Cat lady, p.2
Cat Lady, page 2
2
It’s very rude, I think, to bring food to a dinner party. It’s polite, of course, to send a message earlier in the day asking if there is anything you can bring. But having received the ‘No, just yourself’ response, to then go out and buy a ginormous and extremely indulgent pudding and show up with it is just vulgar. I don’t know why I am surprised that my husband’s ex-wife Belinda has done just that. It’s exactly the kind of thing she would do.
I left work early today to prepare the food for tonight. We’re hosting a dinner party with people who don’t particularly care for me, but with whom I continue to make a great deal of effort because it makes my husband happy. I am perfectly aware that they long for my husband and his ex to still be married, and for me to silently exit out the cat flap, but nonetheless I do what I can in the hope they might change their minds. It’s not unusual for me to be the odd one out, but I think I have become quite good at finding a way to fit in. Tonight, this comes in the form of me cooking. Guests must always appreciate the cook.
The most time-consuming part of the food was the vegan sticky toffee pudding. I worked exceptionally hard on it so no one will complain about it being vegan, as I will be the only plant eater at the table. I couldn’t be happier with the result. Not only does it look fantastic, but it tastes incredible. Therefore, when Belinda turns up with a pavlova so enormous and non-vegan that putting another dessert on the table alongside it would be utterly pointless, I feel extremely triggered. Belinda knows her pavlova will overshadow whatever I have made. It’s so typical of her that I’m mostly annoyed at myself for not predicting it.
‘How lovely,’ I say, taking it from her. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, I just thought I’d make sure there was something for the dirty animal-eating heathens at the table too,’ she says with a cackle, passing a bottle of wine to my husband. ‘Is Oliver in bed?’
‘Yes, but still awake. He’s waiting for his goodnight kiss,’ Tristan tells her. She heads up the stairs to her son’s bedroom. The bedroom that used to be hers before she cheated on Tristan and moved out in pursuit of something more exciting.
‘You look nice,’ Tristan says loyally, coming into the kitchen and opening Belinda’s wine despite me having a perfectly nice bottle already on the go. ‘Very smart.’
I’m wearing a black blouse and black trousers. It’s not very adventurous but Tristan seems to like that. I think he associates smart dressing with being smart, and who doesn’t want people to think their partner has brains?
‘I was worried I’d get food on myself so thought black was probably best. Nothing worse than a hostess covered in beef juice.’
‘You’re cooking beef?’
‘Yes, steak, why?’
‘It’s just that … well, that seems ambitious. Steak for six people, when you don’t even eat meat. How will you know when it’s cooked?’
‘I’ll just wait for it to stop mooing?’
He laughs reluctantly. He’s always quite enjoyed my sense of humour, possibly because Belinda doesn’t really have one. ‘Well, if you pull it off, I’ll be very impressed. What will you have?’
‘The same as you but with tofu instead of steak.’
‘Tofu? Rather you than me. Aren’t I lucky that my plant-eating wife cooks me steak?’ He kisses me on the cheek and asks if there is anything he can do to help. Knowing that he is incapable in the kitchen, I give him a more practical task.
‘Yes please, take these through,’ I say, handing him a plate of bread rolls.
‘Yes chef!’ he says, eating one on the way. Something I find quite irritating as I’d arranged them into the perfect peak. I say nothing and unwrap the steak. I read that it’s a good idea to beat the meat with a hammer, so I do that. And despite being faced with the raw flesh of an undeserving animal, I find it quite therapeutic.
Tristan likes to keep in touch with his old friends, and so I am giving tonight everything I’ve got to do him proud. There are two couples plus Belinda, me and Tristan. The other two are Matthew and Alice and Dorian and Mark. Matthew and Tristan went to school together, and Dorian and Belinda used to work together. They were all quite a tight group, pre me. Matthew, a large, sweaty pig of a man, announces on arrival: ‘Out of all of the divorces yours has been the easiest. We never had to choose between you because you’re always together.’ After which Alice leans into me and says, ‘You’re very good, you know. I’m not sure I could have the ex over all the time.’ To which I say, ‘We all do what we need to do for Oliver.’ To which she says, ‘Well, it’s very admirable.’ To which Belinda says, ‘Oliver needs his mumma. He’s a real mumma’s boy.’ To which I head back into the kitchen to scream into a bowl of mashed potato.
