Noah was still taking a deep, pollen-filled breath beneath the wisteria when Carrie opened the door. He hadn’t yet manifested his Cat-Shelter-Worker persona, let alone pressed the doorbell.
He’d always thought the photos of Carrie in those speculative articles were filtered, but here she was, not a line on her sixty-year-old face. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she regarded him.
Trembling, he gestured to the crate beside him, housing a tabby kitten. ‘I’m from Coastal Cat Rescue. This little guy arrived today. As our favourite client, you get first refusal.’
Carrie raised an eyebrow. ‘This isn’t how we usually do business, Mr…?’
‘H…Hicks,’ Noah stuttered. ‘Noah Hicks.’
‘I see.’ She coiled a strand of dark hair around her finger. ‘You’re not from the shelter, are you Noah? I know all their staff. And I know a journalist when I see one.’
Noah’s legs twitched with the urge to run, but he was frozen. The idea that he could outwit this woman and get the scoop of the year seemed ludicrous now.
Carrie laughed, stepping aside. Two black cats darted out, brushing Noah’s legs as they jangled away.
‘Well? Aren’t you coming in? Bring the cat.’
The cat on Noah’s lap purred, its white fur popping against the electric blue armchair. It was like being transported to the 1980s. His teacup steamed on a smoked glass table, while a stereo blasted Wham! from a glossy shelf. Carrie reclined and tilted her head, earrings swinging.
Was this a trap? But he was too curious to run. Even if curiosity killed the…
‘Don’t you have questions?’
Noah cleared his throat. ‘This is an all-female commune, right?’
‘Yes,’ Carrie said, stroking a ginger cat. ‘We were university friends. Bought this property decades ago for our widowhood. We vowed we’d relive our youth, only with more money. And no men. We love gardening and partying like it’s 1989.’
‘What’s with the 1980s aesthetic?’
‘We live as though it’s still our era. We watch 80s TV. We do the Jane Fonda workout. Consequently, we look and feel young. You could say we’re late bloomers.’
Noah nodded, the headline forming in his mind.
‘Malcolm! Claws!’ Noah flinched as Carrie shook the cat off her lap.
‘Malcolm?’
‘My late husband,’ she sighed, brows knitting together in faux-sadness. ‘All the cats are named after our dearly departed.’
Noah leaned forward, the question burning his tongue. The one that would trigger the confession, the promotion, the fame. George Michael wailed in the background. Everything she wants is everything she sees…
‘How did you know you’d all outlive your husbands?’
The cat dug its claws into Noah’s thighs.
I don’t know what the hell you want from me, sang George.
Carrie uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. ‘That’s the million-dollar question,’ she smiled. ‘And I could tell you… But then I’d have to name that beautiful kitten ‘Noah.’ It suits him, don’t you think?’
Noah fled the room, bells ringing in his ears. Bells that tickled his neck as he ran.
