What the Cat Dragged In

The hairband dangled from the tip of my finger, fat and round as a garden worm. A sandy shade, it could be neatly disguised in a mass of ash-blonde hair.

My hair is dark.

Danny walked into the kitchen. “What’s that?” he asked, barely taking in it – or me – before flicking the switch of the kettle.

“A hairband.”

He glanced up, hands flat on the worktop. His fingers rested in flecks of sugar that dotted the surface, scattered like birdseed from the last cup of tea he’d made.

“And?” He shrugged a shoulder.

“It’s not mine.”

He frowned, lips yanked down at each side. “Where did you find it?”

“Muesli was playing with it.” I leaned in closer to it, noting one soft baby hair wrapped around the metal join.

“Ew.” Danny swiped at the air before me. “The cat had it? Who knows where it came from?”

The kettle shuddered itself to a standstill, and he continued with his tea prep. He didn’t ask if I wanted one. I stood still for a moment as Muesli curled around my legs incessantly, back and forth, no doubt seeking his next meal. It was strangely comforting – his lithe body and strong, slim legs slinking back and forth, and curling about me, rhythmically. Like he was the one stroking me.

I sighed and turned towards the bin, already open since he had deposited a tea bag an hour or so ago. But something made me hesitate. I had a sinking feeling; this was all too familiar ground. We’d been here before.

“He hasn’t been outside, that’s all. It’s raining.”

Danny didn’t answer, but gave an irritated shake of the head as he poured the water into his mug.

“You know how he hates the rain,” I continued. “He must have found this indoors.” I paused. Danny didn’t respond. “In the house.”

“If you say so. Probably amongst the fluff under the sofa. All the more reason to chuck it and wash your hands.”

“I don’t know. It seems… odd.”

“That bloody cat.” He was stirring his tea, periodically squeezing the bag against the side of the mug.

“But… But I can’t think of anyone who’d use it. We don’t get many guests.” I raised my voice a touch, hoping for some sort of reaction. Reassurance. Anything. “Danny?”

He made a strange noise – half splutter, half cough. I stayed stock still, wondering if I was doing the right thing, persisting in this way; one way or the other, this was unlikely to end well.

After a beat, he looked up and caught my eye, and I saw something flicker within his. Then, unexpectedly, he moved, swiftly taking two steps towards me. He held out one hand as he went, reaching forward in a half-dance, stiff and awkward. Still with the hairband balancing on my left index finger, I lifted my right arm towards his – two olive branches poised to meet. To touch. Until he stopped, inches away, and I held my breath.

“You’re in front of the fridge,” he said.

**

Three days later, I was loading the washing machine when I heard a clatter from the kitchen, followed by Danny’s voice.

“Christ!”

I dropped the duvet cover to the floor and raced in. “You OK?”

The bin had been knocked over, and a tangle of rubbish was deposited on the floor, yesterday’s spaghetti and meatballs dolloped in a half-hearted nest. Danny stood, barefoot, eyes closed in a wince, tea bag still on his teaspoon. An all-too-familiar pose amongst the chaos.

“What happened?” I asked.

He flicked his eyes open and jerked his head to one side. “Take one guess.”

I followed his gaze to see Muesli in the corner, lying with a neon wrapper of some sort between his front paws like an Olympic Torch. Unflustered.

“This is all I need,” Danny muttered. “I have to hop on a call in a minute.”

It struck me, with a jump, how tired he looked – unshaven, and hair dishevelled. He had been working long hours of late, both in and out of the office, and it was taking a toll. He swayed for a moment, blue shirt untucked from tracksuit bottoms, tie in a loose knot, ready to be pushed into place.

“Leave it with me,” I replied. “After all, it’s my day off.”

Danny gave a small Humph and turned on his heel to leave the room, adding a trail of tea to the mess on the floor as he left.

**

About an hour had passed. Danny had taken up residence with his laptop in the sitting room, and I’d found myself trapped, not wanting to walk through while he was mid-call. The house was open plan, and there was no way to make it to the front door or the stairs without disturbing him. And I didn’t dare.

After cleaning up the mess, I took the opportunity to cook a bolognese for dinner and clean out the fridge. I threw myself into it, cooking the sauce from scratch before scrubbing away at the salad drawers with pink rubber gloves and elbow grease. It was therapeutic, really, and helped to keep my anxiety at bay.

Because I needed to confront him. Again. And I was dreading it.

