cool cat [kate]

maida vale, london | december 2002

Halfway. He was halfway through painting the walls of what would be one of the guest bedrooms. Charlie stepped back to admire his handiwork so far, rubbing his forehead on his arm to stop the sweat from his forehead from dripping into his eyes – it was December, so by all rights he should be cold in the high-ceilinged, cavernous rooms, but Kate had every working fireplace burning in an effort to keep the house warm. Kate-warm, which was Charlie-fucking-roasting when he was doing something physical like this – but he’d learnt, rather quickly, not to complain about the temperature if he wanted to have a peaceful Christmas in London, rather than a circus sideshow in San Diego.

Charlie and Kate had employed tradies to get the worst of the work done before they’d moved in; they had bought the townhouse in a sad state before selling Charlie’s apartment in Fitzrovia, then – between touring and wedding planning and getting married and honeymooning – they hadn’t actually moved in until October, upon returning from Mexico. He still had some reservations about buying a place this big, knew why Kate wanted so many bedrooms, but he was also getting a garage and a basement rehearsal space out of it, so he was wilfully ignoring Kate’s future plans in favour of his present rewards.

He set the roller down on its tray and wiped his hands on his pants – foolishly, hadn’t bothered to get overalls so he’d just resigned himself to the fact these were now his ‘painting trousers’ and had subsequently worn them every day he’d been working – and made his way into the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. The living areas, bathrooms, and their master suite had been finished all before they had moved in – bar furnishing and decorative accents – so for the past two or so months they’d focused on getting the guest rooms done before Christmas.

Charlie had insisted upon doing the painting himself, while Kate followed after him decorating each room as it was done. They’d tackle the basement level after Christmas, because it wasn’t ‘urgent’, apparently – and he wasn’t arguing. Charlie grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the fridge, gulping it down quickly and immediately refilling it. He was enjoying this, more than he thought he would. He hadn’t yet had to try his hand at wallpapering, so maybe that was why he hadn’t lost his temper at anything, but it was a nice break. He was distracted, not thinking about the fact he hadn’t written anything good in weeks, hadn’t so much as picked up one of his guitars – they were all in storage until the basement was ready. When he was busy with working on the house, he wasn’t feeling guilty about not working on the next album.

With one hand on the countertop, Charlie looked out the large glass panels of the far lounge wall, into their back garden— where he could see Kate crouched over near the old shed that they hadn’t yet decided whether to demolish or reuse (again, it was winter, the outside wasn’t a priority). He frowned and lowered his glass, discarding it on the kitchen bench and slowly walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows to peer out at her. It was a nice day outside, clear blue skies, but it was crisp, so he couldn’t fathom why she’d be out there when she could be in here. Her back was to him and even through the double-glazing he could hear her mumbling as though she was talking to a… a baby. Oh, God. No… no no no.

He wrenched the patio door open and stepped out into the cool air. With effort, he kept his voice as level as he could, though it was definitely a little louder than he really needed to be, “Kate, what are you doing?”


@Kate Baker

Kate wasn’t clothed in her California getup on this chilly London day, in fact, she was in completely the opposite. It had certainly been a shock coming back from tour (often in warm places), Las Vegas and San Diego for their respective weddings, and Mexico to London in the almost-dead of winter. Christmas was coming soon, and the brand-new Bakers needed to have their brand-new (to them) home outfitted to their (Kate’s) standards before then. They’d discussed it already, and inviting both their immediate families for a more intimate housewarming time during the holidays just. Seemed to make sense.

Kate thought it was important: they were establishing themselves, both as young working people and a newlywed couple with their own home, and everyone--especially Kate’s family--needed to understand that. Charlie was a little bit older than she was, but she wasn’t a child anymore. How many women, or men, for that matter, were twenty years old and had done as well as she had for herself? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t had help from others, of course, but Kate wouldn’t allow herself to diminish the hard work she’d put in to make other people feel more comfortable, either. No matter how closely related. Charlie was her most important family now.

Many of the rooms in their house were complete: the kitchen, the bathroom, the spare rooms. There was still some work to be done in terms of painting, details, light fixtures--minor things. They’d both agreed the original character of the house needed to stay. The beautiful moldings and original hardwood floors weren’t going anywhere. One shouldn’t have misinterpreted, though--it had taken some work to convince Charlie this was the right place for them. Too many rooms, too big. Kate had argued: spacious, beautiful, no peeking neighbors, fully customizable, cheap for its size…

There was no doubt Kate thought it was just practically perfect in every way.

