Christmas at the Cat Cafe

Debbie said nothing, and began to apply make-up in front of the mirror again, acting as if Linda was not there.

I lowered my hind leg and repositioned myself into a neat loaf-shape on the bed, trying to process what I had heard. Linda’s reaction had unsettled me; the unmistakably envious edge to her voice when she addressed me had made me deeply uncomfortable.

‘So, what happens next?’ Linda asked at last, doing a poor imitation of indifference.

Debbie was applying mascara, but her shoulders drooped. ‘Well, obviously, I can’t accept it. Margery had a family. This is their inheritance, not Molly’s. I’m going to call her son David tomorrow.’

Linda chewed her bottom lip, fixing the back of Debbie’s head with a cold stare. ‘Are you sure you’re not being too hasty, Debs?’ she said silkily.

‘Quite sure,’ Debbie shot back.

Linda remained perched on the corner of the bed for several minutes. I sensed that she was hoping to continue the conversation, but Debbie’s back stayed resolutely turned towards her. Eventually, her impulse towards interference having been thwarted by Debbie’s determined silence, Linda slipped wordlessly out of the room.

They didn’t speak to each other again that evening. In fact, I had the distinct impression that Debbie was avoiding her sister. She spent longer than usual getting ready to go out and, as soon as she heard the tinkle of the bell over the café door, ran downstairs to meet John, rather than inviting him up to the flat. While Debbie was out, Linda prowled around the flat like a cat unable to settle. She made a half-hearted attempt to tidy her belongings in the alcove, fidgeted on the sofa with her phone and made herself a cup of herbal tea. Her twitchiness made me so uneasy that eventually I padded downstairs, deciding that I would rather share a room with a watchful Ming than with a fidgeting Linda.

I curled up on the café windowsill, troubled by a nagging suspicion that life was about to get even more complicated than it already was.

18

I was in a heavy sleep when Debbie and John returned to the café later that night, and the sound of the door being unlocked startled me. The substance of my dream vanished as soon as I opened my eyes, but I was left with a feeling of guilt and a vague sense that I had been responsible for some unidentified calamity. I shook my head briskly and allowed my eyes to settle on Debbie, who had lowered the window blinds and switched on a lamp behind the till, instantly imbuing the café with a soft yellow light. John returned from the kitchen with two tumblers and they clinked glasses, before sinking into the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

‘So?’ John began.

‘So – what?’ Debbie replied, a little tensely.

‘So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been on edge all evening?’ he enquired gently, in a voice that conveyed concern rather than criticism.

Debbie took a sip, staring morosely at the unlit stove. ‘Well, it’s this ridiculous legacy, of course,’ she sighed.

‘What’s ridiculous about it?’ asked John.

Debbie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Everything about it is ridiculous, John. Margery disinherited her son and left her entire estate to Molly. And now it’s up to me to sort this whole sorry mess out.’

I couldn’t help but smart at Debbie’s blunt appraisal of the situation, and the realization that I had unwittingly become the cause of such distress for her.

I had to squint to make out Debbie’s expression in the shadow cast by the lamp behind her.

‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ Debbie said, looking anxiously for confirmation in John’s face. ‘I mean, it’s out of the question that I could accept the money on Molly’s behalf. Isn’t it?’ Her tone was urgent, desperate even. Curled up on my cushion, I willed John to say he agreed with her, to advise her to decline the legacy, so that the matter could be settled as quickly as possible and we could put the whole affair behind us.

John gave a helpless shrug. ‘I don’t know what’s right or wrong in this situation,’ he replied evenly. ‘I didn’t know Margery, and I have no idea why she chose to leave her money to Molly. It might have been something she felt strongly about, before the dementia took hold . . .’ He trailed off, sensing that his words were not helping. Debbie turned away, looking as tortured as ever. ‘I think you need to do whatever feels right to you,’ he said at last.

At this, Debbie’s head swung back towards him, and annoyance flashed across her face. ‘But don’t you see, John, what feels right to me has got nothing to do with it. It’s about doing the right thing by Margery, and by her family. This money has nothing to do with me, or Molly,’ she said curtly, gripping her tumbler tightly.

John raised the fingers of one hand in a placatory gesture. ‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ he replied mildly.

Looking relieved, Debbie slumped back into her chair and took a sip from her glass.