Zara Stoneley - Bridesmaids

Or not.

Apparently, my darling fiancé had realised we were totally incompatible. That I didn’t need him because I was far too busy with my job. That he knew I was building my career and wouldn’t want to be a stay at home mum, which, according to Andy, was the only way to bring up kids (I didn’t even know kids were on the table, let alone a clause in the mental pre-nup – or had he been planning an actual pre-nup?). That I had to be grown up and realise it wasn’t going to work (that bit made me want to be totally un-grown-up and yell like a toddler). That he also thought I needed to spend more time cooking (like his mum did) and ironing (like his mum did) and entertaining his bloody boss (you got it). I am paraphrasing a bit here, but all this came completely out of the blue. Domestic goddess I am not, but I didn’t think I needed to be. I am the ‘licking fingers and inviting people round’ side of Nigella, not the ‘slaving over a hot stove’ side.

I slithered down my Chippendale onto the floor, all melting and pathetic, and had to be scooped up by Rachel and helped to a chair. My bones had become all bendy and non-supporting, my brain scrambled, and my chest felt like it was fit to burst with pain.

When I got home I tore up all the scraps of paper I’d been practicing my new signature on, in a fury, then collapsed in a soggy mess on my bed and left lots of pleading messages on his voicemail.

Next morning, I was ashamed of my pathetic-ness and sent a few abusive ones.

Then I cut his head off all my photos. And a triangle out of the crotch area. And looked if Amazon Prime supplied Voodoo Dolls. They do, just in case you need to know for future reference.

Two weeks, lots of cancelled wedding arrangements, and a few crates of wine later I’d moved my (very) few odds and ends out of his flat and shoehorned them into my bedroom at Mum’s, rejigged all Andy’s carefully constructed playlists, sent his boss an invite to dinner at his mum’s (FORMAL DRESS! PLEASE BRING CHAMPAGNE! CABS WILL BE ARRANGED FOR MIDNIGHT!) and left iron shaped holes (to match the ones in the photos) in his best shirts. I know, it was childish, but it made me feel better for a short time.

‘Jane, Jane, are you still there? What’s happened?’

I shake my head, and blink, trying to regain my inner haughty cat composure and remember what Rachel was talking about.

‘Sure, sure. Just trying to catch the damned thing.’ I adore cats. I just love them less when I am trying to photograph them. Never work with animals or children? Yeah, yeah, yeah, whoever said that had a point. But some of us like a challenge. Or are slightly deranged.

Or desperate to impress the boss and rescue their job.

I wriggle on my stomach under the chair, my head on one side, cheek plastered to the floor so that I’m all squishy faced, making ‘Here, kitty-kitty’ noises. The wide-eyed kitten backs off in a kind of weird tarantula dance on its tip toes, until it has emerged on the other side. Its little back is arched and its tail all puffed up like a loo brush and it is jigging sideways, which makes me laugh. Mistake. The noise makes it spin round in alarm and it’s off.

‘Are you okay, Jane?’

‘I think,’ my cheek is still squashed so it comes out as ‘sink’, ‘I’m stuck. Not quite sure how I got under here.’ The trouble with this apartment is, it literally isn’t big enough to swing a cat in (not that I’d do such a thing, obviously).

‘How bijou!’ Mum had exclaimed – poking round into every nook and cranny the day I moved it.

‘You mean small. Bijou suggests small but tasteful.’ I’m not kidding myself.

‘Yes, dear. I mean small.’ She’d poked into one corner too many and was pulling her ‘dirty’ face. ‘But you can make it bijou darling.’ Then she’d spotted the gooey shaving foam without a top, and the toothbrush that looked like it had been used to scrub a skirting board, and doubt set in. ‘A small flat and a man doesn’t really work, believe me, darling. I do know. They take up too much space. Just look at your father, if he hadn’t had a shed we’d have been divorced before you’d left primary school.’

I’d bundled her out of the place, muttering the phrases the estate agent had about prices and bargain and aspect and foot on the ladder.

Small it is though. And we’ve crammed it with two people’s furniture. My flatmate and I both arrived with baggage – of the emotional and physical variety. Both can get in the way of life.

At the moment, though, I have more pressing problems that are getting in the way of life. I am currently jammed head first under a chair with my feet under a table and I’m going to have to perform a snake-like manoeuvre to get out.

‘Ouch.’ Snakes don’t have ankles, I do. A sore one. ‘Bugger.’

‘You okay?’

‘Think so, I’m out! It could be worse, I could have still been stuck under there when Freddie got back.’

Rachel giggles. ‘He might have taken advantage!’

‘Ha-ha. Bugger, it’s heading up the blinds now.’ The little ginger ninja is moving like Spider-man on a mission, mewling and rocking from side to side, and two more intrepid explorers have decided to join in. ‘There are three kittens scaling the blinds!’

I snap a quick shot with my mobile phone – I can’t not – and WhatsApp it to Rachel. Kitten number 1 is traversing chimpanzee-style (which is no mean feat when you haven’t got thumbs), while the other two are leaping about intent on grabbing its spiky, Christmas-tree tail.

‘Oh, God, you are so funny.’ She’s laughing, and I think from the sniffles, crying a bit. She also seems to be having difficulty breathing. ‘Oh, this so needs to be on YouTube.’

‘What? Oh, bugger! Don’t you dare!’ I suddenly realise I’ve accidentally gone into vid mode, and this is something I don’t even want to share with my bestest of best friends.

‘Hang on, I’m going to put you down, I need both hands.’ I throw my mobile onto the couch, then spin round suddenly scared I’ve squashed one of the fluffballs as there’s an alarmed squeak. I haven’t. Kitten number two has now made a leap from the blinds and is mid-air and dropping like a stone, with four rigid legs stuck out in all directions flying-squirrel-style. I stick my hands out, and its more luck than judgement that the soft furry lump lands splat in the middle of my palms. ‘Phew.’

‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ Rachel is squawking from the couch.

‘I caught it!’ It stares up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. And those baby-blues catch at something in my throat as I pull it closer to my body and stroke it reassuringly. Though, I suspect the cuddling bit is more for my own benefit than the kitten’s. It doesn’t seem bothered, but it does start up a raspy uneven purr that rumbles straight to the centre of my heart. And finds a squishy bit I’d almost forgotten I have.

I swallow hard to dislodge the lump as it snuggles its way deeper into my hands, then sigh. I can feel the beat of its heart through my T-shirt, feel the warmth of its tiny body. Maybe I do need a cat. Or something. I’ve been acting like I’ve been allergic to bodily contact of any kind since Andy did the dirty. And I have in a way. I’ve been air-hugging as well as air-kissing, and it’s probably not good for my mental health. Humans need contact, warmth, touch … not just wine, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Pringles. Although those do help, don’t diss the simple solutions until you try them.

I glance up, and commando kitten number 1, the ginger ratbag, is slowly sliding down the blinds. It makes a leap onto my leg and clambers up me. I’m a human kitten tower.

I slump onto the couch, suddenly exhausted, scooping up the third kitten which is determinedly clambering up me and settle all three in my lap, then pick Rachel up.