Christmas at the Cat Cafe

I could picture Linda’s face as she considered the invitation, lips pursed, jaw set, still smarting from the humiliation of their last encounter. After a short silence, however, a tinny chirp down the line indicated assent.

My stomach gave a strange jolt. I was certain Debbie was planning to tell Linda about her meeting with David, but I would have to wait until the evening to hear what she had decided to do.

With a whole day to fill before Linda’s arrival, I crept downstairs and headed out onto the parade. Christmas was now only a week away, and as I trotted along the cobbled streets I was jostled on all sides by harassed-looking shoppers laden with carrier bags. I hadn’t even reached the end of the parade when a sudden hailstorm struck, and my body was pelted with icy pellets that stung, even through my thick fur.

I ran back to the café and rushed through the cat flap. Inside, the kittens had picked up on the excited air of festivity and were more skittish and boisterous than usual, chasing each other up and down the zigzag walkway, and making the customers shriek with laughter. But in my fretful state I couldn’t face the ebullient atmosphere, so I kept my head down and slunk between the tables to the stairs. Finally finding some peace and quiet on the living-room sofa, I spent the day dozing and washing, watching the light levels change outside the window as the hours dragged by.

It had been dark for some time when Debbie finally came upstairs at the end of the day. She allowed herself a few minutes to recover, slumped on one of the dining chairs rubbing her knees, before busying herself in the kitchen. I paced the living-room floor agitatedly, both dreading and longing for Linda’s arrival.

About twenty minutes later, the tinkle of the bell and the opening and shutting of a door downstairs made my heart lurch.

‘Hi, Debs, it’s me,’ Linda called from below.

I smelt Linda before I saw her, my nose tingling at the cloying scent of her perfume, which preceded her up the stairs. My body tensed as Beau came bounding into view around the banisters, with his pink tongue hanging out. He darted past Linda’s legs with a slightly deranged look, skidded into the living room and gleefully began to smear his damp snout along the edge of the sofa cushions. Firing a withering look at him, I prowled out of the room, keen to keep within earshot of the sisters’ conversation.

Debbie emerged from the kitchen with a look of determined good cheer. ‘I’m just dishing up,’ she said brightly, taking Linda’s coat and hanging it on the rack.

‘Great,’ Linda replied, mirroring her sister’s rictus smile.

When they carried their meals through to the dining table, I followed at a discreet distance, glancing sideways at Beau, who was proprietorially ensconced on the sofa cushion. His beady eyes tracked my progress across the rug, and I read some sort of victory in his look, but did my best to ignore him as I climbed into the shoebox. My attention was focused on the other side of the room, where the sisters had sat down on either side of the dining table and started to eat.

They didn’t seem to know what to say to each other at first, and when they did at last speak, they made awkward small talk.

‘The café’s looking lovely. Very Christmassy,’ Linda began politely.

‘Thanks,’ Debbie replied.

A pause, then, ‘Where’s Sophie this evening?’

‘She went Christmas shopping with friends. They’ve probably gone for a burger.’

I was acutely aware of the clink of their cutlery, and the rattle of Linda’s bracelets every time she lifted her glass.

‘So, where’ve you been staying?’ Debbie asked, with the slightly tense air of someone who knew she was straying onto dangerous territory.

‘With friends,’ Linda replied airily.

‘Anyone I know?’ Debbie persisted.

Linda kept a closed face, but I saw her jaw tightening as she answered, ‘Just an old college friend.’ She took a sip of wine, hesitated, then said, ‘Although, with Christmas so close, I think I’m in danger of overstaying my welcome.’ She kept her eyes firmly on her wine glass as she returned it to the table. ‘I seem to be making a habit of that, at the moment,’ she added wryly.

This comment seemed to be the cue Debbie had been waiting for. She lowered her fork and looked attentively across the table. ‘Linda, I don’t mean to pry, but . . . what’s going on? Have you spoken to Ray?’

Linda pushed her food unenthusiastically around her plate. ‘I’ve heard from his solicitor,’ she replied, her voice brittle.

‘Has it got to that stage already?’

Linda reached for her glass. ‘Yup. Looks like I’ll be spending Christmas as a homeless divorcee,’ she said, taking a long gulp of wine.

Debbie hunched forward. ‘Look, Linda. I met David a few days ago, to talk about Margery’s legacy.’

Linda winced. ‘Debs, let’s not go over that again,’ she pleaded. ‘You were right – it’s none of my business what you do with that money. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’