Christmas at the Cat Cafe

‘There’s no easy answer,’ Jo agreed. ‘But Linda is right about one thing. A bit of financial security for you and Sophie wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’

Debbie winced. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ she asked. ‘That’s what’s so horrible about this whole situation. Linda knows I’ve got no pension, and no one to depend on financially. She knows that thinking about the future terrifies me, and she’s using it to justify taking the money.’

Jo did her best to convey sympathy whilst simultaneously shovelling a handful of poppadum shards into her mouth.

‘If it makes you feel any better, Debs,’ she said, as they moved their meal over to a table and sat down, ‘I know exactly what you mean about financial security, or lack thereof.’

Debbie pulled herself out of her torpor and looked at her friend with concern. ‘Business still slow?’ she asked kindly.

‘Stourton’s changed, Debs,’ Jo complained. ‘My humble hardware shop isn’t in keeping with the place any more. We don’t fit in with all the beauty salons and designer boutiques and . . . cat cafés all over the place.’

Debbie poured out two large glasses of wine. ‘On behalf of the cat cafés, I apologize,’ she said sincerely, handing a glass to Jo. ‘But people will always need Hoover bags, surely?’ she asked hopefully.

‘That’s true, Debs, but they can get them from the market, can’t they? Just like they can get most of what I stock from the market.’

Debbie gave her friend a sympathetic look and there followed a sisterly silence while the two of them ate and drank.

‘I’ve got to be honest, Debs,’ Jo said gloomily. ‘If someone left Bernard money in their will, I’d think very seriously before turning it down.’ She managed a half-smile and took a gulp of wine.

‘Well, it could happen,’ Debbie replied, determinedly upbeat. ‘I’m sure there must be a rich benefactor out there somewhere, with a soft spot for arthritic Labradors.’

‘Arthritic Labradors who are slightly incontinent and a bit smelly,’ Jo clarified.

Debbie chuckled. ‘How is Bernard, anyway?’ she enquired.

Just as Jo had always taken an interest in me and the kittens, Debbie also felt an affectionate fondness for Jo’s dog.

‘Oh, he’s plodding on, bless him,’ answered Jo. ‘I took him to see my dad last weekend on the farm. They were like two peas in a pod, wheezing and limping around the yard together.’ She was smiling, but her eyes looked damp.

There was a sudden rattle and tinkle, followed by a gust of night air as the café door opened. Debbie and Jo both looked up, surprised by the unexpected interruption.

‘Oh, hi, sweetheart,’ Debbie said, twisting in her chair to see Sophie standing on the doormat. ‘You’re home early.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘My plans changed. What’re you eating?’ she asked, drawn towards their table by the spicy aroma of their food.

‘Indian. There’s plenty left. Why don’t you join us?’

Sophie stood beside them, considering the offer. ‘Okay,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a plate.

‘So how are you?’ Jo asked, when Sophie had pulled up a chair alongside them and set about heaping her plate with lukewarm curry. ‘I’ve hardly seen you recently.’

‘That’s because she’s hardly ever here!’ Debbie chipped in, with a pointed look at her daughter.

‘And why do you think that is, Mum?’ Sophie riposted drily.

There was a pause, during which Jo glanced from mother to daughter. ‘I guess it must be a bit . . . crowded . . . in the flat at the moment?’ Jo said diplomatically.

‘You could say that,’ replied Sophie, a distinct edge of bitterness to her voice. She tore off a chunk of doughy naan bread and dipped it into the sauce on her plate.

Next to her, Debbie had assumed a miserable expression and seemed to have sunk lower in her chair. Jo carried on eating, eyeing the pair of them surreptitiously.

‘So,’ Jo said, in a ‘changing the subject’ voice. ‘What do you think about Margery’s legacy, Soph? What do you think your mum should do?’ At this, Debbie’s body visibly tensed.

‘I dunno, really,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I think it’s a bit of a weird thing to do, leave all your money to a cat. But then I also think David sounds like a bit of a d—’

‘Sophie!’ Debbie warned.

Sophie rolled her eyes, continuing to muse on the dilemma as she chewed. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘that even if you’re not going to keep the money, you should string it out for as long as possible. Make David sweat over it. At the very least, that might teach him not to go around treating people like sh—’

‘All right, thank you Sophie,’ Debbie said sternly, sitting up straight to address her daughter.

‘She’s got a point though, Debs.’ Jo laughed. ‘It might not be such a bad idea to sit tight till New Year. Give yourself time to think about it, before you decide one way or the other.’

‘And prolong the agony even further?’ Debbie grimaced. ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to receive a court summons on Christmas Eve, if it’s all the same to you.’ She heaved a sigh and slumped back down in her chair with an air of self-pity.