Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 7

'Wednesday is the best day to go to the pet shop,' Egg announced when I got home from work. 'Everyone else will be at the cinema because it's “two for one".'

I didn't need much more persuading. Even Farrell was up for it.

We stare into the tank at the soft little bodies curled up and sleeping in the folds of a fleecy pink blanket. Only one of the kittens is wide awake and eager to play. He’s a little tabby cat with a white belly and paws that look as if they’ve been dipped in white paint. He’s so fluffy he looks as though his natural habitat should be the snowy peaks of the Andes and not the warm, slightly moist pet shop environment in East London. He puts one paw on the glass and looks up at us with his big black eyes, and we all know he’s the one.

At my side there’s an audible intake of breath from Egbert. He clutches my sleeve.

‘Please, Amber, please.’

In that moment I want him as much as Egg does.

‘He’s adorable,’ I whisper. I look over at Farrell, who’s staring at the little kitten but with a worried expression on his face. ‘Isn’t he adorable?’

‘He’s going to get bigger, you know.'

Trust Farrell to try to dissuade us. But it’s too late. Egg and I are completely smitten. The little kitten bounds over to his sleeping companions and jumps on top of them. They squirm and try to bury themselves deeper into the blanket but he’s so desperate to play. We just have to get him. This tank is too small for such a free-spirited creature, any longer in there and he’ll think he’s a fish.

The pet shop owner, who has been eyeing us cautiously from the counter, decides to risk her time on us and comes over.

‘He’s twelve weeks old,’ she says.

I nod and try to look as if this information means something to me.

‘That’s a good age,’ Egg says, looking satisfied. After all the reading he’s done, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already worked out the kitten’s IQ. ‘He’s had all his vaccinations, has he?’

‘Absolutely.’ She proceeds to tick them off with her fingers. ‘FIV, feline enteritis, feline chlamydia and, of course, feline respiratory disease, more commonly known as cat flu.’

I grimace at the images these diseases evoke in my head and, for a moment, the bundle of fur is rendered a little less cute. But then he tries to chase his own tail and my heart melts again.

The conversation moves from disease to diet (unfortunately he’s not going to help deplete our stock of bananas) and then to the myth of cats having nine lives. Egg wants to know if the pet-shop lady has ever resuscitated a cat.

‘Oh, I could write a book with all the stories I’ve got,’ she says, and begins to dictate it to us.

While Egg nods with interest, I sidle off to look at the guinea pigs.

‘So...’ Farrell says, grinning, ‘How was the date?’

'Well... it wasn't exactly a date.'

There was wine. Check. There was conversation. Check. But mainly between me and an egotistical artist, and not the date himself.

'I mean it was supposed to be a date, but we ended up putting up an exhibition. He's an art curator and the artist was really behind...'

Farrell moves over to peer into a cage where a baby rabbit is kicking up a cloud of sawdust.

‘Sounds like he was after free labour.’

‘No, it wasn't like that. Elliot was so apologetic...’