The Cat Who Wasn't a Dog Read online

  ‘Worse! He’s the director’s husband.’

  ‘Cor! You are in trouble.’ Even Eddie could see the difficulty.

  ‘Who’s directing?’ Evangeline asked.

  ‘Frella Boynton.’

  ‘Oh? Didn’t she – ? Is he the one?’

  ‘Yes. So, you see, she can’t now – ’

  ‘Of course not.’

  They nodded solemnly at each other. They knew what they were talking about, even if no one else did.

  It drives me crazy when Evangeline takes off like that with one of her old cronies. The only way to find out what they’re talking about is to pretend utter indifference. I stooped and picked up Cho-Cho-San, fussing over her, to her delight.

  ‘Right!’ Eddie said. ‘Food first, everything else later.’ He led them out and, after a moment, I heard the taxi start up.

  ‘Shall we explore?’ I carried Cho-Cho-San towards the back of the house, that was usually where kitchens were located.

  Sure enough, right where it was supposed to be. A bright cheerful room with a back door opening on to a small deck with a cluster of green-and-white garden furniture. There were steps at the end leading down to a lawn bordered with flowerbeds. Very nice, especially with the blue sky and sunshine. Perhaps, when I’d found something to eat, I’d take it out on the deck to the table under the big umbrella.

  The kitchen was a bit old-fashioned, but nothing wrong with that. In fact, I preferred it. After the ultra high-tech monstrosity dominating our Docklands flat, it was a pleasure to be in a kitchen where I felt I could safely push a wrong button without the fear of being hurled into outer space.

  There were even pots of herbs on the windowsill over the sink. I recognized chives, basil, parsley, dill and coriander – all looking a bit sorry for themselves.

  ‘You poor things!’ I watered them hastily and they began to perk up visibly. The basil released a cloud of fragrance, as though in thanks.

  The fridge was sparsely stocked, but I found a compartment holding eggs, a dab of butter and a hardened chunk of Parmesan cheese. Purring almost as happily as Cho-Cho-San, who had jumped up on a chair and, forepaws on table, was supervising, I shaved off a couple of tablespoons of Parmesan and tore up a few basil leaves to add zip to the scrambled eggs.

  We were both so absorbed that we didn’t hear her enter. There was just a sudden apparition in the kitchen doorway and a Voice of Doom demanding:

  ‘What are you doing with Cho-Cho-San?’

  Chapter Three

  ‘You know her?’ It was immediately apparent that that was a dumb question. Cho-Cho turned her head and greeted the woman with a friendly little chirrup.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ The woman strode over to scoop Cho-Cho into her arms and glared at me accusingly. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you? Are you Matilda’s new housekeeper?’

  Oh, fine. So much for fame. Perhaps it had been longer than I thought since that last movie. Or perhaps Job wasn’t as good at publicity as he claimed.

  ‘Who are you?’ I countered, although it was clear that she must have a strong connection with Cho-Cho-San, who had settled unprotestingly in her arms. So strong that I didn’t really want to explain what I was doing with the cat – nor where I had found her.

  ‘I am Soroya Zane!’ She drew herself up dramatically, waiting for a reaction she didn’t get. She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. We were even.

  ‘And Cho-Cho-San is my cat,’ she finished, somewhat deflated.

  I nodded glumly. I’d been afraid of that.

  She obviously gave me up as a bad job and diverted her attention to the table, looking down at the ingredients for my lunch.

  ‘That will do,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I suppose one can’t expect too much while you’re settling into the job. I’ll want toast and black coffee with it. You can serve me in the dining room.’ She turned and stalked out of the kitchen. I still didn’t have the faintest idea who she was.

  Or even what she was. Judging from her outfit and improbable name, she might be telling fortunes in a booth down on Brighton Pier. If they still had fortune tellers on piers, that is.

  I looked down at my own outfit. Soroya definitely looked like an over-the-top fortune teller, but did I look like a housekeeper? In deference to Dame Cecile’s bereavement, I had worn a long-sleeved classic black dress, the sort you’re supposed to be able to dress up or dress down. Obviously, I had gone too far in the down direction.

