The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

For a while they both looked at the floor. Finally, Serena said, “Kind of puts the spice-packs thing into perspective. Doesn’t matter what Franc thinks if I’m not even working here.”

“You d-d-don’t know that.” Sam’s authority had deserted him.

“That was the deal. I’m just a caretaker. A stopgap. When we made the agreement, I was planning to go back to Europe.”

“Why don’t we phone him?”

She shook her head. “It’s his right, Sam. His business. I guess this was always going to happen.”

“Perhaps we can ask around. Could be just a rumor.”

When their conversation concluded I continued to the top shelf and settled down in croissant pose. Although she hadn’t been here for long, Serena had brought a warmth and vibrancy to the café that made it even more special. That she might have to leave was something I didn’t want to contemplate, especially with all that was going on up the hill.

The next day I was at the café early again, having slipped out of Jokhang in case the Cat Strangler returned. When Serena arrived for the day, I could tell that the news wasn’t good. She approached Sam, who was shelving a new delivery of books, and told him what had happened at yoga class the evening before. One of her fellow students, Reg Goel, who was one of McLeod Ganj’s best-known property agents, was keeping an eye on Franc’s house while he was away. As they were returning their bolsters, blankets, and wooden bricks after class, Serena had asked Reg if he had heard from Franc.

Oh yes, Reg had replied breezily. He had been at Franc’s place that very morning to oversee the removal of dustcovers from the furniture, the return of house plants to their proper places, and the restocking of the pantry and fridge. Franc had called him last week. He was due back any day.

Serena had been so shocked that she had hardly known what to say. She hadn’t felt in any mood to stay for the postyoga tea session. As it happened, Sid had been in the hallway at the same time, and seeing the expression on her face, he had asked her if anything was wrong.

To her embarrassment, she had started to cry. Sid had shielded her discreetly before anyone else could see and had walked her back to the café. She had explained to him that the arrangement with Franc had only ever been temporary and that his return would mean she would be out of a job.

Shortly after ten the next morning, who should arrive at the café but Sid. I didn’t recognize him at first, having only seen him in his yoga clothes. As he stood in the doorway, tall and elegant in his dark suit, he emanated a certain poise that was almost regal.

Serena approached him, gesturing her surprise and delight at his appe

arance.

“Actually, I came to see you,” Sid explained, leading her to the back of the restaurant and the banquette that Gordon Finlay had favored in times gone by. It was the perfect place for a private conversation.

“I’m sorry I made an idiot of myself last night,” Serena told him, after they were seated and had ordered coffees from Kusali.

“Don’t say that,” Sid told her protectively. “Anyone in your position would have felt the same.” He looked at her closely for a while, eyes filled with concern. “I’ve been giving some thought to your situation. If the worst were to happen and you found yourself without a job, you would still want to stay in McLeod Ganj, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded. “But that may not be possible, Sid. I need a job—and not just any job. I used to think that working in one of Europe’s top restaurants was all I ever wanted. But the longer I stay here, the more I realize that it wouldn’t really fulfill me. I’ve discovered other things that reward me in more important ways.”

“Like the curries and spice packs?”

She shrugged. “All a bit hypothetical now, isn’t it?”

He leaned against the banquette. “Or is it?’”

Her forehead wrinkled.

“I remember you telling the yoga group how popular the spice packs had become,” he said. “How you had to take on a new employee just to handle the orders.”

“He’s in there right now,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the kitchen. “An order for another two hundred came in overnight.”

“My point exactly.”

“But if I’m not working here …” She trailed off, not following him.

“You also said that Franc doesn’t want to continue with the curries and so on.”

She nodded.

“What I’m thinking,” Sid said, “is that if he returns as manager and keeps to his usual menu, it wouldn’t be a conflict of interest for you to continue manufacturing spice packs.”

Her eyes widened. “But where?”