Christmas at the Cat Cafe

If Linda had hoped this would elicit sympathy from her sister, she was mistaken. ‘Real problems?’ Debbie repeated sarcastically. ‘Linda, the only problem you’ve ever had to deal with is how to spend your husband’s money. My God, you’re still doing it now! Do you think I haven’t seen the stash of shopping in Beau’s carrier?’ At this, Linda blushed deeply, but Debbie wasn’t done yet. ‘If you want to know about real problems, you should have tried walking in my shoes for the last few years. My ex-husband left me bankrupt, with a teenager to bring up on my own, remember?’

Linda looked close to tears, but Debbie showed no sign of relenting; the resentment that had been simmering for weeks had erupted in an unstoppable tide of bitterness and recrimination. ‘You’ve been the same, Linda, ever since we were little. You’ve always had a knack for getting other people to bail you out. First it was Mum and Dad, then it was Ray. Now that well is running dry, you can’t wait to think of ways to spend my money instead!’

While she was in full flow, John slipped wordlessly past Linda to the hallway, leaving the sisters alone. As the argument had gone on, I had braced myself for histrionics from Linda, of the kind I had witnessed when she first moved in, but in fact she assumed a look of stoic forbearance.

When she finally spoke, her voice was eerily calm and her face expressionless. ‘So it’s your money now, is it, Debs? I thought you said it belonged to Margery’s family.’ There was a pause, during which Debbie blushed a deep pink. ‘Maybe we’re not so different after all, Sis,’ Linda said coldly.

‘I didn’t mean . . . I know it’s not . . .’ I could tell Debbie was horrified by her slip of the tongue.

The tension between them was palpable, although apparently not to Beau, who, his itch satiated, had fallen asleep and begun to snore on the sofa cushion.

‘Fine,’ said Linda suddenly. ‘If that’s the way you feel, then I won’t impose on your generosity any longer.’ She strode across the room and grabbed her suitcase from the alcove. ‘Come on, Beau!’ she shouted.

Waking with a groggy bark, Beau stared wildly around him, as Linda scooped him up. Dragging the suitcase clumsily behind her, with the bewildered dog tucked under her arm, she walked, with as much dignity as she could, across the room.

In the doorway, she looked back over her shoulder. ‘Of course, legally, the money isn’t yours or Margery’s. It’s Molly’s,’ she sneered, shooting a spiteful glance at me. ‘Maybe you could save yourself a lot of heartache by asking Molly what she’d like done with it.’

Before Debbie could answer, Linda was gone. Debbie could do nothing but stare at the empty doorway, listening as Linda’s suitcase thudded heavily down the stairs behind her.

I felt my heart thumping in my chest. I was furious that Linda had spoiled Debbie’s chance to make amends with John, and livid that she had used me as a weapon in their argument. But, underneath my anger, what stung most was the sickening realization that Linda was right. Whether I liked it or not, Margery had left her money to me. All the upheaval of recent weeks – from the encounter in the café with David, to the argument with John, and this evening’s showdown with Linda – had come about because it had fallen to Debbie to decide what to do about it. There was no denying that Margery’s legacy to me was the primary cause of Debbie’s anguish. The way I saw it, if anyone was to blame for Debbie’s suffering, it was me.

23

As soon as the café door slammed shut, Debbie burst into tears. She staggered to the sofa and dropped down next to me.

‘Oh, Molly, what a complete and utter mess,’ she cried.

Outside, the wind had picked up and the windowpanes rattled ominously in their frames. I climbed onto her lap and began to knead at her legs with my front paws, gazing up into her face and purring. I was desperate to do whatever I could to comfort her, although in truth I knew I was powerless to help.

After a couple of minutes I heard Sophie’s soft tread in the hallway. ‘Mum?’ she said, peering anxiously around the living-room door. Her long blonde hair was loose and she was wearing her pyjamas and slippers. With a look of tender concern, she shuffled onto the sofa next to us. ‘What just happened?’ she asked.

‘Linda just happened,’ replied Debbie wanly. ‘When she started talking about Margery’s legacy, something snapped inside me. I told her exactly what I thought, as you said I should, Soph. You should be proud of me.’

‘I am proud of you, Mum.’ Sophie laughed. ‘But couldn’t you have picked a better time to tell her? This was meant to be your romantic night with John, remember?’

Debbie had covered her face with both hands. ‘I know,’ she groaned through her fingers. ‘I didn’t plan for it to happen like this! Linda promised to stay out for the evening.’

Sophie looked around the room, taking in the plates of half-eaten dinner lying on the table. ‘Where’s John?’ she asked, sounding troubled.