Slightly Foxed (18 page)

"Oh, I don't know. I ought to be here in case he rings

again." Leo had rung a few times, but somehow fate had

conspired with bad luck to make me miss each call. I'd been

going to ring him back this evening, but really, was it worth

it? Was
I
worth it? If he started to wonder about my motives,

they might not stand up to much investigation. Particularly if

he quizzed Isabelle and found out I was not the old

schoolfriend I'd pretended to be. Whatever I wanted Leo to

think I was, a gold digger definitely wasn't it. "All right I will.

Thanks, Piers." Piers and Jace exchanged a look and I could

have sworn she winked. "Shall I meet you at your place,

Jace?"

She shook her head. "Tonight I have things to do. I am

sorry, Piers." Piers gave a mock-formal bow in her direction.

"But I am staying in."

"Oh, Jace, isn't coming out with us better than sitting

indoors? That's so boring." Besides, I wasn't really sure I

wanted to go out on my own with Piers. I had the feeling his

idea of partying was a long way from mine. Which, owing to

my somewhat limited social circle, had tended until recently

to involve small girls in party dresses and hysterical levels of

excitement.

Anyway, I had nothing to wear.

Jace gave a huge sigh, her bosom rose and fell like a

speeded-up film of the creation of mountain ranges. "No. I

am sorry, but I think that now is the time."

"Time for what?" Did I imagine it or was there a glance

exchanged between the two of them? Was I missing

something essential here? "Jace? Piers?"

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A snapping line of Spanish and they both shrugged.

"What, you reckon we can't enjoy, just the two of us?"

Piers leaned towards me. "You want that I show you a good

time, Alys?"

"I'm not sure that I want you to show me
anything
, Piers,"

I said, more sharply than I meant to. "You're not actually

afraid
to go out, Jace, are you?"

"Me? Afraid?" Jace drew herself up and looked down at the

top of Piers's head. "I think it would be me protecting
you
,

but no, this is not the case. I am deciding to stay inside and

prepare for next weekend."

"Having Antonio Banderas over are you? Jace—"

Piers shook his head. "Nah. 'Sokay. Don't sweat it. We'll

enjoy on your behalf. Right, Alys?"

What else could I do? The pair of them had clearly ganged

up on me, so I nodded grudgingly. "Okay. I'll go out. I'll enjoy

myself. But I won't
enjoy
it, if you know what I mean."

"Whatever." Piers still had his hand on my shoulder.

"Come on, I'll drop you back at work."

So he drove us, more slowly, back to Webbe's, where I

continued to hover over the phone in a sweat of indecision for

the rest of the afternoon.

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I told myself it was only Piers, and that he was simply

being kind. None of this helped. I couldn't make up my mind

whether to be totally casual and throw on a pair of jeans

(although not the ones which made my bottom an odd shape,

I wasn't prepared to be quite
that
casual) or to go the whole

set and wear a dress and heels. Would that make me look as

though I was expecting everything to be classy and catered?

Most of my wardrobe and several drawers lay on the bed.

I'd laddered the only black tights I possessed, and I hadn't

found Grainger to put him on his litter tray for the evening. It

was six thirty, Piers was picking me up at seven and I was

wearing a dressing gown. My fingers itched with the urge to

phone Jace, just for advice and reassurance. So she could tell

me I wasn't being a total tart for going out partying with my

stepson rather than sitting at home worrying about my

potential relationship. After all, so what if Leo did have more

going on in his life than pining after me?
So bloody what?
He

had a business to run. What was I expecting? Breakfast in

bed and cuddles? Yes, actually. But—oh, sod it. I'd give

myself the night off. A night without thinking about the

jealousy I'd felt of the obvious communication Leo and Jay

shared, of the feelings I
knew
he kept contained.

Oh bugger, it was quarter to seven.
Come on, Alys, what

to wear?
Maybe Florrie had left something in her cupboards

which wouldn't make me look like a cross between a teenage

street prostitute and an urban mugger? I went into her room

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and opened her wardrobe doors. The smell which came out

was certainly not associated with Florrie's taste in perfume.

"Grainger?" My eyes fell on the curled shape, hidden in the

deepest recesses of the jog pants. He didn't move and I felt

my whole body stop. "Grainger? Sweetie?" I reached in.

Touched the tip of his crumpled tabby ear. It didn't flicker.

"Oh, cat." I reached farther, almost reluctantly stroking one

hand down his furry flank. This was the cat who'd escaped

certain death under the wheels of the Park and Ride bus,

emerging in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes as the bus rolled

away down the road, with an expression of scorn on his

whiskers. This cat had fallen off my bedroom window ledge

two stories into the suspect hedging beneath and got away

with nothing but a case of chronic embarrassment. Surely

he'd go out with a bang, causing a four-car pile-up, not

quietly expiring mixed up with Florrie's outgrown clothing and

dirty laundry.

"Grainger?" I pushed both arms around his curled body

and drew him out towards me. He wasn't totally stiff yet, nor

cold and I held him close to my chest, bending my head to

kiss his fur. "Oh God." I'd got seven minutes before Piers

arrived, I couldn't bury Grainger in seven minutes. But

neither could I face leaving him here until I got back from the

party. He'd be stiff by then and almost impossible to bury

unless I dug a hole that could have interred a Great Dane.

Perhaps I could put him in a box?

I sat on the sofa, cradling the soft bundle against me.

