L'amour Actually (17 page)

A full week had passed with no sign of Julien. I had spent inordinate amounts of time loitering in the village, at the café, in the shop, even
La Poste
. It was just as well that France hadn't got into the ASBO habit or I'd surely have one by now. Since my verbal decapitation of Madame Brunel, my neighbours gave me a wide berth, although quite how wide you could get in our tiny hamlet was a moot point. My most regular companion was a glass of cheap
rosé
. I'd worked out that buying the 10-litre wine boxes made it practically as cheap as water, if not cheaper. It didn't take much to persuade myself that it was just in the interests of economy and not because of a fug of depression that I was struggling to shift, rather like my muffin top which was starting to overhang my waistband. I'd renamed it a 'croissant top' and vowed to get rid of it, but still those buttery crescents of delight kept calling to me.

  The previous day, a lorry had pulled up next door and started removing furniture. I'd read on the Internet that Warren Hartson was heading off to Los Angeles for an emotional reunion with his wife, so I guessed that Tracey was gone too. It had certainly been very quiet.

  Right, I said to myself one lunchtime, this won't do. Get off your sorry arse and pull yourself together. First things first: no booze till sundown, and we're not talking sundown in Sydney either.

  I poured the remains of my glass of
rosé
down the sink, all except the last drop which I quickly swigged, checking to left and right before I did so, like some sort of lush.

  'Next, return that editor's call and get some work sorted out.'

  I took the business card off the fridge where it was pinned behind a magnet which said 'Wine: how classy people get funny'. I wasn't feeling either classy or funny at this moment in my life. Picking up the phone, I dialled the number.

  'Yes, hello, I'm calling for Mr Maxwell.' I loved the fact that the editor was called Robert Maxwell and wondered whether the real Robert Maxwell hadn't secretly faked his own death so he could hide out in rural France. From what I'd heard, he wouldn't be the only one. Whispered rumours abounded among the expats about this person who was on the run from a cuckolded husband, to one who had been in prison for murder. What was a supposedly dead former newspaper editor among friends?

  'Oh yes, hello, yes, that's right. I'm just returning your call… Yes, about the feature you want me to write. A cat? The oldest Persian cat in France? Um, yes, sounds fascinating. OK, I'll wait for you to email me all the details. Thanks, goodbye.' Christ, how the mighty are fallen, I thought. One day supermodels, the next supermoggies.

  A few moments later, my laptop pinged to tell me I had an email. Sitting down, I opened it and read the details. My heart sank. How I was supposed to make an interesting piece about the oldest Persian cat in France was anyone's guess. The cat was, apparently, a twenty-six-year old white Persian and belonged to an elderly English lady. It was called Snoopy and was the father of at least thirty champion cats. I suddenly saw the headline: 'Snoop Mogg – Doing it Moggy Style'. I sniggered. No, that wouldn't do, even if the readership of
The Expat Times
were to get the reference to an American rapper.

  Aha, I thought, as I read on. This could be the hook. The French didn't recognise it as the oldest cat in France because it was registered in the UK. Was there a racism angle? Could you even be racist about cats? I picked up the phone to ring the owner, a Mrs Violet Merriman. Maybe I'd have to do the interview then work out the hook later. After a few rings, a thin, reedy voice answered.

  'Hello, Mrs Merriman, I'm calling from
The Expat Times
. Mr Maxwell told you I'd be calling. Yes, about the feature on your cat. Today? Well, yes, I probably could. In half an hour? I think that might be cutting it a bit fine. Oh, I see, well yes, if you are going away for a fortnight then we'd best get it done today. What's your address?' I noted down the details and agreed to be there at two o'clock.

  Not wanting my wine breath to put Mrs Merriman off, I dashed into the bathroom to brush my teeth, She had sounded quite an upright sort of person. Then it was into the bedroom to find something decent to wear. The problem with living in the sun and having an expanding waistline was that these days I favoured floaty dresses with no bra, but for this I felt I needed to be a little more corporate.

  Twenty minutes later I was in my trusty Renault winding my way through the lanes on the short journey to see Mrs Merriman and the aged Snoopy, with my directions on a piece of paper on the passenger seat. It was another beautiful day with a vast blue sky and cotton wool clouds and I felt the depression of the previous week start to lift.

