Cat lady, p.1
Cat Lady, page 1
CAT LADY
Dawn O’Porter
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022
Copyright © Dawn O’Porter 2022
Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Jacket photographs © Shutterstock.com
Dawn O’Porter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008385392
Ebook Edition © October 2022 ISBN: 9780008385415
Version: 2022-09-05
Dedication
Dedicated to Sniff, Nin, Tiku, Minu, Acre, Fluke, Twiglet, Suska, Lilu, Potato, Myrtle, Boo and all the pets I have yet to meet who will no doubt add as much joy to my life as you all did. Your lives were short but perfect, a lesson to us all on how to live for nothing but pure love.
(Honorary mentions to Daisy the tortoise and all the geese, ducks and family and friends’ cats and dogs who I have borrowed over the years. Especially Waffle, Caroline’s cat, who saved me from all the mice. Legend.)
No such thing as just a pet.
Epigraph
[ Everyone is playing a part ]
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE
Mother
PART TWO
Career Woman
PART THREE
Animal
PART FOUR
Wife
PART FIVE
Cat Lady
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Note from Dawn
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Dawn O’Porter
About the Publisher
Part One
Mother
For my eighth birthday my mother made me a cake. She was frail at that point, very thin. But it meant a lot to her to bake the cake. I was allowed three of my friends to come for a party. My sister, Liz, was there too. The party involved a small paddling pool in the garden and a sprinkler that we could run through. It was fun, I remember laughing that day because it was unusual to laugh that much in our house. My dad sat on a deckchair on the patio reading a newspaper. Every so often he’d bark something along the lines of ‘Quieten down,’ or ‘Quit that screeching.’ I pretended I couldn’t hear him and carried on playing with my friends and sister in the water. Such fun to be had in the simplest of things.
Mum came outside holding the cake. She wasn’t a very good baker, but – even at that young age – I recognised that she’d put that aside and done her best to make my party special.
Because she was my mum – and that’s what mums do.
Her purple dress was so pretty, I remember feeling special because she had dressed up for me despite how ill I knew she was. She started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and walked towards me with the cake. My friends and I gathered round; they sang too. My father stayed on his chair.
After I had blown out my candles, my mother cut the cake up. When she handed me a slice on a plate, I didn’t keep it for myself. Instead, I took it over to my father and gave it to him. I wanted him to look at me and say something kind. I wanted him to wish me a Happy Birthday and to tell my mother that her cake was delicious. I was trembling as I handed it to him. So much so that I tipped the plate and the cake fell, getting frosting all over his grey cardigan. He stood up and I knew my birthday was over.
‘Look what you did, you idiot,’ he yelled.
‘Oh come on, David. It’s her birthday,’ my mother begged. But nothing could get in the way of his rage. He tore off his precious cardigan and threw it on the floor. He stormed out of the garden and my mum had to call my friends’ mums to come and pick them up.
But that isn’t the important bit that I remember.
It’s me and Mum and Liz all sitting round eating birthday cake when everyone had gone, our faces smeared with chocolate, our fingers covered in frosting. And Mum cheering as she relit the candles so I could blow them out again and make a birthday wish: that it could just be the three of us, forever.
1
I arrive at the Methodist Church on the high street bang on 7 p.m. I’m not sure why I came or what I intend to say.
There are five of us in the room, all sitting in a circle: a group leader, one man and three women other than myself. The man is very tall and thin with a bald head and is covered in tattoos. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who would come to a group like this, I wonder if he came to the wrong session and instead meant to attend the Anger Management Group. He has a tattoo of a snake going around his neck, it’s quite hard to look at him without frowning. Luckily, I’ve had quite a lot of Botox in my forehead so get away with it. One of the women looks like a character from a children’s book. Far too caricatured to be real. She’s pale, she looks old, but more like she is in costume, dressed up as an old lady. Exhaustion may have aged her more than the years themselves, like the very act of being awake is the greatest achievement of her day. She is wearing a lot of clothes – a hat, a scarf – although it’s quite hard to make out the individual items because they’re all a similar shade of earthy green. She wears trousers with thick long socks pulled over the top and shoes that look like slippers. On top there are numerous lengths and fabrics. A jumper, a cardigan, a shirt. It’s not cold outside, but I imagine this is what she wears every single day. She sits with her hands clasped on her thighs. On the rare occasion she looks up, her big brown, doe-like eyes try to grab some sunlight from under the heavy resistance of her eyelids. Someone else sits inside of her, I wonder if she even knows it.
The other person is a black lady in a pink dress. She is eating biscuits from a packet and occasionally wipes tears from her cheeks. She seems very much in her own world, and the reverse of the lady in green. Her happiness is all on the outside. You’d walk past her in the street and think she was jolly because of her bright clothes and effort in her appearance. But watery eyes and comfort eating tell a different story. By virtue of just being in this room, I am sure her happiness is a façade, or else why would she have come?
