Christmas at the Cat Cafe

‘You’re very welcome,’ Debbie replied, rubbing her back. ‘Oh, and if you don’t mind the commute, I’d love you to carry on working in the café. Paid, of course – no more slave labour. You’re a natural with the customers, and they’ve all been asking after you.’

Linda pulled away to look at Debbie. There were trickles of black on her cheeks where her mascara had run. ‘I’d love to, thank you,’ she replied, fresh tears springing into her eyes.

By the time Sophie returned home, Linda and Debbie had almost drained their second bottle of wine. They were on the sofa, giggling at some shared memory of their schooldays, with a sullen-looking Beau relegated to the floor by their feet.

‘Hi, Linda,’ said Sophie, coming warily into the living room.

‘C’m’ere, Soph,’ cried Linda, seizing her niece around the neck in a one-armed hug.

Sophie raised her eyebrows at Debbie over Linda’s shoulder, but her mother’s eyes wore the same glassy, unfocused look as Linda’s.

‘Auntie Linda and I have come to a desh . . . a desish . . .’ Debbie slurred. ‘We’ve sorted a few things out. She’ll be staying with us for Christmas, but—’

‘Your mum,’ Linda cut in, gripping Sophie’s upper arms and looking up into her face earnestly, if a little blearily, ‘is an angel!’

Sophie’s eyes widened and her lip curled up into a sardonic smile. ‘Okay, Auntie Linda,’ she murmured politely, ‘if you say so.’

26

It was past midnight when Debbie and Linda finally agreed it was time to turn in for the night. Beau watched drowsily from the rug as Linda cleared away the wine glasses and Debbie prepared the sofa-bed.

Returning from the hall cupboard with an armful of pillows, Linda stumbled over a shoe and, flinging one arm sideways to regain her balance, dislodged a mound of jackets from the coat rack. Hearing her sister’s yelp of alarm, Debbie abandoned her attempt to wrestle the duvet into its cover and staggered over to the door. She leant against the doorframe, giggling at Linda’s clumsy efforts to reunite the coats with their pegs.

‘Just leave them, we’ll sort it out tomorrow,’ Debbie hissed in a theatrical whisper.

Once Linda’s bed had been messily assembled, I followed Debbie as she swayed upstairs. She peeled off her clothes, threw them across the bedroom in the general direction of the laundry basket and dropped, face-down, onto the bed. When I jumped up beside her, she mumbled something indistinct and ran her fingers through my fur, but her hand quickly fell still as she drifted off to sleep.

Through a gap in the curtains, the moon threw a strip of light across the quilt and I lay awake for some time staring at it, mulling over the evening’s revelations. Now that I knew it was Linda who was being rehomed, and not me, I felt a little foolish. With the benefit of hindsight, I knew it was ludicrous to think that Debbie would consider giving me away; we had been through far too much together. I pressed closer to Debbie’s side and lowered my chin onto her outstretched fingers, purring with sleepy contentment.

When her alarm went off the next morning, Debbie sat bolt upright and looked around wildly, before batting the clock into silence. I chirruped at her, but she sank back on the pillows with a weak moan, shielding her eyes from the morning light with her arms. She had just drifted into a light doze when the relentless beeping started up again and, with a furious thrashing of limbs, she reappeared from beneath the duvet.

‘I know!’ she shouted, as if in mid-argument with some invisible adversary. ‘I heard you the first time.’ She grabbed the clock roughly and switched it off, before heaving herself out of bed.

The kittens were pacing the hallway, waiting for breakfast with their tails expectantly aloft.

‘Oh, all right, cats,’ Debbie said, treading a careful path between them and the pile of coats still lying on the carpet. She was squeezing out a cat-food pouch with an expression of mild nausea when the living-room door opened.

‘Morning,’ Linda croaked groggily across the hall. The pristine baby-pink cashmere sweater she was wearing looked somewhat incongruous against her sallow skin smudged with make-up, and her scarecrow hair.

‘Lovely top, Lind. One from Beau’s carrier?’ Debbie asked huskily, registering the telltale crease marks where the sweater had lain folded for the past few weeks.

Linda picked up the kettle and edged past Debbie to the sink. ‘Perhaps,’ she answered offhandedly, her cheeks flushing the same shade as her knitwear.