Free Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Page B
Authors: Anna Nicholas
did that happen? We all look at each other.
  'Too much baking powder,' I lament.
  'So what? I bet they'll taste just as good,' says Catalina, helping herself to one of the largest. She takes a bite and then fans her open mouth with her hand. 'It's delicious.'
  Alan pulls one from the tray then juggles it in his hands. 'It's a bit hot.'
  I shoo them away. 'I haven't topped them with icing yet.'
  There's a loud tooting from the courtyard. Catalina, carrying a mug of tea, walks through the entrada to the front door. She shouts over to us.
  'Alan, it's a man from UPS. He has a delivery.'
  A tall, cumbersome figure stands by the front door, holding an enormous box in his arms. He wrestles it to the marble floor and then returns to his car to fetch another, smaller carton. Catalina is full of excitement.
  'What can it be?'
  The Scotsman looks on, mystified. 'I've no idea.'
  I wipe my hands on a tea towel, secretly amused at their growing curiosity. The parcels, I was informed by UPS, would have to be stored over the weekend at the Madrid depot. Given the nature of the content I was concerned that some catastrophic incident might occur, but the manufacturers in the UK assured me that nothing could escape and that everything would arrive alive and intact. I'm relieved that UPS has finally made it to the valley. The man mops his moist brow with a hankie.
  'Could you sign this delivery note?'
  Alan scrawls his name on the sheet and the man takes his leave.
  'I suppose you know what's in here?'
  'Maybe,' I give a small shrug.
  'Let's get some scissors!' cries Catalina.
  'Wait a minute,' I say, sounding a deliberate note of caution. 'Please be careful with the smaller package. The contents are very delicate.'
  Alan is puzzled. 'Delicate?'
  The telephone rings.
  'Wait a second,' I hiss and flit back into the kitchen. It's Manuel Ramirez from H Hotels. His timing is always immaculate.
  'Hello, I am Manuel,' he announces with aplomb.
  In Spanish it would be considered normal to pick up the telephone and say, ' Soy Manuel ', but, of course, it sounds silly in English.
  I greet him warmly.
  'Is this line safe?' There's a twitchiness in his voice.
  'Of course. Why?'
  'You never know who is listening.'
  In Panama City, Manuel rides around in a limo with bulletproof glass and his trusted PA will never reveal either his home address or personal telephone numbers. Last time we spoke he mentioned en passant that he'd ordered some super lightweight, bulletproof outer wear from an ingenious tailor in Colombia who, he told me, kitted out the presidents of every Latin American country. He's an intriguing chap.
  Manuel's voice takes on a strange huskiness. 'Listen, I will be brief.'
  Thank heavens for that. I potter into the entrada with the cordless phone to my ear. Catalina has already fetched some scissors from the kitchen drawer and is jabbing at the outer packaging of the smaller box. Alan is trying to make head or tail of the label. Without pausing for breath, Manuel babbles on, swinging between English and Spanish. H Hotels has signed up another hotel in Tribeca in New York, and two in Cuba, he tells me.
  'Marvellous,' I say distractedly, clicking the fingers of my left hand to attract Catalina's attention. She's already managed to yank up one of the side flaps of the box.
  Catalina frowns at me. 'Que?' she mouths.
  I frantically click my fingers again and point at the box with a warning grimace hoping this will stop her from delving any further inside.
  Manuel stops dead. 'What was that? I think someone's tapping the line.'
  'No, Manuel, I can assure you everything's fine. Carry on.'
  Catalina ignores me altogether and with Alan's help begins pulling at the polythene inner
  'Too much baking powder,' I lament.
  'So what? I bet they'll taste just as good,' says Catalina, helping herself to one of the largest. She takes a bite and then fans her open mouth with her hand. 'It's delicious.'
  Alan pulls one from the tray then juggles it in his hands. 'It's a bit hot.'
  I shoo them away. 'I haven't topped them with icing yet.'
  There's a loud tooting from the courtyard. Catalina, carrying a mug of tea, walks through the entrada to the front door. She shouts over to us.
  'Alan, it's a man from UPS. He has a delivery.'
  A tall, cumbersome figure stands by the front door, holding an enormous box in his arms. He wrestles it to the marble floor and then returns to his car to fetch another, smaller carton. Catalina is full of excitement.
  'What can it be?'
  The Scotsman looks on, mystified. 'I've no idea.'
  I wipe my hands on a tea towel, secretly amused at their growing curiosity. The parcels, I was informed by UPS, would have to be stored over the weekend at the Madrid depot. Given the nature of the content I was concerned that some catastrophic incident might occur, but the manufacturers in the UK assured me that nothing could escape and that everything would arrive alive and intact. I'm relieved that UPS has finally made it to the valley. The man mops his moist brow with a hankie.
  'Could you sign this delivery note?'
  Alan scrawls his name on the sheet and the man takes his leave.
  'I suppose you know what's in here?'
  'Maybe,' I give a small shrug.
  'Let's get some scissors!' cries Catalina.
  'Wait a minute,' I say, sounding a deliberate note of caution. 'Please be careful with the smaller package. The contents are very delicate.'
  Alan is puzzled. 'Delicate?'
  The telephone rings.
  'Wait a second,' I hiss and flit back into the kitchen. It's Manuel Ramirez from H Hotels. His timing is always immaculate.
  'Hello, I am Manuel,' he announces with aplomb.
  In Spanish it would be considered normal to pick up the telephone and say, ' Soy Manuel ', but, of course, it sounds silly in English.
  I greet him warmly.
  'Is this line safe?' There's a twitchiness in his voice.
  'Of course. Why?'
  'You never know who is listening.'
  In Panama City, Manuel rides around in a limo with bulletproof glass and his trusted PA will never reveal either his home address or personal telephone numbers. Last time we spoke he mentioned en passant that he'd ordered some super lightweight, bulletproof outer wear from an ingenious tailor in Colombia who, he told me, kitted out the presidents of every Latin American country. He's an intriguing chap.
  Manuel's voice takes on a strange huskiness. 'Listen, I will be brief.'
  Thank heavens for that. I potter into the entrada with the cordless phone to my ear. Catalina has already fetched some scissors from the kitchen drawer and is jabbing at the outer packaging of the smaller box. Alan is trying to make head or tail of the label. Without pausing for breath, Manuel babbles on, swinging between English and Spanish. H Hotels has signed up another hotel in Tribeca in New York, and two in Cuba, he tells me.
  'Marvellous,' I say distractedly, clicking the fingers of my left hand to attract Catalina's attention. She's already managed to yank up one of the side flaps of the box.
  Catalina frowns at me. 'Que?' she mouths.
  I frantically click my fingers again and point at the box with a warning grimace hoping this will stop her from delving any further inside.
  Manuel stops dead. 'What was that? I think someone's tapping the line.'
  'No, Manuel, I can assure you everything's fine. Carry on.'
  Catalina ignores me altogether and with Alan's help begins pulling at the polythene inner
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