Kitten Wars (13 page)

Fergus nodded. ‘Yeah, I kind of worked that one out,’ he said miserably. ‘So I’m really sorry, Bertie. I’d love to be able to help you, but . . .’ he tailed
off, spreading his hands out and shrugging in a helpless gesture.

My face must have matched his at that moment, because for a split second he seemed to relent and said, ‘What was it you wanted me to do anyway?’

I sighed. I may as well tell him, I thought. I’ve come this far.

‘The thing is, Jazz and I had an argument the other day, and it coincided with Jaffa disappearing for the first time. And things have happened to Jaffa while she’s been away which
have led me to suspect that Jazz is somehow involved.’ I cringed inwardly as I heard myself sounding like someone out of a TV police drama. I swallowed and ploughed on: ‘For instance,
she turned up today wearing a collar – a purple sparkly one! It was utterly gross and frankly exactly the kind of hideous accessory Jazz would think was “pop-tastic”. Probably the
kind of thing she’d wear herself to a
WGT?
audition, given half the chance,’ I added sourly.

The whole time I’d been speaking, Fergus’s facial expression had changed from kindly interest to out-and-out shock, mingled with a dash of worried frowning along the way. It was good
to see he was on my side.

‘So, I was wondering if you’d seen any signs of a kitten while you were round there? Or maybe she’d mentioned having a cat? And if so, I was kind of hoping you might be able to
persuade her that—’

‘FERGIE!’ A high-pitched voice rang down the hall. Fergus’s look of shock intensified into one of complete stomach-crunching horror. ‘Fergie?’ the voice repeated.
It was coming towards us from upstairs. ‘Who’s that you’re talking to? If it’s one of the neighbours, ask them if they’ve seen Muffin, can you?’

Muffin? I looked at Fergus, my mouth turned down and eyebrows raised in a question. He wasn’t looking at me, though. He’d pulled me by the arm and was propelling me to the front
door, his other hand already on the door handle.

‘Hey!’ I protested.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

Fergus froze. He let his hand fall from my arm, but kept a tight hold on the door handle, as if he were trying to steady himself.

A woman about my dad’s age was eyeing me with a mixture of bewilderment and distaste. My stomach did several back-flips. There was something distinctly scary about her. And there was a
strong citrusy scent coming from her that was unsettlingly familiar.

‘Fergie,’ she snapped, looking me up and down. ‘Why didn’t you answer me? Didn’t you hear me calling you? Or were you too busy chatting to . . .’ She broke
off and looked pointedly at me.

‘B-B-Bertie,’ I faltered.

I couldn’t help noticing she was a real yummy mummy – neat little purple cardigan with tiny embroidered flowers and sequinny bits around the shoulder; short (but not too short) skirt
and tights that were a dark purple that I reluctantly noticed were a great match with the cardi. Not a hair of her smooth reddish-brown mane was a millimetre out of place. No wonder Jazz had been
seduced. A woman who liked clothes, and purple clothes too – a sure-fire way to Jazz’s heart. And that hair! She would have been beautiful if she hadn’t been so unfriendly.

I shuffled awkwardly, suddenly painfully aware of the fact that my own tangled mop hadn’t seen a hairbrush for a couple of days and that my jeans had mud on one knee from earlier when I
had been crawling around looking for Jaffa under bushes.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ Fergus muttered. ‘Bertie and I were just about to go out.’

‘Hmmm, getting to know all the
girls
in the area, aren’t you, darling?’ she said archly. ‘So, Beryl,’ she turned to me. ‘You’re the little girl
from over the road, aren’t you? Your dad’s a writer, isn’t he?’ Fergus’s mum was suddenly breezily bright, a tight smile plastered across her face as if she were
presenting a children’s TV programme.

Beryl? Little girl?
I was liking her less and less by the minute.

‘It’s Bertie,’ Fergus said quietly.

I smiled at him gratefully, but his mum was ignoring us both and chuntering on:

‘Don’t be shy! Come in and sit down. We’ve heard
so
much about you from Fenella and that, er, terribly
lively
girl round the corner – Jasmeena, isn’t
it? She’s a character, isn’t she? I think I had her full life history in the first five minutes of meeting her.’

I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for Jazz: it wasn’t exactly the most flattering of descriptions. And she
hates
being called by her full name. Wonder how that bit of
classified information got out?

‘Yeah,’ I croaked. Lame or what?