  I didn't need a man in my life. I had a job (hopefully) and that would bring me enough money to lead a simple life here. The air conditioning in the car wasn't working, so I wound down the window and let the wind blow through my hair, cooling my face and turned on the radio for a bit of company. The French radio stations were a bit dire, although in fairness it wasn't the radio stations that were dire, the problem was the regulations. As Louis had told me, they were only allowed to devote a small portion of their airtime to foreign songs and French music, to be completely frank, was mostly on par with a bad Eurovision entry from the 1970s.

  Still, I was nearly there – only a few more minutes of listening to some dreary song that seemed to be about a smoky chimney in a village. I looked down to consult my directions, not noticing something moving on the verge at the side of the road. Suddenly, there was a bumping sound that rolled and thudded along the underside of the car. 'Shit,' I said out loud. 'What the hell was that?'

  I stopped the car and got out. Behind it, lying in the road, was a very white and clearly very dead cat. Oh my God! It couldn't be, could it?

  I tiptoed up to the cat and nudged it with my shoe. Maybe it was just knocked out or something. It didn't move. Glassy eyes stared up accusingly at me. Perhaps it was just in a coma and would come round in a while. Poor little thing. I bent down and stroked its fur. Then I noticed a collar lying in the road a few feet from the cat. Filled with dread, I picked it up and read the name tag, 'Snoopy', followed by a telephone number that I recognised as belonging to Mrs Merriman. Shit, shit, shit! I was one swearword from blind panic. My first proper job, a feature about the oldest cat in France, and I'd run the damned thing over. I walked round in ever decreasing circles, muttering to myself, trying to decide what to do, not just with the newly-deceased cat, but with Mrs Merriman too. What the hell was I going to say to her? Tears started to prick the back of my eyes as I thought of her grieving over her cat.

  The sound of a car coming up the lane spurred me into action. Opening the boot, I picked the cat up and flung it in, muttering an apology before slamming it shut, then jumped in the car and carried on towards Mrs Merriman's house. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel as I turned into the drive. Parking the car, I sat for a moment to gather my thoughts. Maybe I should just drive off and have done with it? How could I face Mrs Merriman, knowing that her beloved moggy had come to a violent end under the wheels of my car?

  There was a tap on the window and an elderly lady with long, grey hair wound up into a tight bun was peering through at me.

  'Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale.'

  I got out. I'd have to tell her what had happened. How could I not? The old lady grasped my hand and shook it firmly.

  'Hello, I'm Violet Merriman, nice to meet you. You will call me Violet, won't you?'

  'Hello Violent… sorry, Violet. Lovely to meet you.'

  'Come on in dear, I've got a nice pot of tea brewing for us. I was just looking for Snoopy. I can't seem to find him anywhere.'

  I blanched. 'I'm so sorry Mrs Merriman…' I began, but my courage failed me and I stopped mid-sentence. 'Oh don't worry, dear, he'll show up. He always does.'

  But not this time, I thought, guilt gnawing at my stomach. My throat filled with bile and for a moment I thought I might gag.

  'So, where shall we sit for this interview? Snoopy and I are very excited about it.' 'Let me just get my things.'

  I turned to the car, remembering my bag was in the boot. I stopped short. How was I going to get my bag out without Mrs Merriman seeing the body of her dear, departed Snoopy?

  'Er, Mrs Merriman, Violet, why don't you go on ahead and pour the tea. I'm gasping. I'll be with you in a few minutes.' 'All right, dear. If you see Snoopy, do chivvy him along, won't you?'

  I smiled weakly and, waiting until Mrs Merriman was safely out of the way, went to open the boot. My hand paused on the boot catch.

  'Please God,' I said out loud, 'if ever there was a time for a miracle, this is it.'

  I opened the boot but Snoopy was still there, lifeless. I stared hard at his little body, looking for any signs he may be breathing, still holding on to the vain hope that he was just unconscious. There was nothing. I grabbed my bag and shut the boot, taking a deep breath, before turning to face the worst interview of my life.

  In the coolness of the house, Mrs Merriman was sitting in the lounge, a tray of tea and biscuits on a little table beside me.

