Free Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Page A
Authors: Anna Nicholas
side. 'I've brought you some dog wear samples.'
  'You're all heart.'
  He spills the contents of the bag out onto the small square table and ferrets through it.
  'Ah, here we go. This is the dog's bollocks. A croc collar inlaid with emeralds. I'll retail that at around three thousand dollars.'
  'You're kidding?'
  'Course not. This stuff will walk out the door.'
  'I suppose you'll have a fashion preview for the press? Some little pooches and Persians mincing up a catwalk?'
  He ignores the irony in my voice. 'Not a bad idea, guv. I like that.'
  'So how soon would we be able to launch this pet wear range?'
  'I'm aiming for November to catch pre-Christmas sales.'
  'Perfect. That gives us bags of lead-in time.'
  He orders more champagne and for the next few hours we set about a marketing strategy for his new range. The PR team he has hired in Manhattan are predictably 'awestruck' at his brilliance, but given that they're being paid $20,000 a month, they jolly well ought to be.
  I scan my watch and realise that I have to leave. James and Sophie, some old friends of ours, have invited me to a dinner party at their home in Pimlico. Greedy George is off to the launch of a new jewellery store on Bond Street and promises to email me product information and images soon.
  'The sky's the limit, guv,' he yells coarsely as he strides through the lobby, stopping to stroke the bronze cat on the way out. 'I'll be the cat's whiskers of Manhattan, just wait and see.'
  And with that, he disappears into the night.
FOUR
THE BURROWERS
The sky is clear and the air as hot and fiery as dragon's breath. Boring through the kitchen window an intrusive sun rests its honeyed gaze on my fingers as I sit sifting flour into a large wooden bowl. It would be a misnomer to tag me domestic goddess, and yet with all the cocoa powder and energy I can muster on a day crackling with heat, I decide that the time has come to earn filial respect. This is no easy feat. Cake day beckons at Ollie's school, an occasion when mothers are encouraged to bake and deliver home-made morsels which are sold for a charitable cause. In London it might be acceptable to breeze along to Waitrose or M&S to snap up some pre-packed cup cakes without a thought, but here it's not so simple. There's an expectation, unspoken though it is, that real mothers bake their own. With some impatience I scan the pages of the tattered American cookery book splayed out on the oak table. I've decided to make chocolate muffins. What can be easier than that?
  Some time later Catalina bursts into the entrada holding a massive package. She dumps it on the table and in automatic pilot mode, fills the kettle.
  'Something smells good. Cooking Alan a birthday cake?'
  'He's on a diet, remember.'
  She pounces on the cake bowl and runs her finger round it. 'Life's too short for diets. Where is he anyway?'
  On cue, Alan strides into the kitchen. 'Is the kettle on?'
  'I'll make you a coffee as it's your birthday,' she gives him a wink. 'By the way, that's for you.'
  Alan follows the jerk of her head and approaches the table. 'Can I open it?'
  Catalina leans against the work surface and watches as he removes the outer packaging. Inside, the head of a bonsai tree pops up. A shawl of red foil and silver ribbon billows around its neck. Alan is entranced.
  'Just a little something from Ramon and me.'
  'I've never had a bonsai,' he declares, gently examining the gnarled bark of its miniature trunk. 'I can't thank you enough.'
  I look at my watch and declare that the muffins should be cooked. In anticipation, Catalina and Alan hover like vultures around the oven door. I lift out the trays one by one, immediately realising that something has gone awry. The muffins have risen up from their cases like enormous, brown mushrooms. How
  'You're all heart.'
  He spills the contents of the bag out onto the small square table and ferrets through it.
  'Ah, here we go. This is the dog's bollocks. A croc collar inlaid with emeralds. I'll retail that at around three thousand dollars.'
  'You're kidding?'
  'Course not. This stuff will walk out the door.'
  'I suppose you'll have a fashion preview for the press? Some little pooches and Persians mincing up a catwalk?'
  He ignores the irony in my voice. 'Not a bad idea, guv. I like that.'
  'So how soon would we be able to launch this pet wear range?'
  'I'm aiming for November to catch pre-Christmas sales.'
  'Perfect. That gives us bags of lead-in time.'
  He orders more champagne and for the next few hours we set about a marketing strategy for his new range. The PR team he has hired in Manhattan are predictably 'awestruck' at his brilliance, but given that they're being paid $20,000 a month, they jolly well ought to be.
  I scan my watch and realise that I have to leave. James and Sophie, some old friends of ours, have invited me to a dinner party at their home in Pimlico. Greedy George is off to the launch of a new jewellery store on Bond Street and promises to email me product information and images soon.
  'The sky's the limit, guv,' he yells coarsely as he strides through the lobby, stopping to stroke the bronze cat on the way out. 'I'll be the cat's whiskers of Manhattan, just wait and see.'
  And with that, he disappears into the night.
FOUR
THE BURROWERS
The sky is clear and the air as hot and fiery as dragon's breath. Boring through the kitchen window an intrusive sun rests its honeyed gaze on my fingers as I sit sifting flour into a large wooden bowl. It would be a misnomer to tag me domestic goddess, and yet with all the cocoa powder and energy I can muster on a day crackling with heat, I decide that the time has come to earn filial respect. This is no easy feat. Cake day beckons at Ollie's school, an occasion when mothers are encouraged to bake and deliver home-made morsels which are sold for a charitable cause. In London it might be acceptable to breeze along to Waitrose or M&S to snap up some pre-packed cup cakes without a thought, but here it's not so simple. There's an expectation, unspoken though it is, that real mothers bake their own. With some impatience I scan the pages of the tattered American cookery book splayed out on the oak table. I've decided to make chocolate muffins. What can be easier than that?
  Some time later Catalina bursts into the entrada holding a massive package. She dumps it on the table and in automatic pilot mode, fills the kettle.
  'Something smells good. Cooking Alan a birthday cake?'
  'He's on a diet, remember.'
  She pounces on the cake bowl and runs her finger round it. 'Life's too short for diets. Where is he anyway?'
  On cue, Alan strides into the kitchen. 'Is the kettle on?'
  'I'll make you a coffee as it's your birthday,' she gives him a wink. 'By the way, that's for you.'
  Alan follows the jerk of her head and approaches the table. 'Can I open it?'
  Catalina leans against the work surface and watches as he removes the outer packaging. Inside, the head of a bonsai tree pops up. A shawl of red foil and silver ribbon billows around its neck. Alan is entranced.
  'Just a little something from Ramon and me.'
  'I've never had a bonsai,' he declares, gently examining the gnarled bark of its miniature trunk. 'I can't thank you enough.'
  I look at my watch and declare that the muffins should be cooked. In anticipation, Catalina and Alan hover like vultures around the oven door. I lift out the trays one by one, immediately realising that something has gone awry. The muffins have risen up from their cases like enormous, brown mushrooms. How
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