still.

  'Hang on,' calls Emily. 'Where are you off to? Remember, all you have to do is pull the switch on the hose itself. You don't need to turn the tap.'

  That'll teach me for not paying attention. I bend down to grab the hose and pull back the small lever at the nozzle.

  I hear a strange gurgling sound but no water emerges. I wait. Emily is momentarily distracted by a call for help from her co-worker, Dawn, a sturdy lass with dark curly hair who is grooming a cat a few doors down. All I can see through the thick meshing of the various runs are her flailing arms. I wonder if she's being devoured by some psycho feline.

  'Just a moment,' Emily says to me and strides out of the run. Impatiently I tap the hose on the concrete floor and closely study the errant nozzle. And then, in the best traditions of Laurel and Hardy, a fierce jet of freezing water squirts straight in my eye, splashes my face and drenches my overall. I give an involuntary shriek and drop the hose, allowing water to shoot all over the run and through the wire meshing. By the time I've taken control of it, Emily is back to see cascades of water pouring down the central corridor. She shakes her head. 'Deary me. What are you doing?'

  I'm sopping wet and ice-cold. 'The stupid hose doesn't work,' I spit.

  'That's not what it looks like to me.' Her eyes scan the puddles of water forming in the run.

  'Well, we'd better mop up this mess.'

  Miserably, I begin squeezing out the mop. She bites her lip, trying to inhibit a rogue grin.

  'Go on, hop it,' she sighs. 'Get some dry clothes on and I'll finish off here.'

  I falter. 'What was up with Dawn? She was waving her arms about in the air.'

  She laughs. 'Oh, she was just wiggling strings for Dixie to catch.'

  'Dixie?'

  'Yeh, the blue Persian you met this morning. I've just had to help her get an enormous knot out of his hair. He's a right one!'

  With what little dignity I can muster I turn tail and head back to the house in drizzling rain, icy water dripping down the back of my neck. In the distance there's a gentle baa-ing of a lamb, and from The Cat's Whiskers office the unmistakable sound of gales of laughter.

Saturday, pill popping

'It's easy, see? You just hold his head back like this and pop the pill in. Then you stroke his throat and it's gone.'

  Emily calmly releases the struggling Persian and strokes his fur. He hisses at her and moodily saunters off to his refuge, a dark and cosy den with a cat flap, at the end of his run.

  'We've got to give some pills to Zack later so you can have a go if you like?'

  No thanks, I'll leave you to enjoy that mauling, Emily, my sweet. Zack, I have quickly discovered, is the original Exorcist cat. I haven't seen his head swivel yet, but it's only a matter of time.

  'OK,' I hear myself say in a weak voice.

  I can't believe it's only day two because it already feels as though I've been here a month. At six this morning, the bustling and energetic Jessie knocked on my door with a cup of tea and half an hour later Dawn and I were on the gravy train handing out food and water to all the inmates while Emily did the litter trays. We cleaned out the runs together and then got a fat tabby ready to be reunited with his owners, collecting his toys and blanket and unearthing his basket from the store cupboard. Visitors seemed to come and go throughout the day either delivering or collecting moggies and the telephone in the office rang incessantly. I managed to snatch a bite for lunch but I haven't stopped since.

  'Great news!'

  My senses are alert. I turn my head, half expecting it to be Rachel from my office, inventor of the 'great news' bugle, but it is Jessie. She is beckoning to me from the office door, her voice booming up the corridor.

  'The vet's come to give some injections. I thought you'd like to watch.'

  Emily gives me an encouraging smile. 'Gosh, that's good timing. It's your lucky day.'

  I plod past her, too fatigued even for a witty riposte.

Monday, the great escape

Emily and I put clean water and a food bowl down in the run.

  'So, did you have a nice day yesterday?' she asks.

  'It was great to have some time off if that's what you mean. We did the feeds and cleaning out in the morning and then I had the afternoon free to sleep.'

  She laughs. 'Oh, come on. You can't be that tired. I'm up at five every day, even Sundays.'

  'Well, you're obviously completely mad.'

  'No, I just like to make the most of the day.'

  I gather up a sweeping brush and mop just as Dawn, in baggy blue overalls, arrives outside the run flipping a clump of mail about in the air.

  'Got some post for you, Dribbly Dibbly.'

  The object of her gushy overtures is the elegant, smoky hued Siamese now sitting disdainfully in his private den.

  She looks at us through the wire meshing.

  'Where's Dibbly boy?'

  'Sulking in the back,' says Emily flatly.

  'Oh shame! He's got a letter from the Lamberts, his owners, and a lovely postcard from Marrakech.'

  I snigger. 'Is the card from the King of the Berbers?'

  She examines the text. 'Nah, I think it's from the Lamberts' daughter, Cristobel.'

