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So, this is where Cat Dad lives.
I looked up at the building in front of me. Glass-encased balconies jutted from the medium-rise structure in a zigzag configuration, looking like something from the pages of an architecture magazine. I reached out and tugged the entrance door handle, but it didn’t budge. A suited-up doorman unlocked it for me and let me in.
The vaulted ceiling and chandelier lighting cemented my impression that this was a high-end apartment building. Cat Dad had to be wealthy to live in a place like this.
“Good afternoon, madam. Are you a visitor?” the doorman asked.
“I’m the new cleaner for apartment 8C.”
“Your name, please?”
“Jean.”
It was my middle name, and the name I was going by on the cleaning app. I didn’t want to use my real identity since I was still job hunting and prospective employers might see my profile.
“Right this way, please.”
He led me to the lifts and swiped a card to grant me access to level eight—the top floor. Up I went. When the doors opened, I stepped into a wide corridor, then continued around a bend to a door marked 8C.
Cat Dad wasn’t meeting me here, so I had to let myself in. I punched in the door code he had sent me, pushed open the door, then stared wide-eyed into the most luxurious apartment I’d ever seen in my life.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, showing off a spacious open-plan room with a kitchen, dining room, and two lounge areas. A staircase promised more rooms on the floor above, and a sliding door led to a rooftop patio and garden with a view of the Viaduct harbour beyond.
After a minute frozen in awe, I closed my gaping mouth and set my mind to the first order of business—locating the cats. He had two, according to his profile. I wanted to introduce myself to them.
After scouring the lower level to no avail, I ascended the stairs to a landing with two doors. Through the door on the left, I entered a home office furnished with a large desk and a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. No cats. I checked the other room—the bedroom, with a king-sized bed as the centrepiece and an armchair in the corner with a few pieces of clothing slung over it.
Bullseye.
Two cats lay cuddled up on top of the chair. Two tabbies. One dark brown, one grey. I advanced with my hand out to welcome sniffs of curiosity. The grey cat stretched and blinked at me, tail swishing. The other one was asleep, its fluffy white tummy rising and falling, whiskers twitching.
Sooo cute!
Neither of them seemed to mind my presence. After a couple of gentle strokes, I had to tear myself away not to lose any more time. Following the instructions Cat Dad had set out for me, I located the supplies in the entranceway cupboard and got to work, dusting and polishing every surface, then vacuuming the floors.
It took me longer than I expected because I kept stopping to look around, picking up on more details about the man who lived here. He had a walk-in closet full of suits, but also plenty of casual, comfy-looking clothing like hoodies, sweatpants, and sneakers. The bathtub in the ensuite was spotless, apart from a thin layer of dust, so I assumed he only used the shower. I could tell he didn’t live with a woman because there was nothing feminine anywhere, just men’s cologne, bars of soap, and shaving supplies. At a glance, there was no women’s clothing in the closets either.
Shelving units throughout the apartment heaved with books, and video game cases and controllers cluttered the space around the television. Reading and gaming seemed like major hobbies for him. Meanwhile, the kitchen appliances looked brand-new, showing that he wasn’t much of a cook.
Something on the kitchen bench caught my eye. A plain white envelope with Jean written on it.
I picked it up, ran a finger through the seal, and peeked inside. Two crisp twenty-dollar notes. I gasped. Didn’t this guy realise payments were supposed to be made through the app, not in cash? Or was this a tip? The amount was wrong, which supported the tip theory, but it was very high for a tip. Not to mention that tipping wasn’t the norm in New Zealand. But it had my name on it, and Cat Dad was obviously rich, so…
I slipped the envelope into my bag, and that was the end of that.
I had one thing left to do in the house—feed the cats. I opened the pantry to retrieve the cat food. The state of the pantry confirmed my earlier suspicion. The cupboard was bare apart from a packet of penne pasta, two tins of tomatoes, a container of muesli, two bottles of wine, and a small bottle of whiskey—all unopened. Two large sacks of cat biscuits took up the most space. I grabbed the one that was already open and poured two scoops into separate bowls. The grey cat padded over at the tinkling sound of the biscuits hitting the china bowl.
I watched the small cat crunch through the contents. After the kitty had had its fill, I reached out a hand to offer a pat. “Good kitty.”
The cat shied away at first, but with a little more coaxing, I gave a couple of long strokes down its silky back. The cat rubbed its damp nose on my hand, purring. I played with it for a while before it got bored and slunk out the cat flap leading onto the patio.
Thinking of the other cat now, I shook the bag of biscuits, trying to get its attention. No response.
Probably still asleep somewhere.
The apartment was clean, the plants watered, and the cats fed—well, one cat, at least. Time to pack up and go home.
Later that evening, as I cooked a pot of tomato soup on the stove, I received a notification on the cleaning app. Cat Dad wanted to book me for every second Tuesday on an ongoing basis.
