Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [58]
‘Yes, yes … I get the picture,’ butted in Miss Cavendish, waving faintly at me to stop. ‘So what do you propose doing about it?’
I showed her by clipping away the wet hair and smoothing in some anti-inflammatory cream. As I did so, a small, dark brown insect hopped across the area.
‘Ha ha!’ I trumpeted. ‘There’s our culprit … flea.’
‘A FLEA?’ Oh dear. Another blast of Bracknell. At this rate, she’d be word-perfect before the end of the consultation.
‘How dare you suggest Oscar’s got fleas.’ The tone remained very Bracknell. Very Wilde. ‘The very thought of it fills me with … with …’ Francesca Cavendish pounded her chest obviously searching for the appropriate dramatic expression of her disgust. Loathing? Horror? Abhorrence? Repugnance? The list was endless. But it seemed she was so choked with whatever she was filled with that the words failed to form; she just stood there, her lower lip doing its customary ventriloquist-doll-like jerking up and down, while her hand continued to beat her breast.
She finally managed to compose herself. ‘Show me …’ she demanded, ‘… the evidence. I want to see it with my own eyes.’
I parted some of the fine white hairs over Oscar’s back, down by his rump. With his pink skin, it was easy to spot the black flecks I’d been searching for. I picked out several and placed them carefully on the table.
Miss Cavendish leaned over and peered down at them. ‘If those are fleas why aren’t they moving?’ she said.
‘They’re not fleas,’ I said, dampening some cotton wool and squeezing a few drops of water on to the flecks. Streaks of red began to spiral out. ‘There’s your proof,’ I said. ‘Flea dirts.’
Francesca Cavendish reeled back, an entire thesaurus of disgust and loathing on her face. ‘That’s absolutely hideous,’ she said.
Hideous? Yet another adjective. And yes, it certainly highlighted her feelings. As for her dog’s feelings – his itchy, scratchy feelings – a couple of anti-inflammatory injections would ease those. With the first jab given, Miss Cavendish snatched the anti-flea preparation I gave her and promised to return within the week for Oscar’s second injection.
‘She’ll have to be told,’ said Lucy.
‘I know, I know.’ But I was dreading it. How on earth could I tactfully tell the woman the fleas weren’t living on Oscar – that they only hopped on to feed?
‘You’ll just have to be direct,’ said Lucy. ‘Take the lead.’
‘That’s all very well,’ I moaned. ‘But I’m no Clarke Gable. She’ll be gone with the wind if I tell her that her apartment’s infested with fleas.’
But it was more like Some Like It Hot when I told Francesca Cavendish. She went puce. She boomed ‘You’re telling me my apartment’s contaminated?’
‘In a manner of speaking …’
‘Out with it, boy. Yes or no.’
‘Yes.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. A theatrical pause. ‘I blame the previous tenants,’ she suddenly said. ‘They must have had a dog. That’s how the place got infested. And to think my poor little innocent walked straight into it. Seems most likely, don’t you agree, sweetie?’
Of course I was going to agree. Anything to persuade her to have the apartment treated. If she thought she wasn’t the guilty party, it made it all so much easier. Indeed, she was more than happy to follow my instructions. Yes, she’d thoroughly vacuum the carpets. She did that routinely anyway.
‘Of course,’ I murmured.
And yes, there was no problem in washing Oscar’s bedding. Well, her bedding, actually, her duvet and pillows, as he slept with her. But then that was always done once a week.
‘Of course.’
And spraying the entire flat with the long-acting flea spray would be no problem.
‘Of course not.’
It was all very well scripted.
As for the pashmina. She’d grown tired of it anyway. It could go to the charity shop. But she’d send it to the dry cleaner’s first?
Yes, of course.
‘Seems you’ve done her proud,’ commented Eric after overhearing Francesca Cavendish extol my virtues to a taciturn Beryl while paying the bill.
‘I wouldn’t want