Mark starts sneezing almost as soon as he walks through the door. ‘Have you still got that cat?’ he asks, blowing his large nose into a cotton handkerchief, which is something I thought men stopped doing a hundred years ago because of how disgusting it is.
‘Yes, she has,’ says Belinda, coming back down the stairs. ‘The everlasting cat.’
‘Pigeon, she’s sixteen,’ I say, as she miraculously appears.
Alice kneels down to her. ‘Ahhh hello.’ But Pigeon doesn’t like strangers so rubs against my legs instead.
‘She’s not very friendly,’ Belinda says.
‘She’s a real mumma’s girl. Would you like a Claritin, Mark? It might help with the sniffles?’ I ask.
‘No, it won’t work. Nothing does. I’ll just have to cope with it,’ he says.
I grimace and bite my tongue.
‘Maybe you could put her in another room for the night?’ Mark suggests. I want to remind him of the time we were at his house and his son hid a handful of cold ratatouille in another guest’s handbag. Should we have put him in another room for the night too?
‘Yes, eating around animals. Icky,’ Dorian says, looking for any excuse to speak badly of food.
‘She won’t bother us,’ I say with a polite smile, ‘no need to lock her away. Shall we eat?’
I make melon and Parma ham to start, leaving off the ham for me. Belinda has drunk almost an entire bottle of wine to herself and keeps standing up to salsa dance, which is quite embarrassing. Matthew is sweating so much that it’s coming through his blazer. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, which baffles me beyond comprehension.
‘So, have you always been vegan?’ Matthew asks, with a thread of ham hanging from his mouth. He doesn’t consider how many times I have been asked that question by almost every non-vegan I have ever met.
‘For about twenty years, it’s a lot easier than it used to be.’
‘She eats a lot of vegetables,’ Belinda says, as if announcing groundbreaking information.
‘Oh dear, pffffft,’ adds Matthew, making a series of horrible fart noises. One of which I think comes out of his actual bottom.
‘I can assure you that your farts are worse than mine,’ I say, which makes Tristan laugh. I love it when he laughs at the things I say.
‘And why are you vegan?’ asks Dorian, who is extremely thin and pulling the white fat off her ham with her knife and fork.
‘It’s a personal preference. I don’t judge anyone else, I just started to find the notion of eating animals unpleasant. I did some research into it and didn’t like what I found so stopped eating meat then progressed to all animal products. It’s really no big deal.’
‘I wonder if sometimes people use things like veganism to hide eating disorders,’ Dorian says, with a very small piece of melon in her mouth. ‘It’s an excuse not to eat.’ She nods knowingly. Mark sneezes then rolls his eyes.
‘I eat, Dorian. I eat a lot. I just don’t eat animals,’ I say, calmly.
‘I second that. She eats like a horse. Quite literally, sometimes. Lots of carrots and apples,’ Tristan says, knowing I find it tiresome the way meat eaters like to challenge me.
‘I suppose you think we’re all disgusting,’ Matthew says with his mouth full. I notice he’s eaten all of the ham and a couple of bread rolls but no melon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a heart attack right here and now.
‘Of course not. Each to their own. How do you all like your steak cooked?’ I ask, getting up without waiting for an answer because I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. I hurry into the kitchen for a moment’s reprieve.
‘What’s that?’ Tristan asks, joining me in the room as I am crushing a pill in a pestle and mortar.
‘It’s a Claritin, I’m going to put it on Mark’s steak. His mucus is making me feel unwell.’
I start to sprinkle the powder onto the meat.
‘You can’t drug him,’ he laughs.
‘It’s antihistamine, not Rohypnol.’
‘He said he didn’t want one.’
‘I know that, but he’s suffering on purpose and it’s tiresome.’
‘You’re a terrible person,’ he says, the look in his eye suggesting my terrible side thrills him.
