Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) by Elizabeth Kyne (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

liked beingcalled a girl by him. It made me feel young and excited with theteenage thrill of a new love inside of me. I pulled myself up andrested my head on his shoulder. ‘There’s no rush,’ I said. ‘Butafter you come back, you could try staying over here a few nightsof the week and see how it goes.’

‘What’s thatnoise?’ said Riss all of a sudden.

‘Are youchanging the subject?’

‘No, seriously,what’s that noise?’

I paused. Iheld my breath. I listened. A car went past on the road outside; abird chirped in a nearby tree; and there was a soft rumbling sound.‘Oh, that’s just Chester purring.’

‘Just Chester?Listen.’

I listenedagain. And, Riss was right, there was something different about it.It was a fuller sound than I was used to, and it was louder. I satup straight and scanned the lounge. I couldn’t see Chesteranywhere. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there; my cat is skilled infinding little cubby holes to hide in.

I stood assilently as I could. Riss stood too. I crept towards the TV becauseI knew Chester often liked to sit there in the mess of all thewiring where the ventilation holes of the satellite box blew outwarm air.

There, tuckedinto Chester’s favourite spot, was a bundle of grey and gingertabby curled up together, both of them purring at differentfrequencies in patterns that synced temporarily before becoming asee-saw stereo of purr. Chester licked at Lindy’s fur on her facelike a mother cat cleaning a kitten. It was almost like they werekissing.

‘Awww, look atthat!’ whispered Riss beside me. ‘Isn’t it cute?’

I had to agree,it was.

I kept lookingat the cuddly bundle while, almost without thinking, my handreached out to my side and clasped Riss’s fingers.

‘It’s almost asif,’ Riss whispered in my ear, ‘Chester planned it this way.’

‘That’s crazy,’I said.

But - as Icontinued to watch my cat fondle my boyfriend’s cat - I had toquestion if he wasn’t just a little bit right.

* * *

Thank you fordownloading and reading Matchmaker Cat. Without the supportof you, the reader, writers like myself would have no audience. Whynot come and say ‘hi’ at my website: www.elizabethkyne.co.uk

Meanwhile, as abonus, here’s the opening to my novel, If Wishes WereHusbands.

IF WISHES WEREHUSBANDS

by Elizabeth Kyne

ONE

Wraps of silverfoil stuck out of the head of the woman sitting next to me like thespines of a tin hedgehog. While her highlights developed inside thefoil, she told the rest of the hair salon about her irritatinghusband - whether anyone wanted to hear it or not.

‘I simply askedhim if he would mind hoovering the lounge while I was out,’ shesaid, with much animated waving of hands.

‘Soundsreasonable,’ replied the hairdresser - that's my hairdresser, bythe way, who was supposed to be attending to me.

‘That's what Ithought,’ continued the tin hedgehog woman. ‘So I came back fromthe shops half an hour later to find he'd moved all the furnitureinto the garden!’

‘No!’ said thehairdresser.

‘I swear toGod!’ she said. ‘I thought he was a sensible guy when I married him- what was I thinking?’

I leant forwardand picked up my cup of tea. Hairdressers bring you a cup of tea ina white china cup and saucer these days. They'd even indulged mewith a bourbon biscuit on the side. So, while the other two womengossiped, I brought the cup to my lips and breathed in a mouthfulof air from the salon. The taste of hairspray, shampoo and peroxidehit my throat. I washed it away with a larger than anticipated gulpof strong, milky liquid.

Saturday in thehairdressers - a little shop sandwiched between a newsagents and achippy in the Elmhurst area of Aylesbury - was very busy. Apartfrom myself and the tin hedgehog, a woman of about fifty sat withher back to the sink having her hair washed and the flusteredmanageress talked ten-to-the-dozen while she blow-dried anothercustomer. By the front door, a woman with a bright red fringeprocessed someone's credit card from behind the reception deskwhile answering the phone at the same time. Every now and again thehubbub subsided enough to hear a golden oldie station broadcastingDuran Duran through a radio perched on top of a rack of shampoo andconditioner.

The bourbonbiscuit still sat, brown and tempting, on the side of my saucer. Icould resist no longer. As I crunched, the hairdresser liftedseveral strands from the back of my head and clipped off a goodinch.

‘Are youmarried, Rachel?’ she said

I almost chokedon chocolatey crumbs. ‘Hmm?’

‘I said, 'areyou married?'.’

What is itabout hairdressers that they think they have the right to probeinto your personal life? Are you married? Do you have children?What do you do for a living? I was fed up with it, quitefrankly. You hit forty and it's not funny anymore. People look atyou and expect you to have all of those 'normal' things. If youhaven't got a husband and kids, then you better damn well have agood divorce story, or a successful and fascinating career.

Not RachelGosling. I'm the one who answers politely, no I'm not married, Idon't have any children and I'm a PA in an accounts department.People's eyes glaze over and they start talking about the weather.As far as I'm concerned, it's their bloody fault for asking in thefirst place.

My hairdresserwaited for my reply, her reflection looking expectantly from themirror. Her name was Salina or Celine or something. She was young -early twenties - just starting out on life and already with aboyfriend (so she'd told me) and a job she seemed to enjoy. Also inthe mirror was my reflection; one I only half-recognised. My haircolour had changed from its usual dyed blonde to a vibrant chestnutbrown and I was half way through having the length cropped back tobelow my ear lobe. It was part of the new me.

A new me, Idecided, who didn't have to stick to the truth underinterrogation.

‘I am married,actually,’ I lied on a whim.

‘Oh yes?’ saidthe hairdresser, combing the long, damp strands of chestnut brownhair yet to be cropped. ‘Does he put all your furniture in thegarden?’

‘Oh no,’ Isaid. ‘My Darren's wonderful.’

I used to workwith a woman married to a Darren. The name seemed plausibleenough.

‘You don't hearthat very often from the women