‘I’m at theclinique vétérinaireon Rue Pierre Picard. They have Minou under observation for another couple of hours to rehydrate and then he’ll be discharged. There’s no point coming now as they’ve got Minou sedated. Meet here at eight p.m. and you can take him home tonight. Our custody arrangement can commence when I return in a couple of weeks?’
I smile at the thought of us sharing the regal minx. ‘Perfect.’
‘I’ll get him a cat bed and food so you can go straight home with him this evening.’
‘Wonderful. And I suppose we’ll need to formally adopt him?’
‘Oui. I’ll handle that here.’
We chat for a while about precisely what a cat might need and make a plan to split the costs involved. We say our goodbyes and I pocket my phone and apologise to Benoit for keeping him waiting.
I fill him in on the situation, figuring he only heard one side of the conversation, and am surprised to find my eyes fill with tears when I tell Benoit about Guillaume finding Minou hurt by the cemetery gates.
Benoit gives my arm a rub. ‘It’s awful to think of an animal being hurt, but he must be a clever cat to have made his way to the cemetery gates so he could be found.’
‘Oui, and luckily found by Guillaume. I can’t wait to see Minou, but I can’t pick him up until eight this evening.’
‘Then we must have an early dinner. Have you been to La Moulin de le Galette before?’
I find Benoit quietly beautiful, a gentle soul. He radiates a certain calm that’s helpful when I’m feeling so worried about Minou. ‘I haven’t but I’d like to.’ Once upon a time, Montmartre was an agricultural area, with many working windmills. Very few remain, and one of those has become the façade for La Moulin de la Galette. Many tourists go in search of the so-called lost windmills of Montmartre having seen them in famous paintings by the likes of Van Gogh and Renoir.
The word ‘Moulin’means ‘mill’. Most visitors associate that with La Moulin Rouge, the iconic red windmill on the Boulevard de Clichy, home to the famous cabaret show in the red-light district of Pigalle.
‘Then it’s a date.’ His smile fades. ‘Uh, I mean, it’s a…’
I laugh, enjoying the way he blushes and stumbles when he’s nervous. ‘It’s OK. I know what you mean.’ We walk side by side, making our way to the restaurant that’s well known for its epicurean delights. We pass through the famous Place de Tertre, the artists’ square, where painters and portrait artists are doing a bustling trade. You can commission an artist to draw a likeness or buy their paintings, and it’s always awash with tourists who peruse the art or sit in a café sipping wine and admiring the artists as they paint or sketch.
‘I take it you don’t have any other pets?’ Benoit asks as we navigate our way around the busy square.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I grin.
‘Hah. Just that you asked Guillaume what time to put the cat to bed.’
‘Right. And now I know Minou will decide his own bedtime.’
Benoit laughs. ‘You could alwaystryand keep a schedule.’
‘Minou might like knowing what his days will consist of,’ I joke. I’m going to be responsible for another living creature when I misplace my phone all the time.
‘I’m sure he’ll love living with you.’
‘Minou is my favourite, even though he keeps his distance and is haughty and distrusting. That probably stems from once being domesticated and then having to survive in the wild. Sometimes the cemetery cats are adopted but I’ve never really agreed with the idea, mostly because they seem so happy there, lazing on the tombstones, soaking up the sun, and who are we to judge which option is better? But with his safety in doubt, the choice is much easier.’
Benoit grabs my elbow to steer me out of the way of a man holding a glass of wine aloft, oblivious to splashing from the sides of the glass as he gesticulates wildly. ‘He might prefer the safety of a steady home. I take it from your British-accented French that you haven’t always lived in Paris?’
‘Oui.My dad is British and Maman French, so I spent my formative years going back and forth because they could never agree where to put down roots. I attended university in England and then I moved back to Paris for good. Last year my parents moved back to London because my dad was missing his family. I know it won’t be long and they’ll come back because Maman will insist.’
‘You preferred Paris?’ When we’re out of the thick crowds of the square, he slows his pace.
‘I love both countries, but Paris has my heart. And now I’ll have cat responsibilities to keep me occupied. What about you, have you got any pets? Any words of wisdom for me?’
He takes my elbow to steer me around a corner. I’m surprised to find my arm tingles at his touch. ‘I have a rather large dog, Hugo, who I inherited from my wayward brother. Like you, I never intended to be a pet owner, but one look into those puppy dog eyes and the choice was made for me. And, as for tips, it’s always an adjustment and you just have to roll with the fact they’re now in charge.’
I laugh at the idea an elderly grumpy cat will try and take charge. Somehow I can’t quite see that being the case. ‘You have a wayward brother? Why did he give Hugo to you?’
Benoit looks up to the sky as he lets out a long sigh. ‘My brother has always been a handful. He makes these spontaneous decisions and then abruptly changes course. He adopted Hugo and in the next breath announced he’d decided to take a year off to backpack around the world.’ He shakes his head at the memory. ‘Oh, and could I loan him some money for the trip because it was a now or never thing, and also could I care for Hugo because he didn’t want him to go to just anyone?’
I laugh. ‘And did you loan him the money?’
