Helen Brown - After Cleo

‘You look stunning!’ I breathed.

Lydia’s smile filled the shop with sunshine.

‘I’d need a shawl,’ she said. ‘But this dress is too expensive.’

Glimpsing the price tag, I gulped. Nevertheless, a gown that enhanced her beauty and brought her back to the core of her own culture was beyond price. We bought the dress and took it home where, much to Jonah’s delight, the girls spent the afternoon rifling through my jewellery drawer.

I’d offered to buy them earrings and necklaces, but they insisted on choosing pieces from our family’s past. Katharine opted for a cameo necklace that had belonged to Great Aunt Myrtle, who like many of the women in our family had (by the standards of her generation) been oversexed and over-adventurous.

Lydia opted for flamboyant drop earrings I used to wear in the 1980s, along with Mum’s diamanté necklace. Mum had loved that necklace, especially during the 1960s when it sparkled against her skin on special occasions.

Their rebel daughter ancestors would’ve felt honoured to have their trinkets aired on such a special family occasion in the twenty-first century.

Jonah was thrilled when he unearthed a single peacock feather earring from the depths of the jewellery drawer. He was even more pleased when Katharine attached it to a ribbon he could wear around his neck.

Decked out in his customised designer necklace, Jonah preened himself on the kitchen table where he knew he wasn’t supposed to sit. Raising his front foot, he pretended to be engrossed in the task of giving himself a manicure. Licking the gaps between his claws, he cast sideways glances watching and waiting for his favourite words: ‘Jonah you are beautiful!’

I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to feed his vanity, but at the core of every vain person there’s usually a soft-centred blob of insecurity. Perhaps if we flattered him he’d grow into a confident cat who didn’t have to bother impressing others.

Smart as he looked, Jonah wouldn’t be attending the wedding. I phoned the cattery but they were fully booked. Fortunately, I still had Vivienne’s number. She remembered Jonah and when asked if she’d visit him at home during the wedding weekend quickly said yes.

There was one other small problem. Ferdie had nowhere to go, either. Vivienne said she’d be more than willing to look after both cats at our place. A cat bachelor pad. It sounded a breeze.

Dysfunction

A taste of liberty is better than none

‘He eats rubber bands? And merino wool?’ said Vivienne.

Jonah arched his back sensually as she ran her hand over his spine. She was the first female visitor he’d really approved of. Watching how she handled him, allowing him to make the advances and give affection on his own terms, I liked her even more than the first time we’d met. Her hair was dyed purple and scraped back in a ponytail – not a look that would suit many women over thirty-five, but purple was her colour, and a perfect match for her brown eyes. There was softness in those eyes, especially when discussing animals – a sparkle of humour, too.

‘He likes alpaca wool as well, but more for sleeping on than eating,’ I replied. ‘Though come to think of it, he did chew holes in my alpaca cardigan.’

‘That’s pica,’ said Vivienne.

‘Like what pregnant women get when they want to eat lumps of coal and stuff?’

Vivienne nodded.

Uncertain I could trust her diagnosis, I asked if she had a cat. Her eyes lit up. She had nine.

‘ Nine?! ’ I echoed, barely able to conceal the fact that my opinion of Vivienne had just changed from ‘unusual’ to ‘mad cat lady’. I’d seen a television programme about women who couldn’t stop collecting cats. It’s a psychological disorder.

She asked if I’d like to see photos. While I had no desire to inspect pictures of poor mangy things clambering all over her house, I didn’t want to cause offence. Vivienne reached into her surprisingly organised purple handbag to retrieve a pocket-sized photo album.

‘These are your cats?’ I asked, turning page after page of glossy coated, well-fed felines. Every one of them was a supreme example of a loved and pampered animal. ‘How do you do it?’

‘Not always easily,’ Vivienne laughed. ‘They’re all rescue animals. Zoe was left on the side of the road when she was a kitten. Igor lost one eye and his owners didn’t want him anymore. Sally was abused. They’ve all had a rough time.’

I felt humbled. Any frustrations we had wrestling with one cat’s lion-sized ego evaporated alongside the challenges of nine live-in felines. Vivienne might be mad about cats, but she was no mad cat lady. No wonder she hadn’t been perturbed when asked if she thought she could look after Jonah and Ferdie at our place for the wedding weekend.

Intrigued, I poured Vivienne a glass of wine and delved discreetly into her background. Not only was she a qualified cat behaviourist, she was an animal activist. Having never met someone who fought for animal rights before, I realised my prejudices were just as inaccurate as they’d been about mad cat ladies. I’d always imagined animal activists were on the loony side. But when I learned about the work Vivienne and her friends did, I was abashed.

One of Vivienne’s friends had recently received a tip-off that the council was planning to trap some wild cats in an old bus depot and take them away to be destroyed. In what sounded like an action movie adventure, Vivienne and her friends broke into the depot around midnight and collected the cats themselves.

‘A lot of the cats weren’t feral at all,’ she said. ‘They were quite friendly. They were just family pets who’d been abandoned there.’

She and her friends transported the felines to a no-kill shelter, where efforts would be made to find good homes for them. Rescuing animals from death row required enormous commitment and funding. It was heart-warming to learn that animals had human guardians like Vivienne and her friends.

While she was talking, Jonah crept along the back of the sofa behind her and toyed idly with her ponytail. The game soon became vigorous. He rolled on his back, snared a bunch of purple curls between his front paws and ran them like dental floss through his teeth.

Apologising, I untangled him from the nest he’d made of her hair. As I lowered him back on to the rug, I became aware of Vivienne’s watchful gaze. I waited for the usual ‘Isn’t he cute!?’ comment, but her expression was serious.

‘It’s the breed,’ she said. ‘Orientals are high-maintenance. How old did you say he was when you got him?’

‘I’m not sure. At least a couple of months, possibly older. He was certainly the largest kitten in the shop.’

‘Hmmm, that would figure,’ Vivienne said as Jonah scampered off to claw the stair carpet. ‘He was probably a reject.’

‘What do you mean reject?’ I asked, affronted on Jonah’s behalf.

‘Because he was older than the other cats, somebody could’ve bought him before you did. They probably decided they didn’t like him for some reason and took him back to the shop. Do you have any idea why they might’ve done that?’

I wasn’t sure how to answer.

‘The pet shop man said he’d had conjunctivitis, so they’d had to keep him a bit longer.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything a pet shop man tells you,’ said Vivienne as a streak of chocolate and cream sprinted between us meowing loudly.

‘Well, he is a full-on cat . . .’ I said, as Jonah bounced on to the window ledge and promptly fell off in a muddle of legs and paws. ‘But he’s very affectionate. And he helped me recover from a mastectomy and write a book. He’s just so . . . funny.’