  In a thoroughly bad mood, I slammed a frying pan on the hob and hurled a scrap of butter into it. I was going to have my own lunch and Madame Soroya, or whatever she wanted to call herself, could wait in the dining room until hell froze over.

  Only … Cho-Cho-San was probably starving after her ordeal and she had looked so happy at the prospect of scrambled eggs and sniffed so delightedly at the Parmesan. If she had been a dog, she would have wagged her tail. But she was a cat. A hungry cat. Soroya’s cat.

  Relenting, I made toast, then piled the scrambled eggs on to it, except for a couple of tasty spoonfuls I put into a saucer for Cho-Cho-San. At the last moment, I wondered whether I should have cooked them more plainly for her.

  ‘What’s this?’ But it was Soroya who poked her fork suspiciously at a fragment of green leaf, while Cho-Cho-San dived happily into her saucer.

  ‘Basil – you’ll find it’s delicious,’ I ordered grimly.

  ‘Where’s the coffee?’ A hesitant mouthful had told her she couldn’t complain about the eggs, so she looked for something else to moan about.

  ‘Coming up!’ And dumped right over your head if your manners don’t improve! I stalked back to the kitchen and began shredding more basil for myself while waiting for the kettle to boil. Instant would be good enough for her.

  A neat little pile of Parmesan shavings joined the heap of torn-up basil leaves before the kettle finally boiled. I threw a double portion of instant coffee granules into a cup, sloshed in the water and carried it into the dining room.

  I didn’t expect any thanks and I didn’t get any. Before she could think of another complaint, I wheeled about and returned to the kitchen. Just inside the door, I stopped dead.

  Another woman stood by the kitchen table, looking down thoughtfully at the eggs. Where were all these people coming from? I’d thought Dame Cecile was the only houseguest.

  ‘Oh!’ The woman became aware of me and was momentarily startled before recovering herself. ‘Are you – ? Yes, this will do nicely for lunch. It looks rather good.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ I got the feeling that there went my lunch again. I should have gone out to a restaurant with the others.

  Still looking faintly puzzled, the woman nodded and crossed to the door leading into the dining room. She started to go in, then recoiled violently.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ The force of her recoil had carried her half-way back across the kitchen, to face me accusingly.

  Eating my lunch. I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I thought she lived here.’

  ‘Never!’ She reared back and glared at me. ‘I don’t know how you could have thought that. I distinctly told you at the interview that – ’ She did a double-take. ‘You’re not Mrs Temple! Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘At the moment, I seem to be a short-order cook.’ The eggs were done and I slid them on to a plate and went back to the fridge for the last two, wondering if I had a chance at them this time.

  ‘God, my head aches!’ She slumped into a chair at the table and began to pick at the eggs. ‘Why does she have to come back now? I can’t cope. I just can’t cope!’

  ‘Hangover?’ I was sympathetic. At least she hadn’t asked for toast. Perhaps she was on a diet.

  ‘If only!’ She dropped her fork and buried her face in her hands. ‘It’s all too much!’

  Unprompted, I set a cup of coffee beside her plate. ‘Thank you.’ It was hot, but she drank half of it before replacing the cup in the saucer and looking at me as though she were really seeing me. ‘
I’ve placed you now. You’re Trixie Dolan!’

  ‘And you’re Matilda Jordan.’ I’d recognized her, too. Any lingering doubt had been dispelled the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had one of those warm, low, clotted-cream voices guaranteed to keep an audience enraptured even through a reading of the telephone directory.

  ‘Then it’s true! You’re taking over Cecile’s part. At least,’ she amended cautiously, ‘Evangeline Sinclair is.’

  ‘Relax,’ I told her. ‘Evangeline has worked her usual magic and driven the Dame into such a state of fury that she’d go onstage if she had to crawl, just to keep Evangeline from playing the part. The show will go on as scheduled.’

  ‘Oh!’ She closed her eyes briefly, then disposed of the rest of the coffee. ‘Then what – ?’

  She broke off as Cho-Cho-San strolled into the kitchen, heading for me hopefully.

  ‘Where did that cat come from? What is it doing here?’

  ‘Soroya says it’s hers.’

  ‘She’s lying!’

  ‘Really?’ I brightened. That was the best news I’d heard all day.