The woman looked at me, her smooth forehead creased into a mini-frown, but her grin still firmly plastered across her face. ‘Oh you
are
shy, aren’t you? Honestly, Fergie, you
do pick them. For goodness sake go and get Beanie a drink or something. She’s your guest.’

‘It’s Bertie.’ I tried correcting her this time.

Fiona Meerley grimaced and said, ‘Yes, yes. Charming.’

She pulled Fergus away from the door and down the hall to the kitchen, shouting instructions to him all the way about where to find glasses and squash. Then she half-turned to me and said by way
of an explanation: ‘We’re still in chaos here, I’m afraid. Boxes everywhere!’ Gesturing to the sitting room, she said, ‘Why don’t you wait in there while Fergie
gets you a drink?’

Before I could say I didn’t want anything, Fiona Meerley had disappeared and was badgering Fergus (sorry,
Fergie
) about something to do with ice cubes and filtered water.

It was weird being in that room again. It certainly looked a lot different from when Pinkella and Kaboodle had lived there. The walls were still pink – I guess the Meerleys wouldn’t
be allowed to change that kind of thing if they were renting. As for ‘boxes everywhere’, that was rubbish. Those removal men must have worked like a whole hive of busy bees to get this
lot straight. But then, judging by my first impressions of Fiona, she would have been cracking the whip at them all day.

The sitting room was completely tidy in a freaky right-out-of-a-magazine kind of way. Fiona had done an amazing job of working with the pink to produce a mega-modern look that was all sharp
edges and glass and metal, and somehow the pink walls actually looked cool. A wave of heat hit me – a mixture of embarrassment and anger. It was bizarre, but I suppose I was feeling put out
on Pinkella’s behalf. No idea where that came from, as I hadn’t exactly been best buddies with her when she’d lived there, and I certainly had not been bowled over by her taste in
interior design. But to see someone else move into her place and put their own mark on it, it was – unsettling. Like they’d taken over.

My eyes stopped roaming the walls and I started checking out the furniture. No pink there. Everything was black, grey or white. It made me shiver. I glanced at the floor and realized that the
pink fitted carpet had been more or less hidden by a huge white fluffy rug. Oh no! I thought. I bet she’s the kind of mum who makes you take your shoes off the minute you walk through the
door.

And of course I hadn’t, so I’d brought muddy trainer prints in and left a pretty obvious trail on the pristine white rug.

I was just turning round, pondering whether I should take my trainers off and sneak back to the hall to pop them by the door so that I could deny all responsibility for the dark smears on the
rug, when a flash of purple caught my eye. Tucked away behind one of the stylish black leather armchairs near the sitting room door was a purple floor cushion. I took a step closer to get a better
look at this object which seemed so out of place among all the monochrome. A jolt of electricity went through me. Even though I didn’t have anything like it at home, I recognized it
immediately from the ones I’d seen in Paws for Thought.

It was a cat bed. A purple cat bed.

‘W
hat are you doing behind the door, Bernie? Here you are – a nice cool drink.’ Fiona Meerley had come back in.

I stood up too fast, sending stars spinning into my line of vision. A tall narrow glass of squash, with more ice in it than liquid, had found its way into my hand. It suited Fiona’s
personality, I thought, as I took it from her. The strong perfume enveloped me again as Fiona stared at the muddy footprints, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. Something else she and Jazz
had in common, that eyebrow . . .

I tried to take a sip of the drink without all the ice cubes falling on to my face.

‘So, are you a keen little dancer like your friend Jasmeena, Barley?’ Mrs Meerley asked, sounding as though the very act of talking to me was likely to kill her with boredom.

‘Er, it’s Bertie,’ I said again, rather pointlessly. ‘No, I, er, I’m not really into music that much.’

‘Oh,’ Fiona said archly.

‘Where’s Fergus?’ I blurted out. I was dying to ask him about his cat. Why hadn’t he told me he had one?

‘He’s got some more unpacking to do in his room,’ Fiona told me crisply. ‘I’m sorry, but I told him he absolutely has to unpack at least three more boxes before he
can go out again. I’ve already promised Jasmeena’s mother he would go round there later as it is. She needs him to help her with some of the songs she’s practising.’

So much for them not getting on.

‘Those two seem to have hit it off right away. She’s very funny, your friend. Did you know her life’s ambition is to win
Who’s Got Talent?
It’s just such a
shame
she’s too young to enter this time round,’ she said, smiling thinly.