Florrie had pleaded and pleaded for a pet. When Alasdair had

finally admitted that, yes, he'd fallen for another woman, and

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we had moved into this place, it had seemed the perfect

opportunity. So she had, fairly uncomplainingly, exchanged

her father for a scruffy half-grown tabby, and we'd settled

here together, all three of us.

There was a slamming knock at the door. "Hey! Ready to

party?" Piers erupted over the threshold, took one look at my

sad little mass and sat down suddenly. "Shit. Is he—y'know—

?"

I shrugged, suddenly awkward at being in my dressing

gown. "He's not moving," I said, in a ridiculously childish

voice.

"Oh, Alys." Voice soft, Piers gently reached out. I thought

he was going to touch the cat, but the extended fingertip

touched my face instead. "Grainger—"

Deep against me there came a slight tremble, an indistinct

thrumming sound, the merest hint of vibration. "He's

purring," I almost shouted. "Piers, he's not dead!"

"Steady, Alys." Piers took Grainger from me. "I don't think

he's good. Looks kinda like a stroke. You want we should call

the vet?"

As usual, the vision of the pathetically small numbers on

my bank account crept into view. "I don't—I mean, I'm not

sure."

Piers looked up from the cat. His eyes were a very deep

brown tonight, I noticed. Not that I should be noticing such

things, but I couldn't help it with the way he was looking at

me. "Hey, Ally. I'll get the bill."

"You can't."

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A mad smile. "Wanna bet?" The smile died as he leaned his

head down and brushed the tabby fur with a cheek. "Do the

words American Express mean anything to you?"

"I didn't mean you couldn't, I meant—I can't take money

from you."

"Because? Hey, I thought we were friends. Or are you

gonna pull that 'you're the son of my ex-husband's new wife'

shit on me? Friends, Ally, friends help each other out, that's

what they're for. Now, you make the call."

As I flipped open the little black book which contained all

the phone numbers Florence or I ever needed, I wondered

when Piers got so macho. Maybe it was the Argentinian

rancher in him coming out, I thought, as I spoke to the vet's

receptionist with one eye on the floppy tabby body he still

held close to his chest. "We're to take him in. Now."

"Glad you saw sense. Let's go."

"I'm in my dressing gown."

Piers looked me slowly up and down. "Oh yeah," he said,

but I didn't believe for one second that he'd only just noticed.

"Come on." He walked through into my bedroom. I think he

was trying to distract me, but having him raising his

eyebrows at the throbbing red throw was more distracting

than I could really cope with. "Okay, this"—he nodded

towards a jade green halterback top that I hadn't worn for

years—"with this." A pink suede short skirt, which actually

was Florrie's. "And"—with a grin—"those real cool boots."

I felt like a lap dancer on her day off when we left for the

clinic.

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"Definitely a stroke." The vet gave the recumbent Grainger

another last look through his bifocals. "At his age it would

probably be best if we..."

I clenched Grainger against my chest so hard that he gave

a little gasp. "No."

"Ms. Hunter." Wearily the vet pulled his glasses off and

rubbed his eyes. "Recovery from a collapse of this kind would

be such a long, slow process it might be kinder."

"She said no." Piers put both hands on the examination

table and leaned forward. The vet leaned back. I felt sorry for

him. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days and his

white coat was three sizes too large. Probably the last thing

he needed right now was an annoyed American looming at

him. "Give the cat a shot, whatever, and we'll take him

home."

I dropped my head again and some more tears damped

Grainger's fur. My nose was running and all I had to wipe it

on, apart from Grainger himself, was my arm. I sniffed

instead.

"Look. If you insist on my treating this cat, he'll need to be

admitted. Possibly only for a day or two until he starts to

respond,
if he does
. But in view of the cost, I really would

advise—"

Piers ignored the vet and turned to me. He crouched down

in front of where I sat in one of those slightly-too-small

plastic chairs that vet's surgeries always have, holding

Grainger between my chest and bare knees. "He'll be okay

here, Alys. They'll look after him. You want that? Yeah?"

"B-but the cost..."

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Piers ignored me. "Keep him here. Do everything you can

for him." He gave the poor vet another glare. "And I mean

everything
. I get any whisper that you gave up on this cat

and I'll have your badge."

As we walked back to the car, Grainger-less, I gave a

snorty, snot-filled kind of laugh. "I don't think vets
have

badges, Piers."

Another manic Piers-grin. "I know that. But, it's all in the

tone of voice. He knew I meant what I said, what I
really
said

doesn't matter. Would you rather I said I'd have his balls?"

He flipped open the door of the Porsche and I tried to get in

without flashing him my knickers.

"No, it's just that it's going to be expensive. Are you sure

we shouldn't have, well, you know. Made the final decision?"

"You
want
that? Grainger sent on his way? You just say the

word, Ally, I'll go back in there and—"

"No!"

"Right. So, shut up about the money, yeah?"

I took a deep breath. "I'll pay you back. Honestly, I will. I

don't know how, yet, but—"

Piers looked down at my bare legs and did the grin again.

"I'll think of something."

This time I laughed properly and slapped him on the

shoulder. "You are such a tart."

"Yeah? I'm not the one in a micro-mini and stilettos,

babe."

"Maybe, but you chose this outfit."

His smile died a little. "Glad I did, too. You look great, did I

say that already? Come on, the big G's in good hands here,

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let's go find us a PARTY!" He dropped the clutch on the little

yellow car and it jumped forward with a lurch I could feel

from my heart down to my stomach.

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"My name's Alys. Alys, with a Y," I bellowed at the young