Bridesmaids

‘Freddie will feed it when you’re not there! You know he will, he’d do anything for you. See you soon,’ I can hear her blowing kisses. ‘Keep it!’

I put my mobile down, and stare at my lapful of purr-i-ness, they’re rumbling so much my legs are vibrating. How on earth can she say that a kitten is so ‘me’?

It has its tiny pink tongue stuck out between its lips and its toes are twitching.

I know for a fact I don’t do that.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_bac0a620-9f08-5d33-9079-a7ab0a44472a)

‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ A waft of air from the front door, and the clunk of a heavy bag being dropped sends the kittens scattering in all directions.

Freddie is standing in the doorway, his big trademark grin on his face. He even uses it when cold callers and religious types knock on the door. It makes their day.

I’m not his honey, it’s a joke. We’re flatmates, but we’re like an old married couple without the married bit. Or the old.

He’s all lanky and loose-limbed, like a Great Dane puppy. But with the floppy fringe of a cocker spaniel. I don’t normally liken people to dogs, honest, but it works with Freddie.

Kitten number 1 has emerged from under the couch and is staring up at him, with a look of wonder on its little face. It’s cute, okay, I admit it. Very cute. Big eyed, button-nosed cute.

‘Oh my God, cuteness overload.’

See? ‘You sound so soppy.’ I look at all the ginger and white hairs on my black leggings. I so shouldn’t even consider keeping one.

‘I don’t care.’ He’s down on his hands and knees making baby noises, and the kitten is onto him in an instant. Literally. Marching over with a slightly sideways swagger like it thinks it’s a real big cat, with its spiky tail stuck in the air. All mixed up attitude and neediness in one small package.

Freddie scoops it up and rolls over on his back and I swear I see the tiny creature fall in love. The other two kittens emerge from their hiding places wondering what they’re missing out on, then scramble up onto his chest and join in the purr-a-thon. ‘Aren’t you the handsomest guy in the world?’ Ginger purrs louder, then opens its little pink mouth in a soundless miaow. ‘Aww, baby.’ Freddie props himself up on his elbow and looks at me, head tilted slightly on one side. ‘This mean you’re ready for love again?’ He winks.

‘Oh, God, don’t you start! They are kittens, right?’

‘Right on,’ he holds one up in the air, ‘definitely kittens.’

‘I need help, Freddie.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. ‘Though that is the first step to recovery, admitting—’

‘Sod off.’ I can’t help but grin back and nudge him in the ribs with my foot. ‘They’re a photoshoot not a therapy session.’

‘Shush. Don’t call them that.’ He covers the kitten’s ears with his hands. ‘Kitties have feelings too you know.’

I ignore him. ‘And they won’t stay still. Why won’t kittens just sit?’

‘You’re confusing them with dogs, and men.’

‘I need to get a decent shot, and I need to get a photo of that flaming apple on a white plate with lipstick before Coral rings.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘Well, how about,’ he pulls himself up, so he’s got his back resting against the couch, ‘it just sits on my knee? I could hold it sneakily to make sure it doesn’t move. You know put a finger on its tail, out of sight? Like this?’ He demonstrates, and the kitten rolls over in indignation, wraps its whole body round his finger, kicks like crazy and bites him. I hope that this isn’t what Rachel means by the ‘so you’ bit.

‘Ooh, you’re a little tough nut, aren’t you?’ He tickles its tummy and it flops back, all languid and blissful. Feet in the air, and I’m a tiny bit jealous. ‘Aww, so gorgeous, are we keeping them?’

‘No, we’re not! I’m taking photo’s for Coral’s Instagram page, and said I’d do a few for promo for the rescue centre.’

‘We should rescue one! A house is not a home …’

‘Well, you can clean the litter tray!’

‘Really?’

I groan. ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you? You want a kitten! Gawd, you’re as bad as Rach.’

‘Maybe.’ He tickles the kitten under its chin, and the purring starts up again. ‘Look, the perfect picture.’

‘Cute, but your finger is in the way, and I’m not sure the ripped jeans make the perfect backdrop.’

Freddie’s jeans are not ripped in a designer way, they’re ripped in a ‘we’ve been through a lot together and I can’t bear to part with them and they’re very comfy’ way.

It’s not Coral’s way. Coral doesn’t do comfy. Coral would sue me if I posted anything resembling un-touched-up reality on her Insta feed.

And I’m not convinced it will help with re-homing the kittens.

‘I could put a blanket on my knee?’ He pulls the throw off the sofa.

‘It’s a bit up and down, they’re only tiny. You can’t see its legs now.’

‘We could put a board underneath?’ He improvises with a magazine. ‘Mag, blanket, kitten. Ta-dah!’ He throws his hands out and the kitten slides off his knee, faceplants between his ankles then rolls over and attacks his leg. ‘Maybe not.’

I have to laugh. See what I mean about him being the best thing? What boyfriend would go to that kind of trouble? I’d be a total fool to ever think about him in any way other than just a mate, despite him being ever so slightly sexy when he pads through the place in the morning; bare-chested, with bare feet and his hair all tousled.

And makes me coffee.

Then goes away without a word.

No conversation required.

He is priceless.

I bumped into Freddie a few days after my world imploded, and he more or less saved my life.

There I was, at an all time low, my life all but over (I’d got a bit melodramatic, which I think I was entitled to). I’d been dumped mid hen-party, had a horribly demanding boss who just then was doing my head in, and had nowhere to live. Even though I love my mum, living with your happily married parents when you’ve just hit thirty, and it looks like you’re going to be a spinster for ever, and you’ve just woken up to the fact that there’s more chance of your eggs getting hard-boiled then producing babies, is not a recipe for happiness. One more day and one of us would have cracked. Nastily.

So, I’d strolled confidently into an estate agents’ office. All naïve and excited about my new life as a single independent woman earning a wage.

Okay, I wasn’t excited, I was exhausted from crying, full of self-doubt and needing to find a cave to hole up in. But I was naïve. That bit is true.

‘I’m looking for a flat to rent. Something like that.’ I’d said to the guy by the desk, pointing at what I thought was an unassuming but nice apartment.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ He wasn’t being very helpful. ‘Very. How, er, much are they charging?’