  ‘Well, perhaps not really But she thinks it’s hers. She thinks everything is hers – or ought to be. She’s a bit of a fantasist, I’m afraid. That cat is no more hers than it is yours.’

  My spirits plunged again. She needn’t have gone that far. Cho-Cho-San was weaving herself around my ankles, reminding me, as though I’d need reminding, that she was there and still hungry and would appreciate a bit more to eat.

  I bent and stroked her absently. I didn’t quite have the nerve to rummage through the fridge for leftovers now that the lady of the house was sitting there watching us.

  ‘Hungry, darling?’ I hinted strongly. ‘Want your lunch, too?’

  ‘Oh – open a tin of fish for her.’ Matilda could pick up on a cue. ‘There are some small tins in the – ’

  ‘You may clear the table now!’ Soroya ordered grandly, appearing in the doorway, mistress of all she surveyed. Until she realized Matilda was in the room, when she deflated slightly, but held her ground, waiting for me to leap to her command.

  ‘She isn’t the housekeeper, Soroya,’ Matilda said between clenched teeth. ‘She’s a friend of Cecile’s.’

  ‘Indeed?’ That obviously did nothing to recommend me to Soroya. ‘Then what is she doing cooking meals in the kitchen?’

  It was a fair question. I just didn’t feel up to answering it. I looked to Matilda, but her eyes were closed and she seemed to be concentrating on breathing deeply.

  ‘Well?’ Sensing weakness, Soroya aimed her guns at me. ‘What are you doing here, making free with my cat – and upsetting my daughter?’

  Daughter? Soroya might be well into middle age, but she still had to be at least fifteen years younger than Matilda. Maybe twenty.

  ‘I am not upset.’ Matilda opened her eyes and stared at the remains of her congealing eggs.

  ‘Of course you are! Look at you. You’re pale as death. And that vein in your forehead is throbbing – you’re getting a headache. This woman, whoever she is, is upsetting you.’

  I could think of a lot of reasons why Matilda was upset, but I wasn’t one of them. Soroya, on the other hand …

  ‘Soroya, this is Trixie Dolan.’ Matilda appeared to remember her manners. ‘Trixie, this is …’ She hesitated, took another deep breath, and bit the bullet. ‘This is Soroya … Jordan. My stepmother.’

  Why was I surprised? I’d seen enough of it over the years in Hollywood. It was par for the course. As long as they could be propped up enough to stagger into the Registry Office, some men were going to keep on marrying, collecting trophy wives like custom-built cars, turning them in for a newer, more up-to-date model every couple of years. The brides, of course, got younger every year, until they were marrying the equivalent of their fathers or, in some extremely well-heeled cases, their grandfathers. Money talks, especially pillow talk.

  ‘How do you do?’ I wasn’t going to shake hands, I nodded coolly, not that I thought Soroya could recognize such fine distinctions.

  ‘I thought you were out of the country, Soroya,’ Matilda said delicately. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Just a few days ago.’ Soroya waved a hand vaguely. ‘I had business in London but, when I saw that you were about to open in a new show, of course, I put it aside and rushed down here. You need your family supporting you at a time like this.’

  ‘And you just happened to have the key to my house.’ This was obviously a sore point. ‘So you didn’t even bother to ring up and let me know you were coming.’

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you, dear.’ Or, from the expression on Matilda’s face, give her time to change the locks. ‘You need to concentrate on your lines and not worry about running around tidying my house before I arrive.’

  ‘It’s my house!’

  ‘Oh, I know your father always allowed you the run of the place – and I haven’t changed that, have I? I know you take good care of it.’

  ‘My father had nothing to do with this house. It’s mine! I bought it with my own money. He had no claim on it at all.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve managed to convince yourself of that over the years.’ There is nothing more maddening than a forgiving smile from someone in the wrong to someone in the right. Matilda went such a terrifying shade of puce that I thought Evangeline might have to appear at the Royal Empire after all. I only hoped Matilda wouldn’t be appearing at the nearest operating theatre.