While Charlie was inside painting, Kate had put on a very dramatic pair of snow boots to brave the icy weather and run some errands in town for supplies they still needed. Complete with fleece leggings, gloves, and a peacoat, she felt confident she would only shiver a small amount, and that had been mostly true. Upon her return, she’d dropped the things off in the kitchen and slipped outside to take a look at the shed in the backyard. She considered using it for a garden shed, charming the inside to be a miniature house for her parents--

And then had heard the most concerning noise she had in months. Mewing. She immediately threw the door open and clattered around in the tiny outbuilding looking for the source of the crying. There, at the back of the shed behind all the rusty tools the previous owner had left behind, was a tiny, fuzzy, quivering kitten. Kate’s hands had a mind of their own as she reached out to pick it up, bringing it in close to her chest with high, soft cooing noises to try and calm it. Did it belong to someone? How had it gotten here? It couldn’t have been that old. She was sure it was hungry and thirsty. Her stomach swelled with maternal instinct. She had to take care of this baby. Kate talked to it mindlessly, whatever came to her mind, and jumped when she heard her husband shouting out the sliding door.

“Babe,” She said sharply, as though she’d been caught in the act of doing something bad. She crunched through the frosty grass to slip inside the house and moved her hands, enough for him to see what was in them, but not enough to drop the kitten. “Look. He was in the shed.” Kate didn’t know whether to squeal or weep. “Isn’t he cute? He needs help. He was just… crying and crying. And shuddering to death.”  The kitten’s head wobbled around on its neck as it looked around their home, which was markedly warmer than the weather outside, with its wide blue eyes.

Charlie blinked, then frowned as Kate approached him with a scowl of her own. He stood aside to let her in, then closed the door behind her – still frowning.

With some trepidation – more than was really reasonable – he peered forward to look into her arms. Shit. This was almost as bad as the alternative. Almost. He glanced up at Kate, then back at the kitten. It was cute, but it was also kind of mangy and gross. Charlie’s face said as much when he grimaced. “Should you be touching it?” he asked, in an unsympathetic voice. “What if it’s got like… I dunno, rabies or something?” A valid concern, judging by the state of it. Charlie had never had a pet growing up, and the closest he’d ever gotten to one was Sam’s toad (which was less of a pet and more of a sympathy vote, in Charlie’s opinion).

He took a step back; he was concerned for Kate’s health, obviously, but not so much that he was going to offer to hold it instead. He looked around their immediate vicinity; they needed a box or something to put it in, but all their boxes were upstairs with things in, and he’d have to throw out any kitchen bowl he put it in, which he’d rather not have to. 

Charlie looked back at Kate, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at the cat. “What do we do, take it to the RSPCA?” It took him a second to remember: firstly, that Kate was a witch, so likely wouldn’t know what the RSPCA was; and secondly, that she was American, so the chances of her knowing was reduced even further. “Like a… vet or something. Or a cat charity thing.” He explained. He’d even chuck them a couple of quid to disinfect it so it could get a new home, he was feeling charitable, it was Christmas – good timing, really, kittens were all the rage for presents weren’t they?

This hadn’t really been the reaction she’d been expecting--but perhaps that was an optimistic word to use; expecting. Hoping for? If she were honest with herself, the manner in which her husband was interacting with this tiny little life was closer to a realistic expectation. Kate found herself shrinking the still-shivering kitten further into her chest, and her brow furrowed, first in confusion about the RSPCA, and then even more deeply when she realized it was like… an animal shelter. Kate felt obligated to take care of this bitty fuzzy thing and nurse it back to the health it deserved (if it had ever really been safe and comfortable, she didn’t know).

“No,” Kate asserted, probably more sharply than was necessary, “we’re not taking him anywhere. I want to take care of him myself.” Kate petted the kitten’s head with the lightest amount of pressure possible. The cat was so small and fragile that she was a little bit frightened to hold it, but she also felt an overwhelming maternal desire to keep it safe and warm and fed.

“If he does go to the vet, then he’s going to come back with me.” Kate looked at her husband with a markedly decisive gaze and then softened, letting her shoulders relax with a slow exhale. “Please, just let me keep him? I’ll take good care of him.” She bit her lip. Why did she feel like she was asking a parent for permission?

Maybe if he touched the cat, she could change his mind. It seemed iffy, but the kitten was purring loudly now and maybe that would transcend the repulsion she saw all over her husband’s face. “Here,” Kate offered timidly, extending the baby to him by placing it close to his chest--and not really allowing him to give it back. “He’s purring,” She commented, as though it weren’t obvious.