phone-calls were tricky to schedule when Seattle was eight hours behind, and Erica herself didn’t seem that keen, of late, to return his frequent calls. He feared she might be suffering from depression, after her debilitating illness, although Christine had vehemently denied it.
But then how could he trust his ex-wife, when she’d been the one desperate to move to America, so as to join her loathsome lover in his home state? Naturally, when dealing with the lawyers, she had emphasized the advantages for Erica: better schooling; a higher standard of living; new hobbies and excitements, such as sailing on the fellow’s ritzy yacht. Perhaps the girl was so enamoured of her new gratifying life – riding lessons, boat-trips , skiing on Crystal Mountain – she had forgotten all about her dad. The thought was so appalling, he removed the red glove from his pocket and pressed it against his face, remembering his loyal and loving Erica, who’d been content with simple pleasures and had never travelled further than Weston-Super-Mare.
He slouched into the living-room, to sit in front of her photo – his favourite one, in pride of place on his desk: taken when she was ten, with long pigtails and an easy, natural smile. And Charlie was with her, too, looking distinctly nervous, as if the flash had startled her. Perhaps fear was simply natural. Most animals and birds were scared – scared of noise and predators, unnerved by strange places or unknown situations. Yet cats and thrushes and squirrels didn’t swallow Prozac or rush off to counsellors, but just accepted terror as a normal part of life. As a boy, he’d sometimes pretended to be an animal, crouching down in muddy ditches, or hiding in hollow trees; relishing the feeling of being secure and well concealed; the heady combination of safety and escape. Sadly, someone had always come and hauled him out; dragged him back to his more troubling human life.
If only he could haul Charlie out from wherever she was lurking. She might have tried to find her way back to Kingston and been hit by a car or become hopelessly lost en route . Or maybe she’d been stolen, or killed by some heartless yob. First thing tomorrow, he would phone the local vets and the cat-refuge; even the police – although they would hardly waste vital manpower on the whereabouts of an elderly cat when they had murder and mayhem on their plate.
He jumped as his mobile rang. Erica, with any luck. No – she always slept in on Sundays and it was only 9 a.m. in Seattle. Maybe someone from one of the dating-sites, in which case he must prepare his voice – a bright, engaging, fun voice, to give a good impression. He even switched on a smile. (‘You can hear a smile,’ the Flirting book advised.)
‘Hi, Eric. Stella here.’
‘Oh,’ he said, reverting to his lost-cat, wet-jeans, alone-on-Sunday tone.
‘What d’you mean, “Oh”?’
‘Sorry. I’ve lost Charlie, so I’m feeling a bit down.’
‘She’s probably out on a date. I’ve just found this hilarious site – “Dates for Dogs” – so it can’t be long before cats get in on the act. It’s an absolute hoot – pampered pooches advertising for tummy-rubs and “yappy hours” and rolls in the hay and stuff.’
‘Ha-ha. Very funny. Anyway, if you’ve rung about the Family History project, I’m afraid I haven’t done a thing yet. I’ve been out all day and—’
‘No, I’ve rung about this fantastic event we simply have to go to. It’s called “Choc-a-Love” and it’s just been set up by this group of chocolatiers , who—’
‘Stella, I’m not into chocolate. I know it’s your great passion, but—’
‘Ssh! Be quiet – the chocolate bit’s not actually the point. It’s really a dating service and pretty classy, by the sounds of it. They make us all our own individual chocolates – you know, to express our personalities and quirks. Are we dark or milk, soft or hard, plain or fancy, bitter or sweet? Then they match
But then how could he trust his ex-wife, when she’d been the one desperate to move to America, so as to join her loathsome lover in his home state? Naturally, when dealing with the lawyers, she had emphasized the advantages for Erica: better schooling; a higher standard of living; new hobbies and excitements, such as sailing on the fellow’s ritzy yacht. Perhaps the girl was so enamoured of her new gratifying life – riding lessons, boat-trips , skiing on Crystal Mountain – she had forgotten all about her dad. The thought was so appalling, he removed the red glove from his pocket and pressed it against his face, remembering his loyal and loving Erica, who’d been content with simple pleasures and had never travelled further than Weston-Super-Mare.
He slouched into the living-room, to sit in front of her photo – his favourite one, in pride of place on his desk: taken when she was ten, with long pigtails and an easy, natural smile. And Charlie was with her, too, looking distinctly nervous, as if the flash had startled her. Perhaps fear was simply natural. Most animals and birds were scared – scared of noise and predators, unnerved by strange places or unknown situations. Yet cats and thrushes and squirrels didn’t swallow Prozac or rush off to counsellors, but just accepted terror as a normal part of life. As a boy, he’d sometimes pretended to be an animal, crouching down in muddy ditches, or hiding in hollow trees; relishing the feeling of being secure and well concealed; the heady combination of safety and escape. Sadly, someone had always come and hauled him out; dragged him back to his more troubling human life.
If only he could haul Charlie out from wherever she was lurking. She might have tried to find her way back to Kingston and been hit by a car or become hopelessly lost en route . Or maybe she’d been stolen, or killed by some heartless yob. First thing tomorrow, he would phone the local vets and the cat-refuge; even the police – although they would hardly waste vital manpower on the whereabouts of an elderly cat when they had murder and mayhem on their plate.
He jumped as his mobile rang. Erica, with any luck. No – she always slept in on Sundays and it was only 9 a.m. in Seattle. Maybe someone from one of the dating-sites, in which case he must prepare his voice – a bright, engaging, fun voice, to give a good impression. He even switched on a smile. (‘You can hear a smile,’ the Flirting book advised.)
‘Hi, Eric. Stella here.’
‘Oh,’ he said, reverting to his lost-cat, wet-jeans, alone-on-Sunday tone.
‘What d’you mean, “Oh”?’
‘Sorry. I’ve lost Charlie, so I’m feeling a bit down.’
‘She’s probably out on a date. I’ve just found this hilarious site – “Dates for Dogs” – so it can’t be long before cats get in on the act. It’s an absolute hoot – pampered pooches advertising for tummy-rubs and “yappy hours” and rolls in the hay and stuff.’
‘Ha-ha. Very funny. Anyway, if you’ve rung about the Family History project, I’m afraid I haven’t done a thing yet. I’ve been out all day and—’
‘No, I’ve rung about this fantastic event we simply have to go to. It’s called “Choc-a-Love” and it’s just been set up by this group of chocolatiers , who—’
‘Stella, I’m not into chocolate. I know it’s your great passion, but—’
‘Ssh! Be quiet – the chocolate bit’s not actually the point. It’s really a dating service and pretty classy, by the sounds of it. They make us all our own individual chocolates – you know, to express our personalities and quirks. Are we dark or milk, soft or hard, plain or fancy, bitter or sweet? Then they match
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