‘Is that why you married me?’
He puts his arms around me and kisses my neck. I stop sprinkling so my husband can enjoy me.
When the steaks are on the table, Dorian comes back from a long trip to the bathroom looking disgusted. ‘Ohh, well that wasn’t very nice.’
Are we supposed to know what she’s talking about? ‘Did you vomit?’ I ask her, finding it interesting she’s being so open about bulimia.
‘No, the kitty litter in there. Horrid place for it.’
‘In the bathroom?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Yes, not very pleasant for us humans is it, to have to pee alongside that.’
‘The cat has to go somewhere,’ Tristan says, knowing how defensive I can become about Pigeon. He’s sticking up for me, but he’s also hoping I don’t get upset and make a scene.
‘Where do you think I should put it, Dorian, out of interest? Rather than in the toilet. The room with one purpose?’ I say, as Tristan rubs my leg furiously as if I am a cat and it will distract me and calm me down. He doesn’t need to worry, I know better than to cause arguments. I return to smiling and nodding and just being polite because it’s easier.
‘Outside!’ she exclaims, like she’s some undiscovered genius and this is her moment to shine.
‘She is an indoor cat, so that wouldn’t work,’ I say. ‘Do start.’
‘She doesn’t go outside?’ pipes up Alice. ‘Oh, that poor thing.’
My hand tightens around my knife. This is a very sensitive subject for me. I often feel immense guilt about not letting Pigeon out, but the alternative is opening her up to a life of constant danger and risk. Keeping her in was a decision I made when she was a kitten and I have stood by it ever since.
‘Yes, doors and windows closed at all times in case the damn thing escapes,’ Belinda says, as if she’s finally been allowed to let it out. ‘The place could do with a good airing, with all those smelly candles you burn in there.’ By ‘there’ she means my bedroom. By ‘smelly’ she means my favourite scents, which are leather, musk and tobacco. I turn my head slowly to Alice who has more to say on the matter. I am determined to hold my smile until they’re done.
‘A cat should be able to live. Run around outside, be free. It doesn’t feel right to keep them locked up inside.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Belinda, just agreeing with anyone who says something horrible about me or Pigeon.
‘I’m not sure why you’d have one in the first place. I don’t see the appeal at all. You can’t trust them,’ Dorian says, hiding some potato under her steak, no concept of how rude and insulting what she just said is.
People who hate cats are like atheists, they cannot get through a conversation without telling you their views. There is such a righteousness that comes with it. You tell someone you have a cat, and they tell you, to your face, that they hate the thing that you love. There are so few instances in life where this is acceptable. But cat haters can’t wait to unleash their claws. They like to make you sound strange for loving an animal they don’t understand. They tell you cats are not loyal. They shake their heads while you explain the loyalty you have experienced from your own. The madder they can make you look, the more satisfaction they seem to gain. People who don’t like cats are scared of them because they don’t know how to touch them, and therefore they question themselves and their abilities to feel safe. Or they are dead on the inside. It’s one or the other.
‘You could put it in your room for the night?’ Belinda suggests confidently.
‘You want me to put the litter tray in my bedroom?’ I reply loudly, my smile still stretching across my face.
‘Just an idea,’ Belinda replies. Her smile so fake she looks like she got attacked with fixing spray and can’t move her face.
‘For a group who don’t like cats it seems to be all you can talk about,’ Tristan says, wanting this to be over. He knows how much I love Pigeon, and how the suggestion to lock her away would upset me. ‘How is the steak?’ he asks his friends.
‘It’s quite tough,’ answers Mark, chewing and blowing his nose all at the same time. I just need him to get half of that Claritin inside him, that should stop him snotting everywhere.
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ adds Dorian, delighted she can spend the entire evening chewing one lump of beef before downing her knife and fork and claiming to be full. Matthew cuts his in two, stabs his fork into one half and takes a big, animal bite. For the next five or so minutes the room is largely quiet as people chew with varying levels of difficulty.