  'I've got out the best china in your honour. It's not every day that Snoopy and I become celebrities.'

  I smiled at her and began. 'Mrs Merriman…'

  'Please dear, call me Violet.'

  'Violet…'

  'Milk and sugar?'

  'Milk, no sugar, thank you. Mrs Merriman…'

  'Snoopy loves a bit of milk. I know they say you shouldn't give cats milk, only that evaporated stuff, but it's never done him any harm. He's going to be twenty-seven next week you know. I don't know what I'd do without Snoopy. He's been my best friend since Archie, my husband, died.'

  I couldn't do it. I knew I should, but I couldn't face breaking this poor, sweet woman's heart. I'd find a way to let her know that Snoopy had gone to that great cat's home in the sky but for now, I'd let her carry on in blissful ignorance. Of all the things that had happened since I had arrived in France, this was by far the worst. I sipped at my tea. 'Now, tell me all about you and Snoopy.'

  An hour and a half later, I said goodbye to Mrs Merriman, my notebook full of plenty of material to write a really good feature. The only thing missing was the cat.

  I opened the boot just on the off chance that the miracle I was hoping for had somehow taken place, but Snoopy was now not only very dead, but also very stiff. What's more, he seemed to be leaking a bit. The summer heat seemed to be hastening the decomposition process. Fortunately, I had a collection of plastic bags in the boot left over from my last trip to the supermarket. I took one and shook it out, checking over my shoulder that I was far enough from the house that Mrs Merriman couldn't see what was going on.

  If I'd thought ahead, I could have arranged poor Snoopy so that he was easy to fit into a standard carrier bag once rigor mortis set in. As it was, he had died outstretched and was proving to be a bit awkward. Putting him in head first left his legs waving over the top; putting him in feet first left him peering out with lifeless eyes in a pretty freaky fashion. I opted for head first and pushed gently on his hind legs but they were rigid.

  'My dear…'

  Mrs Merriman's voice behind me made me jump.

  'You left your… what's that?' She pointed to the bag.

  'Oh, nothing.' I hastily slammed the boot shut. Mrs Merriman looked at me doubtfully. I could feel a crimson blush starting on my neck and creeping slowly up towards my face.

  'You forgot your pen.' Mrs Merriman handed it to me. 'Snoopy's still not back. You haven't seen him have you?' Was it me, or did she look suspicious?

  'Me? No,' I laughed nervously. 'Thanks for the pen. Right, I'd better be going. It was lovely to meet you. I'm sure Snoopy will come back soon and when he does I'll make a special point of coming out to meet him.'

  Shut
up
, I thought. Getting into my car, I drove off, waving gaily to Mrs Merriman who watched me go through narrowed eyes. I was quite sure I hadn't heard the last of this.

  I was still rattled by the time I reached the road up to St Amans and with the only link to me and the crime lying (sort of) in a carrier bag in the boot, I knew I had to get rid of the evidence. That was the next problem. The ground was baked hard by the sun so that the chances of digging a grave for a hamster, never mind poor Snoopy, were remote. I could dump his body in the woods and let nature take its course, but what if someone found him? As I drove past the little pond on the hill up to St Amans, an idea started to form. Checking that no one was around, I pulled in and opened the boot. This gave a whole new meaning to letting the cat out of the bag. If I chucked Snoopy in, he'd sink to the bottom and no one would be any the wiser. I just hoped that the pond was far enough back from the road so that we wouldn't be seen.

  Making my way stealthily towards the pond, I gently took the cat out of the bag and laid him on the bank. It was only right to say a few words. Who knows if cats went to heaven, but I'd always felt it best to hedge your bets where religion was concerned.

  'Dear Snoopy, faithful friend, loyal servant, I commend your body to the water.'

  It sounded a bit like a second-rate black and white war film. I made the sign of the cross over him just for good measure and threw his body into the pond, expecting it to sink in a halo of bubbles. The trouble was, it didn't. Instead, Snoopy floated on the surface; the gentle eddies of the waterfall propelling him round the pond in a leisurely fashion. 'Oh shit,' I said feeling the panic starting to rise. 'Oh
shit
!'