The silence had gone on for at least five minutes, so I knew it was safe. Nonetheless, I peeked through a chink in the doorway before stepping out. He was on the sofa, lying from one end to the other, with his laptop still open on his lap. His upper body was propped up with cushions, his tie askew, blankets draped across his legs in an elegant mess, everything supine and soft like a Renaissance painting. He didn’t look up at me when I entered the room.

Three mugs and an empty crisp packet graced the table, and a small pile of junk mail and a threatening brown envelop sat on the doormat in the corner, untouched.

“How was it?” I walked towards him, one hand behind my back.

He rolled his eyes. “The usual…” He slammed the laptop shut. “Enjoying your day off?”

I give a tight smile – washing, cleaning, and cooking weren’t top of my most relaxing activities, but I didn’t want to seem churlish. Especially given what I needed to say next.

I stopped in the middle of the room and took a breath to steady myself. Through the wooden blinds, I spotted Muesli outside, clambering lightly from the low garden wall onto the bonnet of Danny’s car. It was starting to spit with rain, and I expected to see him run through the cat flap at any moment.

I took my hand out from behind my back to reveal the bright yellow wrapper pinched between forefinger and thumb. “This is a protein bar.”

He snorted. “And?”

In answer, I shook my hand, and it gave a small rustle. “Some might call it a diet bar, I guess. It’s one of those high-protein-zero-sugar things.” I chuckled. “Supposedly good for you but simply packed with additives and crap.”

“Thanks for the domestic science lesson.” He sounded bored. Didn’t meet my eye. Didn’t look at the wrapper. He’d turned back around to face his knees and the empty space where his computer screen had once been.

I took a step forward. Through the window, I noted, absently, how the rain had started to set in, fat drops intermittently hitting the glass. Muesli stood, twitching and irritated, on the bonnet of Danny’s car.

“Is it yours?” I knew it wasn’t. I did all the shopping. Besides, Danny wouldn’t know a protein bar if it fell out of a kitchen bin and hit him on the toes.

He gave a melodramatic sigh. “No. It’s not mine. But I’ll be sure to make sure any rubbish is placed more carefully in the bin in future – mine or otherwise.”

“It’s not mine,” I said. I took another step forward. “So how did it get here?”

He jumped slightly and sat upright, twisting towards me, fingers splayed into the sofa cushion like claws. “You… Seriously! You aren’t seriously suggesting this?”

I nodded.

“It’s a bloody cereal bar. It’s just a bloody cereal bar. First that hair clip, and now this… honestly, I think you’ve lost your marbles.”

“Hairband,” I corrected. “A hairband for blonde hair.”

He swung his legs around, just as the heavens broke and the rain began to hammer against the windows. Through the downpour, I spotted Muesli squeezing his way, elegantly, through the open window of Danny’s passenger door.

I waited for him to say something, to correct me. I wanted him to fight – not to fight me, exactly, but to fight against the truth. To batter it down with platitudes and half-lies and compliments and insults, until it was lost in the melee once more. Gone. Until I couldn’t see it. Because right now I could. It was staring me in the face. And I didn’t think I could bear it.

Not again.

“Your passenger window is open,” I said quietly, after a moment.

“What?” Briefly, he looked confused, then he glanced out the window. “Oh, crap.” He rubbed his fingers through his hair.

“Why?” I asked. “Why is it open? Has someone been in your car?”

Danny jumped to his feet, his laptop almost falling. “For the love of…” He slapped his hands against his thighs with exasperation. “Now it’s the window? The bloody car window?”

I didn’t reply, but flicked my hand open, so that the wrapped fell to the ground like a feather, undulating from side to side as it went. It was strangely hypnotic. We both watched its slow descent, then, when it finally touched the floor, a sob ripped through me, puncturing the silence.

I was crying, deep, raw, loud sobs that I hadn’t expected and couldn’t control, and before I knew it he was there, too, crying as well, wrapping his arms around me and burying his face into my hair, telling me I was wrong, and I had to stop, and I was imagining things, and he loved me, he loved me, he did. He was just tired.

So tired of this.

And I collapsed into it. I allowed myself to fall. The tension dissipated, and the fears dissolved, and I knew he was right. I wanted him to be right. I had been looking for signs that simply weren’t there, and ignoring the potential that was right in front of my face. I needed to fix this. I needed to stop.

After a while, we broke apart, kisses mixed with tears wetting our faces, and I found we were both laughing, a strange, giddy laugh. He wiped my face and kissed my forehead before enveloping me in a tight hug.

“Cup of tea?” he murmured into my hair. I nodded.

And over his shoulder, I saw Muesli slip through the cat flap, a pair of black, lacy pants dangling, like prey, from his jaw.