I finish my meal long before anyone else. I go into the kitchen and get the pavlova but don’t bother taking it out of the box. As I walk back into the dining room, I drop the whole thing on the floor. Cream, meringue and berries splatter at my feet. As it falls, I wonder to myself how much of an accident it actually was.
‘MY PAVLOVA!’ Belinda screeches. Our rug being the least of her concerns.
‘Are you OK, Mia? What happened?’ says Tristan, rushing into the kitchen to get a towel. I appear to be glued to the spot. The rest of the guests stare at the mess, wondering what on earth to say next. But there is no need for someone to fill the silence because Pigeon takes care of that. She strolls into the dining room and starts to make the most hideous hacking noise. Before I have the chance to realise what’s going on, she heaves up a huge pile of vomit onto another corner of the rug.
‘Oh fuck!’ barks Mark.
‘I think I might be sick,’ says Dorian, rushing back to the bathroom.
‘Shall we go and sit in the garden?’ Belinda suggests, as Tristan gets down on his knees and starts to scrape large lumps of thick cream back into the bowl. He’s useless at cleaning and is making it worse. I seem to have frozen in position. Pigeon is now sitting triumphantly on the dining table licking her paws. It’s almost like she planned it.
3
‘I planned for sex tonight,’ I say to my husband a few days later after a TV dinner of pasta and pesto for me, the addition of chicken for him.
‘How kind of you to schedule me in,’ Tristan says, teasingly. I know he finds it annoying that I schedule our love-making, but I think it’s a very useful tool to ensure we do it. Life is exhausting, if a plan isn’t made then one of us will fall asleep in front of the TV and any chance of fornication is dashed. So I plan it, and like everything else on my ‘TO DO’ list, I make sure I get it done.
‘Would you rather we didn’t?’ I reply, coyly. ‘I’ll use my finger.’
He turns off the TV and finishes the glass of wine on the coffee table. ‘You know how much I like that.’ He grins, getting up and going to his room.
I walk behind him, Pigeon following me. I pick her up then put her down on the other side of the door. ‘Won’t be long,’ I whisper to her, as I shut it. Tristan starts undressing and lies down on the bed.
There are a few rules to be observed when having sex with my husband.
1) It must happen in his room because he thinks mine smells of cat.
2) Pigeon must not be in the room.
3) I must lie with him until he falls asleep.
4) I must orgasm or he will get upset. This means the length of our sessions varies considerably, depending on my mood.
Tristan and I met eight years ago at a charity event where he talked about his recent divorce all night. We left the party together and, following a series of strange and quite un-flirtatious conversations about his ex, Belinda, I somehow ended up in his bed. The sex was interesting and felt like something I might not get elsewhere. A good mix of intrigue and intimacy. He’d guide me with instructions that began with, ‘And now you’re going to …’ Or ‘What I’d like next is …’ I liked that. When someone tells you what they want in bed it’s much easier to believe that you satisfy them. In return I got everything I needed. He is the kind of man who likes to perform well. We keep some lubrication in his bedside drawer that I have to replace quite often, presumably because he masturbates a lot. He’s never once turned down sex, I’m certain he’d want a lot more of it if I was willing.
‘Please get me hard,’ he says as he lies on the bed. I appreciate the use of the word ‘please’, so I do as he asks by using my hand.
‘Get yourself ready,’ he tells me, becoming very excited. He watches me as I apply some lube. I don’t worry too much about trying to look sexy as I do it. I think the act of applying lube is suggestive enough, without some big performance. I put some on my hand too, which I continue to rub his penis with. He tells me to stop because it’s too much, and so I sit on his face for a while instead. This is where I orgasm. It never fails. It feels good to still be doing things like sitting on my lover’s face well into my forties. I think the pride of it is a big instigator of the orgasm. I feel like a rockstar when I’m up there.
When I’ve stopped shaking, I wiggle down so my vagina can find his penis. It slides in beautifully, and I move slowly up and down. He likes me to go on top so he can look at my breasts. He pulls my uncomfortable lacy bra down so he can see my nipples. One of the perks of never having had children is that I still have quite buoyant breasts.
