Cleo

Darker thoughts nudged to mind as I sat on the bed and shook off one of the dressy sandals that matched the Chinese outfit perfectly. Maybe he had a genuine excuse for not turning up, like catching a glimpse of his own reflection in a shop window and smashing into a lamppost.

Truth was, I had no reason to like him enough to care. I was content orbiting kids and work every day. They were the center of my universe. Every week that we survived without sore throats, crises at school or disturbing mail in spidery backhanded writing from a deranged reader was a miracle. It didn’t matter if ninety percent of my remaining world consisted of black holes. The shrink was nuts suggesting all that one-night-stand rubbish. Boy, that woman had issues. I should’ve been shrinking her, not the other way around.

Cleo sprang onto the bed, made one of her squeaking noises and snuggled into my lap. I’m here, I’m here, she purred. Calm washed over me like baby shampoo. Hurt and outrage shrank until they weren’t much bigger than a pair of bubbles resting in the bathroom plughole. Kicking off the other sandal, I smiled (partly from relief—they were giving me blisters, anyway). The only damage was to my ego. There was nothing wrong with a night at home in front of the fire with Cleo after a long working week. In fact, it was downright welcome.

I carried Cleo down the hall. She watched expectantly while I crouched at the fireplace and arranged the kindling in an uncertain teepee. We were both startled by urgent hammering on the front door.

“I’ve been driving around the neighborhood for ages,” Philip said as soon as I opened the door. “I knocked on the door of 33 Albany Road. It’s the street parallel to this one. The woman there was confused. In fact so was I. It took me a while to work out you’re Ardmore Road…”

So. Not only was he too young and conservative—he wasn’t in danger of becoming the world’s next Mastermind, either. Just as I was starting to feel irritated, I noticed his face. His eyes were trailing up and down my Chinese suit with the look of someone witnessing the aftermath of mass terrorism.

“You don’t like it?” I said, suddenly. “I can change into something…more conventional, if you like.”

Philip didn’t object. I was profoundly, unspeakably insulted. Thrusting Cleo into his arms, I hurried back into the bedroom. On the other hand, I thought, changing into a brown skirt and cream blouse, maybe I should be relieved he was honest enough to imply he’d rather reenact a scenario from the Vietnam War than appear in public with me wearing the Asian rhapsody.

“Nice cat,” he said, as we headed out the door.

We were late for the play. Sitting in the shadows watching an appallingly amateurish version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof I quietly assembled a list of why this was a ridiculous choice, even for a one-night stand: he was hardly out of high school; he couldn’t have made more screwed-up career choices if he’d tried (the army and banking?!); he had bad taste in plays; he was unable to appreciate my approach to fashion.

I wasn’t that shook on his clothes, come to think of it. His shoes were so shiny you could pluck your eyebrows in them. The striped shirt, the corduroy trousers, the carefully chosen leather belt. It was all straight out of some old fogey’s catalog.

Yet there was no doubt he looked good in that stuff. He smelled fresh as an alpine forest, compared to male journalists, who invariably reeked of booze, cigarettes and substances I preferred not to know about. His eyes flared like blue gas flames when he laughed at my jokes (possibly too loudly). One of my jokes was about the inadequate snobs who drive European cars. I’d been too traumatized by our dash to the theater to notice what sort of car he drove. The satirical twinkle when, after the show, he opened the passenger door of his elderly Audi, was nothing short of admirable.

He was obviously a very pleasant young man who probably wanted to download his love-life woes on a pair of understanding ears. There was no harm offering him friendship. I invited him inside for coffee.

“I’d like to,” he said. “But I don’t generally drink caffeine this late at night. Do you have any herb teas?”

While I knew a few people at work who drank herbal teas, I doubted they were the type he was talking about.

“Sorry, I only have black tea.”

The house was unusually quiet without the children. Even when they were asleep I was aware of their shifting blankets and dream-laden sighs. I kicked my shoes off and clattered through the kitchen cupboards, searching for a pair of cups that matched.

“Interesting cat,” I heard from the other room. “She’s almost like a person.”