Sherie laughed, still hugging the silver tabby. ‘Thank you so much. I am so grateful.’
She picked up her handbag from the floor where she’d dropped it, and began to pull out her wallet. ‘How many hours –’
Nate frowned. ‘I don’t want paying. I like being here with the old chap.’ He looked around him. ‘Who wouldn’t enjoy hanging out in a place like this? The light down here is amazing with those windows on all sides – quite different from upstairs.’
‘I must give you something. It made all the difference knowing you were looking after him. I missed him but I didn’t worry.’
Nate shrugged. ‘Take me for a drink sometime.’ He hesitated. ‘Now even? I’m ready for a beer. Once you’ve unpacked. We could go over the road. We could eat there?’ He stopped as she said nothing. ‘Sorry, bad idea – you’re probably exhausted.’
Sherie shook her head as Marquis wriggled in her arms. ‘It’s not that. I am really tired but that’s not the problem – I’ve got to meet my friends in Green’s. Sorry. We’re–’
‘Oh sure – well over the weekend or something.’
She groaned, lowering the cat onto the shiny floorboards. ‘I’ve got my mother staying.’
Nate turned away, bending over to retrieve his battered leather mules from the corner of the hall. But not before she caught sight of the disappointment on his face.
‘Nate, we will go for a drink as soon as my mother’s gone – seriously, I’d really like to.’ He was pushing his feet into the shoes, feeling in his jeans pocket for his keys. The last of the day’s sun coming through the glass panels of the front door, lit up his blonde curls like a halo.
Sherie bent and stroked Marquis who was still rubbing himself round her legs, purring. ‘Hey come on, let’s have a quick drink now before I have to get ready. I’ve got some lager or wine? Or how about a G&T?’
‘I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘You won’t be. I’m shattered – the gin will perk me up. And I want to hear all about how Marquis has been and the new painting …’
She walked ahead of him down the hall into her kitchen. ‘Any more domestics from next door?’
After a moment, he followed her, perching on a stool at her breakfast bar as she opened the fridge. ‘She was crying outside on Saturday night,’ he told her. ‘I asked her if she was OK but she’d clearly had a few and then he came down so I left them to it.’
The beautiful old flint house was divided into four apartments of various sizes. Sherie owned one of the larger ones – a two-bedroom maisonette taking up half of the first two floors. The other half was occupied by the Wilsons. He worked in the city and left at five each morning for the hi-speed train, she was apparently some sort of designer who worked from home. She seemed, however, to spend a lot of her day wandering about the shared gardens with a coffee mug in her hand, which Sherie strongly suspected sometimes contained vodka.
Nate, artist and lecturer, rented a one bedroom flat on the third floor above Sherie. Something she’d only discovered when he’d dropped a card through her door, inviting her to his students’ end of year show because he’d heard from one of the Wilsons she was an art buyer.
She hadn’t been able to get to Canterbury that evening but she’d made a point of seeking out Nate, hoping if she were honest, he might turn out to be fifty, cultured and distinguished-looking instead of a slightly scruffy, bohemian and young-looking thirty-two who could easily be mistaken for a student himself.
But he had immediately endeared himself to her over his appreciation of her gorgeous Marquis, exclaiming over his unusual markings and later presenting her with a sketch of the cat attempting to catch a bumble bee down by the lilac bushes. This was now expensively framed in her sitting room, opposite her favourite small sofa near the French doors onto the garden. Nate had said more than once he would also like to paint her.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked now, dropping ice into two long glasses.
‘Slowly. I’ve had loads of assessments to do but I’ll get it finished by Easter now we’ve broken up.’
‘I can’t wait to see it – you know how much I love your work.’
‘You can come up when it’s done.’
‘Did you sell the other one?’
‘Not yet. I’m keeping it back for the show in the Old Town – did I tell you about that?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Sherie measured out gin, and sliced lemons, squeezing a little of the juice into the cold spirit before adding the segments to the glass, listening as he told her about the exhibition of local artists with the theme of seaside that was being put on just along the coast in a small gallery that was the latest addition to the arty quarter of Margate.
She smiled at Nate. ‘I’ll be tempted to buy it if nobody else does – I love those bold colours.’
‘Will you come to the preview?’ He smiled back. ‘Warm wine, bendy crisps – you know.’
‘Yes, of course. If I’m here. What sort of tonic do you want? I’ve got light, ordinary or elderflower–’
‘How posh!’
She laughed. ‘My friends would tell you I’m just fussy.’
She used a long decorative glass stirrer on both drinks. ‘There you go. Tell me that isn’t the best gin and tonic you’ve had this week!’
He sipped. ‘I think it’s the best I’ve had ever. Down!’ He added as Marquis sprang onto the surface and poked a paw at the other half of the lemon.
‘How did you do that?’ Sherie asked, as the cat jumped meekly back to the floor. ‘He never takes any notice of me.’
‘He knows you don’t mean it.’
‘You’re right.’
As Marquis jumped back up further down the counter, she reached out and cuddled him to her. She knew she would never get tired of the warmth of his thick soft fur, the little chirruping noise he made when he ran towards her. ‘I love him so much,’ she said. ‘I woke up in my hotel room and it felt all wrong because he wasn’t on my feet.’
‘He’s the most indulged cat I’ve ever met.’ Nate took another swallow of gin and grinned at her. ‘I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw that row of little pots of home-cooked this and finely-shredded that – all with his own little labels on.’ He grinned again. ‘Just in case he gets confused.’
‘He really doesn’t like cat food.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘No, honestly. I’ve tried all the different brands – including the expensive stuff. He’ll eat the biscuits but he just cries if I give him anything else. It has to be fresh chicken or ground steak or tuna in spring water.’
Nate shook his head. ‘He eats better than I do. He is funny though,’ he went on. ‘He loves that remote-control mouse, doesn’t he? We must have played with that for half an hour. Before I tucked him up with his cocoa and read him a bed time story, of course. Sprinkled a little lavender oil on his cushion so he’d have soothing dreams, reminded him to clean his teeth and pop his cashmere bed socks on …’
Sherie laughed loudly. The gin had relaxed her and she felt warm and mellow sitting here with Nate in the last of the fading light. She crossed the room and put the under-cupboard lighting on, adjusting the overhead spotlights so they weren’t too bright.
‘I wish I wasn’t going out,’ she said. ‘I’m bushed. I’d like another gin and a long bath and to snuggle up with my cat and hear what he’s been up to.