Christmas at the Cat Cafe

On my cushion, I realized I had been holding my breath during their exchange. I exhaled deeply, relieved that Debbie had reached a decision she was happy with.

‘So did you really have no idea Margery was going to do this?’ John asked, looking at his tumbler as he swirled its contents lazily.

At this, Debbie frowned. ‘Of course not! How could I have known?’ she shot back, looking at him sideways.

John shrugged placidly. ‘I s’pose. It’s just that . . . you’ve spent a lot of time with Margery over the last few months. I thought maybe she’d have mentioned it to you.’ His tone was light, almost offhand, but in the shadowy café Debbie’s face seemed to darken.

‘No, I didn’t know anything about it,’ she said, enunciating the words carefully. ‘I never talked to Margery about her money, or her will. We talked about Molly and the café. That’s all.’

Sensing Debbie’s defensiveness, John stretched out an arm across the space between the armchairs. ‘Okay, okay, don’t worry – I was just wondering, that’s all,’ he reassured her.

Debbie glanced at his hand, which was resting awkwardly on the arm of her chair, but made no move to reciprocate the gesture. Instead she said coldly, ‘Wondering about what?’

‘I just meant—’ John began.

But before he could finish, Debbie interrupted him. ‘You just meant that surely I must have known Margery was planning to leave her estate to Molly. I’d spent all that time with her, how could I not have known.’ She glowered at him.

At this, John pulled his arm back towards himself protectively. ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all,’ he said, staring at his drink glumly while Debbie knocked back the contents of her tumbler in silence. The mood in the café, which had felt cosy and intimate, began to feel tense and oppressive.

I stared at the two of them helplessly. I was baffled by what had just happened: how they had gone from being in agreement that Debbie would decline the legacy, to this state of conflict in which John looked hurt and Debbie furious. I wasn’t even sure who had been to blame for the turnaround; whether Debbie had been justified in taking offence, or whether she had read suspicion into John’s words where there had been none. But I had witnessed enough arguments between Debbie and Sophie to realize that a stalemate had been reached, and that both parties were now too aggrieved to initiate a reconciliation.

Debbie yawned, then leant over to place her glass on the low table between the armchairs. John glanced at his watch and mumbled something about having to be up early. He leant over and gave her a perfunctory kiss, but there was no warmth in their touch. I could do nothing but watch as he picked up his coat and, without saying another word, left the café.

The following evening I watched through the window as a man made his way along the dark street towards the café. He carried a briefcase in one hand and pulled his anorak close to his body with the other. His head was bowed against the cold, and as he passed under a lamp post, he was hit by a gust of wind whipping down the parade. In the street light’s orange glow, a few strands of hair on his balding head appeared to dance around his ears. He pushed open the café door roughly and stood on the doormat, smoothing his errant hair back into place. I felt my stomach lurch uncomfortably in recognition.

‘Hello, David,’ Debbie said warmly, coming out of the kitchen. ‘I’m just finishing off. Take a seat and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

David grunted in response. Even by his usual terse standards, he looked particularly sour as he stood on the flagstones, rubbing his hands against the cold.

Spotting the flickering flames in the stove, he walked towards the fireplace. Behind him, a burst of giggling issued from the kitchen, as Debbie and the kitchen staff shared a joke. The happy sound was in stark contrast to the chill that emanated from David.

‘Thanks, ladies, see you tomorrow,’ Debbie said, locking the back door shut behind them.

David hung his jacket on the back of a chair and sat down. He was dressed in his habitual palette of beige and grey and, without his bulky anorak, his thin, wiry frame was more apparent.

I had remained motionless, lying low on my cushion so as not to draw his attention, but as he looked around the café, he noticed me. I held his gaze, determined not to avert my eyes, and eventually he looked away, the merest sneer of contempt playing around his lips.

‘Here we go,’ Debbie smiled, carrying a tray of refreshments to the table. David swung his briefcase onto his lap, popped the locks and pulled out a slim cardboard folder, ignoring Debbie as she carefully set the teacups and plate of cookies on the stripy tablecloth.

David placed the folder on his place mat and waited with pursed lips while Debbie, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, sat down on the chair opposite him. Then he watched, with barely concealed impatience, while she set about pouring the tea.