  She leans in closer. 'I'll read them to him later. All right?'

  I watch her potter off, swaying her hips and humming, 'What's New Pussycat?' to whichever long-suffering, incarcerated feline will listen.

  Emily pushes her fair locks back with a rubber-gloved hand.

  'Right, can I leave you to grooming duties in suites one to ten and then we'll do some admin and booking in of new clients together?'

  I give a confident nod, already dreading the moment when I will arrive at suite ten, home of Zack the Korat. I've tried to make this silver blue menace more endearing by nicknaming him Borat the Korat, but it makes no difference. He's an evil bugger bent on vengeance and is in desperate need of a good psychotherapist. Motherly and good-hearted Jessie has given me the sob story – broken home, abusive parents, victim of a hit and run and near poisoning with Warfarin by a careless farmer, but I'm losing sympathy. A cat called 'It' he may be, but he doesn't do himself any favours. Twice he's lashed out when I've tried to clean his run and he bares his teeth and spits through his netting at the cattery old faithfuls. Despite my misgivings, Zack is held in high esteem by Jessie and the rest of the staff who lavish him with cuddles and grooming sessions. His owner is a famous British comedian and Zack is a star in his own right, having appeared in several TV series, and is soon to hit the big time auditioning for modelling and acting roles in LA and New York. Maybe if I offer him a bit of PR coaching he might change his attitude. I mean, we are both in the media business after all.

  I methodically do my rounds, making sure to lock the door of each cat run behind me to avoid escapees. I have been assured by Jessie that should a cat give me the slip it wouldn't get very far given the tight circle of security in and around the building, but I'm taking no chances. A fat Burmese named Basil, ward of a London-based ambassador, yawns when I enter his run and rolls onto his back for a tummy tickle. Arnie the Abyssinian in suite seven, who arrived at the cattery two days ago in a chauffeur-driven limo all to himself, claws the mesh of his run with excitement when he sees me appear with his grooming brush, and as for Biscuit, the sybaritic ragdoll, we are the best of chums. At least he just sleeps all day, purring loudly (a sign of genuine appreciation) with every stroke of the brush.

  Fastening the door of run nine behind me, I stare into Zack's pit, suite ten. He gives me a grimace and sinister, amber light radiates from his eyes as he sees me unbolt the door. With trepidation, I enter the narrow cell and am on the point of shutting the door behind me when without warning he flies through the air and lands on my neck with claws unleashed. I give a yowl loud enough to freeze the blood in my own veins. Neatly propelling himself off my head, Zack races out of the run like a bit part in a cop drama. Actors! I feel blood on my neck and scalp, but there's no time to have a diva moment. I rush after him down the corridor but, like a silver streak, he turns at the corner and begins scaling a set of high metal shelves. He scowls down at me, hissing furiously, his eyes now flashing a vivid jade green. Emily and Dawn have already heard the commotion and calmly enter the fray from the adjoining office, shooing me out of the way and standing by the shelf in reasoning mode like a pair of suicide counsellors.

  'Come down, Zack,' says Dawn in soothing tones. 'No one's going to hurt you, sweetheart.'

  He gives her a wary scowl, but I notice he's stopped spitting.

  'We love you, Zack,' coos Emily. 'You're such a brave boy.'

  I stand by the wall, redundant, like an inept social worker. Dawn has donned leather gloves and now reaches up to Zack. He scratches at her, but on the third attempt begrudgingly accepts her embrace.

  'There, there, pet,' she croons, gently taking him back to his run and settling him in his basket.

  Like a guilty school pupil, I follow Emily into the outer office. She rounds on me coldly.

  'Didn't I warn you about leaving doors open?'

  'It happened in a flash.'

  She raises her eyebrows and nods slowly but is evidently disappointed.

  'I'm afraid Jessie won't be pleased. She's very specific about security.'

  I feel my hackles rise. 'He didn't get very far though, little psycho.'

  She gives a loud tut. 'Actually, he's a highly talented and intelligent cat. When you gain his trust, he's a darling. His owner says he's in constant demand for TV work. Mark my word, it won't be long before he gets a Hollywood contract.'

  'You mean in a Hammer Horror?'

  Perhaps unwisely, I continue in goonish mode.

  'That's right folks. Zack is back. He's dark, dangerous, deranged and he's in a cattery near you. Be afraid. Be very AFRAID!'

  She doesn't smile. Instead she frowns at the dried blood on my neck and arms.

  'You'd better clear up those wounds. It's a hygiene risk.'

  'Give me a break,' I mutter.

  Truculently, I open the first aid drawer and with some cotton wool dab a liberal amount of Dettol on my cuts. She gives me a sarcastic little smile.

  'Well, if you thought running a cattery was a piece of cake, you'd better think again.'