There is also a younger woman who I estimate is in her early thirties. I’d guess of Indian descent, she is very pretty and dressed in fashionable clothes, her hair is perfectly preened and her make-up is flawless in that dedicated ‘Instagram tutorial’ kind of way. Surely someone like her has a social media following they can pour their feelings into? Or a group of millennial friends who have been raised to talk about their emotions? But I mustn’t judge, that is the entire point of this group. Or at least, that is what the flyer said.
The group leader, a small, white woman in her fifties with a pretty blue skirt and a cute, cropped sweater, takes her seat and begins the session. ‘OK, if everyone is settled … My name is Tiana, I’m your group facilitator. You’re here because you have lost someone very special to you. Losing pets can be a truly devastating experience and everything you are feeling is normal and valid. We love our furry friends like family. When we lose them, our hearts break just as they would if we lost a human. I’m here to help you navigate your grief. This is a safe space to express yourself, there is no judgement and we are all here to support you. You don’t need to deny your anger, guilt or pain when you’re in this room.’
The black lady is nodding in agreement, relentless tears falling from her eyes while the rest of her denies them. I get the impression this is not her first time. The lady in all the green clothes stares intensely at the floor, as if too afraid to move in case her sadness attacks her. The man is vibrating, which I’d guess is what happens when he tries to sit still. The young woman pretends to turn her phone off so she can send a text. I’ve seen that move before from the staff at work.
‘I recognise most of you, but why don’t we all go around and say who we are here to remember. Shall we start with you, Ada?’
Ada must be the lady in the pink dress. She quickly finishes chewing her biscuit – Crawford Custard Creams – swallows and begins. She isn’t in a rush.
‘I’m Ada, this is my third time coming here. My kitty, Mrs Jones, died a month ago. In my arms, I thank God for that. My husband left five years ago, my son still lives with me but he needs to go out on his own now. He lacks a lot of confidence, ya know?’
Tattoo man nods.
‘Is he feeling low about Mrs Jones?’ Tiana asks.
Ada wipes away tears with the entire palm of her hand. ‘Yes, not that he admits it. He says I should just get another cat, but I can’t do that yet. He thinks I’m crazy being this upset about it but it’s how I feel.’
‘This is a problem we see all too often in the world of pet grief. Others think that animals can just be replaced, and they don’t understand that isn’t the case for many people. Have you told him he’s not to say that?’
‘Yes, I have. And then he tells me to stop moping around the place. I think he thinks I am sadder about the cat than I was when his daddy moved out and …’
There is a pregnant pause as we all wait for the next part of the sentence.
‘I am.’
Wow, that is quite the admission and Tiana doesn’t even flinch, this really is a space where you can say anything. Well, almost anything, I don’t plan to speak. On the flyer it said you don’t have to if you don’t want to.
‘Animals give us a very special kind of love,’ Tiana says. ‘A loyalty that knows no bounds. They don’t argue with us or make us feel bad about ourselves. They don’t …’
‘Snore, drink, never use a toilet brush!’ Ada butts in.
‘Yes, they mostly spend their lives doing whatever it is they can to make us happy. And so it isn’t unusual to miss that more than you miss complicated relationships.’
‘Complicated all right. For him, anyway, managing all those women,’ Ada says, eating another biscuit.
Tiana turns towards the man with the snake tattoo. ‘Greg, how are you this week?’
‘Shit.’
‘Can you elaborate on that?’
‘Can’t get over it. Can’t move on.’ Greg starts to cry. ‘He wasn’t just a snake.’
I do an involuntary cough. It was just so unexpected, but I guess a pet is a pet. It’s not like I’ve got a picture of my cat Pigeon tattooed on my neck. He obviously really loved that snake.
‘It sounds like the two of you had a very special bond.’
Good for Tiana, unshakable on all levels.
‘I’m a very stressed person,’ Greg says. Which isn’t a surprise. His image looks like one giant reaction to stress. ‘I’m allergic to all animals with fur. I got a mouse once, even that set me off. But animals help me, ya know? They calm me down. Something about that other heartbeat being around meant I weren’t on my own. Girls don’t want me. Who wants to take this back to their mother?’
I look around and no one is shaking their head in disagreement.
‘I know snakes aren’t known for being affectionate or nothing, but he used to get excited when I went up to him. And when I got him out, he’d slither over my shoulders and it just felt good. To have something that wanted to be with me. Who else would want to be with this pile of shit?’
He seems so self-aware. Embarrassed to be here, embarrassed to be crying. Embarrassed to feel this way about a snake.
