The next morning I found Fergus in the kitchen, clearing up the remains of the meal from the night before. He had swept up the fragments from the broken plate and had even put the kettle on and laid the table for breakfast. ‘Least I could do.’ He smiled bashfully. ‘I couldn’t help thinking you might like a hand. And I’m not sure you’re going to get any help from Jazz. She just stormed out into the garden, after I tried to explain that she would have to let us find a home for the cat.’ ‘What?’ I mumbled blearily. My brain was not fully in gear yet after the disrupted night I’d had. Even once Jazz and Bob-Cupid had finally gone downstairs, my poor traumatized kitten had refused to come down from the curtain pole and it had taken a lot of persuading to stop her hysterical mewling. I was bushed. I rubbed my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. Fergus leaned the broom he was using against the edge of the table and grabbed the dustpan and brush.