Tuesday afternoon, sick as a cat

Jessie and I have just returned from the vet with a pair of sick kittens. They only arrived late the night before but have become increasingly poorly, throwing up their food and showing signs of listlessness. Jessie was taking no chances so immediately put them in an isolated run in the field away from the other healthy felines and booked to see the vet during the afternoon. Like her shadow I accompanied her in the car and helped carry one of the cat baskets into the surgery.

  'New assistant?' beamed the nurse.

  'She's a trainee,' said Jessie.

  'Oh, well you've picked one of the best catteries. Having fun?'

  I had thrown her an indulgent smile, thinking back to the vomit I had been cleaning up for the best part of the morning.

  'A thrill a minute,' I replied.

  The good news, the vet informed us, was that both cats appeared to have minor stomach upsets but were otherwise in fine form and apparently needed only rest, a 24-hour fast followed by a bland diet. We drove them back to the cattery in some relief.

  Dawn bustles into the office as Jessie and I take off our jackets and slump into chairs.

  'The kettle's just boiled. Everything OK with the kittens?'

  'Yes, love,' says Jessie. 'Nothing untoward. Still, better safe than sorry.'

  Dawn ambles over to the kettle and makes a pot of tea. 'Oh, by the way, that strange woman from London's coming in half an hour.'

  Jessie turns to me. 'Now, this lady hasn't been to us before. She's got a Scottish Fold.'

  'A what?'

  'They're lovely cats. They have special ears.'

  'In what way?'

  'They're squashed flat, as if they're folded.'

  Dawn slaps a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit down on the small table in front of me. Jessie reaches over and taps my knee conspiratorially.

  'Between you and me, the owner sounded a bit neurotic when she rang so it might be interesting for you to meet her.'

  In heaven's name, why? I've got enough neurotic clients of my own to last me a lifetime.

  'Yeah, you've only met nice clients so far. It's good to know how to handle the difficult ones,' says Dawn. 'Jessie's got an appointment with a supplier so you and I can handle this woman together.'

  'It takes all sorts,' murmurs Jessie, taking a sip of tea.

  I take a bite of my biscuit, wondering what this client and her special-eared cat are going to be like. Forty-five minutes later I find out. The office doorbell rings and Dawn gives me a warning wink. She puts on her best smile and swings open the door.

  'Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Buckley. We were expecting you.'

  A middle-aged female as thin as a twizzle stick with peroxide blonde hair and perma-tanned skin barges in, tottering on towering stilettos. Her eyes blaze.

  'The traffic was horrendous and this place is simply impossible to find! The directions were dreadful.'

  She accentuates the vowels and rolls her 'r's in a clumsy attempt to sound grand. I wonder whether she's an actress. She shakes her long mane and after what appears to be a pause for effect, says, 'The Duke of Marlborough's in the boot.'

  Dawn's brow buckles slightly. 'Erm… sorry, who?'

  'It will probably take three of us,' Mrs Buckley rattles on. 'He weighs a ton.'

  I shoot Dawn a wary look. Either I'm about to become an accessory to a murder or the woman's a complete fantasist. Either way, police presence might prove reassuring.

  'Don't just gawp at me, woman,' she snarls in my direction. 'Hurry up. I haven't got all day. I don't like to keep the Duke waiting.'

  I leap up from the seat and fumble for my jacket. I can see the sky is already dredging up some new tears but there's no time to search out an umbrella.

  Dawn gives a little cough. 'Excuse me, but if we could just sort out some basic admin here first.'

  Mrs Buckley flicks a gloved hand in Dawn's direction. 'I really don't have time for this.'

  She drops her black handbag on the desk and begins throwing out various items. 'Here, this is the cash for the Duke's three week stay and these are his vaccination details. Right, let's go. I have a plane to catch tonight.'

  She opens the door and sweeps out in her chic camel jacket with Dawn and me following in her wake. Gusts of icy wind and spitting rain hit us as we head off through the field to the front drive. Dawn presses a hand in my back and I turn to see a furious expression on her face. We arrive at the sleek black Range Rover with its personalised number plate of BUCK O1 and watch as Miss Twizzle Stick uses her electronic key fob to release the boot's lock. Inside an enormous cream cat squats in a metal cage. I feel myself gasp. Dawn peers inside.

  'I take it this is the Duke?'

  'Who else did you think it was? The President of the United Bloody States?'

  Dawn frowns. 'There's really no need for that tone, Mrs Buckley.'

  I lean in and try to budge the cage.

  'Get out of the way,' she hisses at me. 'I know how to slide this out. Here,' she pushes a massive holdall towards me. 'These are his toys and belongings.'