  ‘Now you mustn’t get wrought up over trifles.’ Even Soroya had noticed. ‘I’m not planning to evict you. I’m quite content to leave things as they are. You’ve been an excellent caretaker of the property while I have pursued my career in India. In fact – ’ Soroya swooped and picked up Cho-Cho-San, then wheeled towards the door, throwing her exit line back over her shoulder:

  ‘In fact, it has been quite a comfort to me in times of stress to know that you’re keeping your father’s legacy safe for me until I choose to retire here.’

  Cho-Cho-San looked to me in bewilderment as she was carried from the room. We heard footsteps beginning to ascend the stairs.

  ‘I’ll kill her!’ Matilda choked. ‘I swear, some day I’m going to kill her!’

  Chapter Four

  No jury on earth would have convicted her. Any right-minded person would have felt the same. It was rather a pity that she didn’t actually mean it.

  ‘My father’s legacy!’ the famous voice gurgled, half-way between a laugh and a sob. ‘She’s the only legacy I had from him – another millstone around my neck. Just to make sure that I really miss him!’ She pushed her plate aside and buried her head in her arms on the table, small semi-hysterical gurgling noises still coming from her.

  ‘Just because she said she wouldn’t evict you,’ I tried to cheer her, ‘doesn’t mean you can’t throw her out.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ Matilda lifted a tear-stained face. ‘That wasn’t a promise – that was a threat. She’s on her best behaviour because you’re here to witness it. She was reminding me that, if I tried to get rid of her, she’d call a press conference and denounce me. And wouldn’t the tabloids love that?’

  They certainly would. I shuddered. They’d tear Matilda apart, resurrect old scandals – why was I so sure that Soroya and Matilda’s father would figure prominently in them? – and generally have a field day at her expense and possibly the expense of the play.

  ‘My father’s legacy!’ Matilda said bitterly. ‘She was only married to him for the last three years of his life – the old fool! She soon found out he wasn’t the catch she thought he was. I don’t see how she can imagine he had anything to leave.’

  There wasn’t much I could say to that. I made what I hoped were soothing and sympathetic little noises and wondered how long it would be before the others got back. Maybe I could remember an urgent appointment someplace else.

  ‘To be fair,’ Matilda said reluctantly, ‘I suppose he did tell her the house belonged to him. He lied a
bout everything else, why not that?’

  I made more noises. And people think Hollywood kids had it tough! I guess the children of any actors anywhere have a lot to contend with. But some of us have a better grasp on reality than others.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Matilda was talking herself into a better mood, ‘at least she isn’t around too often. Her work keeps her out of the country most of the time. And I can’t see her ever retiring – she likes all the attention too much. Of course, she might fall out of favour, or be supplanted by another actress, but I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.’

  ‘Actress?’ Had I missed something? I’d thought I was pretty well up to date in what was going on in the profession and who was who. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t recognize …?’ A likely thought struck me. ‘Perhaps she’s on permanent tour as Madame Arcati in Blithe Spirit?”

  ‘Better than that.’ Matilda was definitely seeing the silver lining now. ‘She’s very big in Bombay. Bollywood films. Enormous, in fact. They love her – if not quite for the right reason. She’s cornered the market in Memsahibs from Hell.’ She gave a hiccoughing little laugh. ‘Sheer type-casting, of course.’

  It figured. ‘She’d be good at it,’ I said. ‘A sort of Katisha in a sari.’

  ‘Exactly. And the beauty of it is that she doesn’t realize it. She thinks she’s playing a sympathetic leading role, helping the young lovers to get together, when she’s really terrorizing them and keeping them apart.’ She gave another semi-hysterical laugh.

  ‘Have another cup of coffee,’ I urged. ‘Perhaps with a dash of brandy in it?’ If Evangeline had left any, that is.

  ‘Thank you, that sounds – No! What am I saying? What are you doing? You’re a guest in my house, you shouldn’t be waiting on me!’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said truthfully. ‘You just sit there and take it easy. It sounds as though you’ve been having a rough time lately.’

  ‘It’s been hell!’ Matilda admitted. ‘After the dog died, Cecile refused to go near the theatre. I’ve had to rehearse with her understudy – who’s about twenty-six and piles on so much make-up trying to look Cecile’s age that she can hardly hold her head up. It threw everything out of balance – as though Teddy weren’t bad enough. And Cecile stayed locked up in her room here with that dog’s body, howling her head off!’