Free Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas

tome that's taken more than forty years to research and write.'
    Â Â 'Blimey.'
    Â Â 'We'd have to do market research, and handle the media and launch party at the Tower of London. It would be incredible.'
    Â Â A smile plays on her lips as she fiddles with a biro on the desk. 'Well, well, it seems that the old PR glint is back in your eye.'
    Â Â 'Not at all, I just love books.'
    Â Â 'Give me a break. You like to win, simple as that. It's just the old killer instinct coming back.'
    Â Â I ignore her. 'It's being produced by The Stationery Office and will set the punter back a thousand quid.'
    Â Â Alarm is stamped on her face. 'Are you deranged? Who the hell is going to cough up that sort of dosh for a book?'
    Â Â 'You'd be amazed. Anyway, this isn't just any book. It will be a one off.'
    Â Â 'So do we have to pitch?'
    Â Â 'Apparently. Mr Red Socks is coming back to me with a brief tomorrow.'
    Â Â Rachel nods slowly. 'Let's just hope he delivers and you'll have your chance to be sent to the Tower.'

    6.30 p.m., Soho Hotel, the West End
    Greedy George and I have agreed to meet at the Soho Hotel, one of the new breed of chic boutique hotels sprouting up all over London. I enter the lobby and am momentarily distracted by a gigantic bronze cat guarding the entrance. At least George will feel at home. As I clip-clop across the oak floorboards I see him ensconced in an armchair by an elegant French fireplace, reading a magazine. He looks up and gives me a smirk.
    Â Â 'Not wearing your beach bum wear then?'
    Â Â 'Not today.'
    Â Â He heaves himself off the chair and gives me a bear hug.
    Â Â 'Fancy a drink?'
    Â Â 'What do you think?'
    Â Â We cross the lobby into the spacious restaurant at the side of which a vast pewter bar yawns across one wall. Running behind it, a long, wild mural in bright colours depicts some kind of frantic traffic scene. George squints at it.
    Â Â 'They erected that in memory of the multi-storey car park that used to be here.'
    Â Â The barman smiles and nods. 'He's right, you know. So what can I get you?'
    Â Â We order glasses of champagne and sit on one of the velvety sofas. George beams and gives me a hearty slap on the thigh.
    Â Â 'Well then, how's tricks?'
    Â Â 'Good, especially now I'm not back here so much.'
    Â Â 'Come on guv, you love the buzz. Imagine being stuck in Mallorca all the time. You'd be bored stiff.'
    Â Â 'Maybe.'
    Â Â 'As sure as huevos are huevos ,' he says idiotically. 'Anyway, you're over that flying phobia nonsense, aren't you?'
    Â Â 'Just about.'
    Â Â 'Course you are. Now, more importantly, did you get my stuff in the post?'
    Â Â 'If you mean the cat fetishist range, then yes.'
    Â Â 'And?' He rubs his big paws together and eyes me keenly.
    Â Â 'To be frank, squeezing into the cat suit was a bit of a challenge, but the cape just about fitted.'
    Â Â 'Ha ha. Very funny, guv. Glad all that cava hasn't addled your brain.'
    Â Â 'So what's with the cats and how's New York?'
    Â Â He takes a slurp of champagne. 'It's been surreal. You wouldn't believe some of the people I've met.'
    Â Â 'Met or upset?'
    Â Â He gives me a shove. 'Both, now you come to mention it. There are a load of arseholes, but some good eggs too. Anyway, a few months back I banged into this hot chick at one of Bryan's cocktail do's and she asked me if I did bondage gear for dogs. Got me thinking.'
    Â Â 'I'm sure. How is Bryan?'
    Â Â 'Same old woofter. Tootsie, his rabbit, is still going strong. Daft bugger asked me to design it a leather jacket, can you believe?'
    I sip my champagne and stretch back on the sofa, wondering how I've managed to keep sane all these years.
    Â Â George is still chortling. 'That's when the pet gear idea came to me. I mean, everyone's soppy as hell about cats and dogs in Manhattan. I'm starting production next week.'
    Â Â He rustles in a bag at his