  I take the bag while she, assisted by Dawn, removes the Duke from his confinement. He looks up at his owner and lets out a pitiful whine. I can't blame him. We stagger back to the office with the Duke of Marlborough and his bag. Once inside, Dawn rests his cage on the carpet and invites Mrs Buckley to take a seat. Irritably, she shakes her head in dissent and stands with arms folded by the desk. The Duke squats forlornly within his den, eyes darting nervously about him while we remove our soggy jackets.

  'Would you like to settle him in?' asks Dawn stiffly.

  'That's what I pay you people for, isn't it?' the woman's eyes flash. She is tapping a restless foot against the floor.

  I'm beginning to think Daniella Popescu-Miller is a walk in the park.

  'What does he weigh?' demands Dawn.

  Mrs Buckley pushes an irritable hand through her fair tresses. 'He's perfect.'

  'I'm sorry,' Dawn replies firmly. 'He looks significantly overweight to me, which means we'll want to get him checked by our vet.'

  'More like you want to extract more money out of me,' she sneers. 'You people are all the same.'

  I've had enough. 'That's completely untrue. Perhaps you and the Duke should take your custom elsewhere.'

  Mrs Buckley narrows her eyes. 'How dare you! I could have you fired.'

  'Actually, she doesn't work here,' says Dawn quickly. 'She's just a visitor.'

  The woman is unsettled. 'Why did you carry my bag in from the car then?'

  Dawn answers for me. 'She was just being helpful.'

  Mrs Buckley sits down on the small sofa, smoothing her tight black skirt over her thighs. I notice that the tips of her stilettos are caked in wet mud. Her shoulders seem to droop and she gives a loud sigh. 'I'm sorry. I've been a bit stressed out of late.'

  Dawn nods encouragingly. 'I see. Well, we all have those days.'

  She gives us a plaintive look. 'The Duke does like his food.'

  'Don't we all,' I exclaim. 'But he looks about to pop.'

  Her eyes widen in alarm. 'Poor Dukie. He's my life. If anything should happen to him…' There's a theatrical sniff.

  'Let's start from the beginning, shall we, Mrs Buckley?' says Dawn firmly. 'We can check the Duke over and get him on a slimming regime but first I do need to sign him in properly. Now, where's that pen?'

Wednesday 6 p.m.

I'm sitting on the concrete floor in Zack's run. With some irritation he looks up at the sound of a new arrival entering the cattery and gives a low growl. I stroke his ears and he lies back against my stomach in a state of contentment. My hands are covered in scratches, my neck still stiff, but Zack and I have miraculously come to an understanding. I have worn him down with kindness, turned the other cheek, and shown him who is boss. During the last two days I have, with grim determination and against the odds, administered his eye drops, fed him his pills and groomed him, even earning a begrudging nod of approval from young Emily.

  Jessie appears at the doorway of the office and smiles.

  'Your cab's here.'

  I give Zack a final caress of the ears and grip his silky head between my two hands. His large amber eyes bore into my own.

  'Now listen old buddy, if you want to have friends, you must make an effort, OK?'

  He averts his gaze and gives a yawn. Stretching his long, silver blue body, he curls his paws up to his face as if he's praying.

  'I'm serious, Zack. You can't go around mutilating people like some Mad Max doppelganger. It's just not cricket. I know about the past, but you've got to let it go.'

  Jessie shakes her head.

  'You really are a head case. I thought you'd never make it, but you've proven yourself to be a regular Mowgli.'

  I look at her fiery red hair and big robust frame and marvel that she's humoured me for the last week. I've had my own minor diva moments, that's for sure.

  'I'm tempted to bring him back to Mallorca with me.'

  As I bolt the run and head for the office, she places a broad hand on my shoulder.

  'And what did I say about becoming attached to other people's cats?'

  'That it's a no-go area.'

  'Precisely. Anyway, he's one of my rising stars. His owner makes a mint out of him.'

  'It's a crazy old world.'

  She gives a husky laugh. 'Well, it's been a tough week, but you've made it.'

  'I still haven't tried giving a cat an injection yet.'

  'Well, you can practise with a syringe on all those juicy oranges in your field. Then get the nice local vet you told me about to show you how it's done.'

  She hands me a certificate, proof that I have undergone my cattery management training. With a degree of satisfaction, I pop it into the side pocket of my case.

  'And don't forget,' she says. 'If you want your builder to come and see how we constructed our own cattery, we'd be delighted to put him up.'

  'Stefan doesn't speak much English so I'd have to come too and maybe even bring his sister along.'

  'The more the merrier – then we can put you all to work on the rounds.'

  Willie opens the outer door for me and Emily and Dawn lean forward and both give me a little hug. I step inside the cab and wave as we make a slow retreat down the gravelly drive. I wonder what will become of psychotic Zack, but can only hope that a Hollywood career really does beckon and that one day I'll see my furry friend's name up there in blazing lights.