‘I don’t want to be like this. Someone who only has a snake, but it’s who I am. I don’t take well to humans, and they don’t take well to me.’
‘Well, you’re here, with us. And we all understand. Don’t we?’ Tiana says, turning to the group. People give varying levels of support. Just a nod from the lady in the green, an enthusiastic ‘Absolutely’ from Ada. I give my best smile. The young woman just stares at him, studying his tattoos, I presume.
‘Love is love,’ Ada says, finishing another biscuit then handing just the one to Greg. He takes it and eats it all in one go but looks like he regrets it and spends a very long time masticating until he is able to swallow.
‘My son is gay,’ Ada continues. ‘His dad didn’t like it but I don’t care who he loves, I just want him to find someone who’s good to him.’
‘I ain’t gay,’ Greg says, defensively.
‘Oh no, I wasn’t saying you were. But you loved that snake, didn’t you. Love is love. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything weird with my snake,’ Greg says, not getting Ada’s point at all.
Tiana moves on, which we all agree is the right move. ‘OK, Martha, how are you today?’ She is talking to the lady in all of the green clothes. She takes a long time to answer, which is quite awkward for us all. Just the sound of Ada’s crunching to pass the time. ‘How long has it been now?’ Tiana pushes.
Martha lifts her chin up as if it’s on a piece of string and being controlled by someone else.
‘Six months. I still put her food down every morning. It’s gone rotten by the evening, so I throw it away, but I still do it, every day.’
It would not be appropriate of me to mention what a terrible waste that is, I’m sure she must be aware. Her head flops back down, as if even the person holding the string is now exhausted.
‘I put a pillow on top of me when I go to bed because she used to sleep on me and now, without her weight, I can’t sleep,’ Martha says, looking at the floor to avoid eye contact.
We all wait to see if she has anything else to say, but her energy suggests she’s done. It’s a mix of despondency and shyness, maybe. This clearly isn’t her first time here, but she’s not ready to share much.
Tiana steps in to make a professional transition. ‘So much of what we miss are the habits that we formed. Those creature comforts that we maybe took for granted are the hardest things to lose.’ She turns to the young lady with the nice clothes. ‘And you are?’
‘Nicole.’
‘And who are you remembering today?’
‘Umm, my mum’s dog. He died and now I don’t want to go home because it won’t be the same. His name was Rover.’
‘Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that. I can appreciate that is hard. To know that your family home won’t be quite the same.’
Nicole nods. ‘We got Rover when I was a teenager. I’m sort of dreading going to visit, I just can’t imagine my mum’s house without him.’
She seems sweet enough. I’m surprised she’s here, but grief is grief. And how funny to hear of a dog called Rover. Such a cliché, but also, so few of them around.
‘Is there a particular reason you came today?’
‘Maybe to get some tips on how to talk to my mum about it. She’s really upset. I mean, I am too. Really, really upset, but my mum, you know, she’s inconsolable.’
‘Well, it’s very kind of you to want to gather the right words to help your mother. I’m sure this group will be very helpful for that. And hello, we got to you in the end,’ Tiana says, looking at me. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Mia. Mia, my name is Mia, and I am forty-five.’ I blush when I realise there was no need to tell anyone my age.
‘And who are you remembering today?’
A hundred things I could say rush through my head. My eyes well up, as if they know I need help to pull this off. I wasn’t sure what would happen today, or how many people would be here. I thought maybe I could disappear into a larger group and not have to say anything at all. I once went to an AA meeting where there were around a hundred people sitting on chairs looking at a stage. I hoped for that. I suppose pet grief support is a lot more niche than alcoholism. I am silent a while, and no one seems to mind.
‘Take all the time you need,’ Tiana says.
I take some long, slow breaths. Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? I don’t want anyone to think I’m strange. The silence and stillness of the room seems to be activating Greg. His breathing becomes heavier and the energy coming out of him feels explosive. And then he erupts.
‘He wasn’t just a snake!’ he shouts, standing up, picking up his chair and throwing it at a wall.
‘No one said he was just a snake, Greg. Please pick up your chair and sit down,’ Tiana says, calmly.
‘I might as well kill myself. What’s the point in anything?’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t talk like that,’ Ada says, putting her biscuits in her bag, possibly to protect them.
But he is having a full-scale episode. Everyone stands up and he throws all our chairs against the wall. Nicole runs out of the room. Martha also slopes out in her baggy green clothes. Ada talks calmly to him, unafraid and with so much love. Tiana repeats, ‘Shhhh, shhhh.’ I just watch. It’s a display of the rawest emotion, I am not threatened, and I am not scared. Greg’s heart is broken, this is just a reaction to that. He doesn’t mean us any harm. And I am not here to judge. How could I be? My cat isn’t even dead.