I winced. I knew Jazz was a cringe-makingly awful singer but Fiona was being pretty mean.

Fiona was now prattling on about how her Fergie was
incredibly
musical and what a shame it was about his band splitting up, and how proud she was of him, blah, blah, blah, while I tried
to finish the impossibly cold drink as quickly as I could. I had to get out of this room and away from this woman.

‘Mrs Meerley,’ I began. ‘Excuse me for interrupting but—’

At that moment Fergus appeared behind his mum’s imposing presence. He peeked out sheepishly at me through his curtain of shiny hair.

Fiona spotted me looking at something over her shoulder and stopped in mid isn’t-my-son-wonderful gush. She whirled round sharply and said in a shrill voice: ‘Oh, it’s you,
Fergie dear. You did make me jump! I thought you were unpacking. Oh well, come in and chat to Binky while she finishes her drink, can’t you? I’ve still got a pile of stuff to go through
upstairs.’ Fiona Meerley stepped to one side to let Fergus through and . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . I blinked furiously.

I must have been hallucinating. Surely it wasn’t—?

In Fergus’s arms, curled up tight and purring like an overheated engine, as orange and fluffy as the day I first set eyes on her, was Jaffa.

I must have looked like a goldfish that’s been knocked out of its tank and is limply gasping for air. Fiona’s sunny smile had faded to a bewildered creased-up searching look and
Fergus had started foot-shuffling. I think it was the foot-shuffling that broke me out of my horrified silence, because Fiona nudged her son at that point and hissed at him not to make ‘even
more of a mess of the rug’, and at the same time I blurted out:

‘That’s my kitten!’

Great. I sounded like a wheedling toddler who’s just had their toy snatched away from them by the playground bully.

Fiona abruptly stopped hissing into Fergus’s ear and glanced up sharply, flicking a hank of smoothly preened hair back from her face. She looked suddenly and scarily furious.

‘
What
did you say?’

‘I – that’s my kitten,’ I said, stammering. ‘Jaffa?’ I looked at Jaffa pleadingly, willing her to wriggle out of Fergus’s arms and bound up to me.

‘Me not Jaffa,’ she hissed. ‘Me told you that before.’

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. Then Fiona laughed. Well, that really did it. ‘Yeah,’ I said with more feeling. ‘She
is
my kitten. She’s called Jaffa and
I’ve not had her long. And she’s been coming and going and . . . I’d just been talking to Fergus about it . . .’ I tailed off as the most horrible picture began to form in
my mind.

Fiona drew back her shoulders. Then she seemed to force herself to relax and plaster on that beaming TV-presenter smile again and her voice softened. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. But
this is our kitten; she’s called Muffin, not Jaffa. Excuse me, but when
exactly
did you say yours had gone missing?’

‘Who missing?’ Jaffa mewed. ‘Me not missing. Me here.’

I shook my head at her, struck dumb with shock.

‘Mum—’ Fergus began.

‘Shh! I want to hear what Billie has to say,’ Fiona said forcefully, but still with that glinting smile.

‘Well,’ I hesitated. Fiona’s response and Jaffa’s hurtful behaviour had completely thrown me off course. Not only had I expected Jaffa to fly into my arms, purring with
love and affection, I’d also been expecting Fiona to command Fergus to hand Jaffa over immediately and apologize for a misunderstanding. ‘Sh-sh-she’s run off a couple of times
since we’ve had her,’ I faltered, ‘but she’s come home in between—’

‘Ooooohhh!’ Fiona bulldozed in. ‘You see, this little one has been here ever since the day we moved in, haven’t you, sweetie?’ she crooned at Jaffa, leaning over
and stroking her luxuriously.

‘Yes, me has. And me likes it here. More prawns in this place. And no nasty iron-claw lady,’ Jaffa miaowed, pointedly fixing her flashing blue eyes on me.

‘She was trying to get into the cat flap the night the removal men arrived, apparently,’ Fiona was saying, ‘but the landlady had blocked it up when she moved out. We thought
this little darling belonged to Ms Pinkington, didn’t we, Fergie?’ Her shamefaced son nodded through his dark fringe. ‘And she seemed so hungry and so lonely. She kept mewing
pitifully and looking up at me. I couldn’t ignore her. It was obvious she was simply
starving.
’ She shot me a particularly accusing glance. ‘And the little poppet is so
adorable.
Fergie loves her, don’t you? We
all
love her. Darling Muffin,’ she added, gazing at Jaffa with gooey eyes.