Christmas at the Cat Cafe

At this, Debbie raised an eyebrow in a way that communicated – to me, at least – a wish for Linda to get to the point.

‘But the problem with your current business model, Debs, is that it’s just not scalable,’ Linda intoned gravely.

‘Scalable?’ Debbie frowned.

‘That’s right,’ said Linda. ‘It’s all well and good having a little café, Debs, but you really need to be planning ahead. These are tough times for small businesses, and you’ve got a lot of competition here in Stourton.’

‘What competition?’ asked Debbie, perplexed. ‘There aren’t any other cat cafés in Stourton – or anywhere else in the Cotswolds, for that matter.’

‘Not yet there aren’t,’ shot back Linda. ‘But how long do you think that will remain the case, once people start to get wind of Molly’s success? Do you really think you’re going to have a captive market of crazy cat ladies forever?’

‘I . . . I don’t . . .’ Debbie stammered, the wind taken out of her sails.

Linda shook her head sadly, with the air of someone being the reluctant bearer of bad news. ‘It’s a jungle out there, Debs, and if your business isn’t growing, it’s dying.’

Debbie’s composed neutrality had been replaced by a look of confusion, mingled with alarm. ‘But how can Molly’s be scalable? There’s only one Molly, and only one café. I don’t—’

‘Debs,’ Linda interrupted sternly. ‘Let me spell it out for you.’ Suddenly she spun round in her chair and looked straight at me. ‘What do you see over there in that shoebox?’ she asked, fixing me with a cold stare.

Mirroring her sister, Debbie turned to face me. ‘I see . . . Molly,’ she answered dubiously.

‘And what is Molly?’ Linda smiled.

Debbie paused. She wore the expression of someone who suspected she was walking into a carefully laid trap. ‘A cat?’ she asked.

Linda grinned; Debbie had given exactly the answer she was expecting. ‘She might be a cat to you, Debs,’ Linda observed loftily, ‘but to me, she’s a brand.’

Debbie and I stared at Linda with matching looks of utter incomprehension.

Linda flung one arm out, pointing at me with a chipped pink talon. ‘That cat, sitting over there in that shoebox, has brand potential.’ She was almost glowing with the fervour of her conviction. ‘Or, rather, her name does. Personally, I’ve always felt Ming would be a better brand-ambassador than Molly, but it’s too late to change the name now.’ At this, Linda gave a disappointed sigh as she contemplated the commercial glory that might have been, had the café been named after Ming rather than me.

Debbie looked dumbstruck, and my head was reeling. Very little that had come out of Linda’s mouth since she had uttered the words ‘business proposition’ had made sense to me. I didn’t understand about business models, captive markets or scalability. The only thing I was certain of, as I sat in the relentless glare of Linda’s professional scrutiny, was that I had absolutely no desire to become a ‘brand’. It was quite enough of a challenge just being a cat.

‘Think about it, Debs. Do you really want to still be clearing tables, and cashing up tills and . . . changing litter trays, in your sixties?’ Linda wheedled.

‘The cats don’t use litter trays,’ Debbie objected meekly.

‘You know what I mean,’ Linda retorted with a dismissive flutter of her beringed fingers. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to delegate some of the more . . . hands-on aspects of the job?’ She cast a sly glance in my direction, and I bristled at the implication that I was one such hands-on aspect.

Debbie opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no words came out.

‘Look, I know it’s a lot to take in,’ Linda said coolly. ‘There’s no rush to make a decision, but I think it wouldn’t hurt for you to start thinking about the future a bit more. After all, you’re no spring chicken, are you? You’ll be fifty in a couple of years, and your knees are already suffering from being on your feet all day, aren’t they?’

Debbie gave a reluctant nod.

‘Do you think you can carry on waiting tables until you retire?’ Linda pressed, with a tight-lipped smile.

Debbie shrugged submissively.

‘Nobody wants to think about growing old, but you’ve really got to start planning ahead, Debs. You know I’m right.’

Linda sat back triumphantly in her chair. Opposite her, Debbie’s head was bowed and she wore the hangdog expression of a chastised child.

‘With my help, Debs, we could build the brand together,’ Linda bore on. ‘Within five years there could be branches of Molly’s all over the Cotswolds.’

Debbie fiddled with her hair, gazing at the floor by her feet. ‘But, Linda,’ she said finally, ‘what if I don’t want to be responsible for a chain of cafés? It’s enough responsibility just keeping this one going.’

‘That’s exactly my point, Debs,’ Linda riposted brightly. ‘With me as your business partner, and a management team in place, you wouldn’t need to bother yourself with all the day-to-day responsibilities any more – you could delegate all of that.’