Debbie and Sophie were in the kitchen when John appeared at the top of the stairs, freshly shaved and smelling of aftershave. He handed a bunch of flowers to Debbie in the hallway, which she accepted with a modest blush.
‘Hi, Sophie,’ John said through the kitchen doorway, surprised to find Sophie microwaving a meal for herself. ‘It’s not like you to be home on a Saturday night.’
Debbie, who was filling a vase with water at the sink, glared urgently at him, shaking her head in warning.
‘I . . . er, sorry . . .’ John stammered, nonplussed.
‘It’s all right,’ Sophie said, sounding sanguine. ‘I split up with Matt yesterday is what Mum’s oh-so-tactfully trying to tell you,’ she explained.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ John said sincerely, watching Sophie tip her microwaved dinner onto a plate. ‘Tell you what, Sophie,’ he said, ‘I’ve done a few plumbing jobs for Matt’s mum, so I know where he lives. If you want me to go round and break his legs, just give me the nod.’ John tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
‘Thanks, but I don’t think any leg-breaking is called for,’ Sophie answered drily.
‘Or, at the very least, I could tamper with his central heating. Make sure he’s freezing cold over Christmas,’ John suggested.
‘Thanks, I’ll think about it,’ Sophie replied with a coy smile, filling a glass of water at the tap and placing it next to her plate on a tray. ‘Have fun,’ she said to them both, heading out of the kitchen and up to her room.
I followed Debbie and John across the hall to the living room and jumped onto the sofa while they began to eat. I closed my eyes, soothed by the sound of their voices and the clink of cutlery. The ambience in the clean, candlelit room was so calm that in no time I had dozed off, and had just drifted into a dream when I was startled awake by the sound of Linda’s voice.
‘It’s only me, Debs, I’m just dropping Beau off,’ she called up the stairs.
The tranquil atmosphere was shattered when, seconds later, Beau came skittering into the living room, leapt onto the sofa cushion opposite me and began to scratch furiously. I glowered at him, but he was too busy scratching even to notice my look of disgust.
When Linda appeared at the living-room door, John stood up courteously, but Debbie remained seated, pointedly ignoring her sister, while continuing to eat her dinner.
‘Don’t mind me, I’m not staying. I just wanted to drop Beau off before I meet my friends,’ Linda explained, with an anxious glance at Debbie. ‘How are you, John?’ she said warmly, accepting John’s polite kiss on the cheek.
‘Good, thanks,’ John murmured in reply.
Linda hovered in the doorway, taking in the romantic intimacy of the scene. John stood next to her, smiling awkwardly, while Debbie continued to glower at the table. The silence was broken only by the sound of Beau’s teeth knocking together, as he scratched at his cheek with his hind paw.
‘Well, I’ll be off then. Nice to see you again, John,’ Linda said cheerily, determined not to acknowledge the tension in the air. She zipped up her quilted jacket and fished in her pocket for her car keys. Turning to leave, she said casually to John, ‘Maybe you can talk some sense into Debbie about this legacy business.’
There was a loud clatter as Debbie let her fork fall against her plate. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, her eyes seeming to darken as she turned to look at her sister for the first time. ‘What does that mean, Linda – “talk some sense into me”?’ she asked, with a steely coldness.
‘I just meant I thought it might be helpful for you to talk it over with John, to see what he thinks,’ Linda blustered defensively.
Debbie glared at Linda with unmistakable anger. ‘No, Linda, what you meant was: maybe John could convince me to keep the money.’ It was a statement rather than a question, but Linda shook her head vehemently. Debbie’s eyes shifted to John. ‘My sister finds the idea of turning money down difficult to comprehend. She always has.’
John, who was standing just inside the living-room door, equidistant between the sisters, looked at his shoes in embarrassment.
‘Deborah! How dare you!’ Linda gasped, a flush of outrage rising in her orange-tinged face.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Linda. Please, just be honest,’ Debbie’s voice was strident now. ‘You want me to accept the legacy, and you’re hoping John will persuade me to do so.’
Linda looked hurt, but she instinctively drew herself up straighter. ‘I do think you should accept the legacy, Debbie, but only because I think you should honour Margery’s wishes,’ she said piously.
‘Pah!’ Debbie snorted. ‘That’s rubbish, and you know it. The only reason you’re so keen for me to take the money is because you want to build a business empire with it. You can’t bear the fact that I’ve made a success of Molly’s without your help. Now you want to muscle in on my business to launch your brand’ – she lingered mockingly over the word – ‘and you want to use Margery’s money to pay for it.’ Debbie’s face was rigid with anger.
Linda’s mouth had formed an ‘O’ of scandalized outrage. John looked as if he would rather be anywhere else than caught in the sisters’ crossfire.
‘I don’t know why I’m surprised,’ Debbie continued bitterly. ‘All you’ve ever cared about is money.’
‘Oh, well, that’s just charming,’ retorted Linda sharply, rallying now that her initial shock had subsided. ‘I’ve been working in the café – unpaid, I might add – for weeks now. I never heard you complain when I was scraping dirty plates and loading dishwashers for you. I never asked for a penny in wages, did I? If I’d known this was how you felt, then quite frankly I wouldn’t have bothered.’
‘That’s not fair, Linda! We agreed you would work downstairs in exchange for staying here,’ Debbie countered.
‘Yes, and I’ve been working my backside off, haven’t I?’ riposted Linda fiercely. ‘Not just being your skivvy and waitress, but doing everything in my power to help market and promote the café. I’ve got you press coverage, I’ve devised marketing campaigns, merchandising . . .’ At this, Debbie let out a derisory snort and I knew she was thinking about Ming’s Mugs.
Linda’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not going to deny, I hope, that since I launched the Ming marketing campaign, the café’s taken more money?’ she said reprovingly.
Debbie groaned. ‘That’s exactly my point, Linda,’ she answered shrilly, banging her hand on the table with sufficient force to make Beau stop scratching and look at her. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? Ming is a cat, not a marketing opportunity. And, whether you like it or not, Molly is a cat too, not a brand.’ Debbie’s eyes were blazing with conviction. ‘Everything’s about money for you, isn’t it?’ she went on fervently. ‘You turn up here, expecting me to take you and Beau in indefinitely, and I’m not allowed to challenge it because some of your ideas have brought in a few extra quid to the café.’
When the telephone rang, John looked visibly relieved. He darted across the room to pick up the receiver, placing a hand over his other ear.
Still standing in the doorway, listening to her sister give voice to her pent-up frustration, Linda’s eyes had become glassy. ‘Well, if I’d known that was how you feel, Debs, I would never have come here. My marriage had broken down, in case you’d forgotten, and I had no one else to turn to. It’s all right for you, with your lovely café and cosy flat. Life’s not all cupcakes and kittens for everyone, you know. Some of us have real problems to deal with.’
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.
‘He left,’ Debbie answered listlessly.
‘What do you mean he left? Did you have a fight with him, too?’
Debbie shook her head. ‘I’m not sure what happened. One minute he was standing between me and Linda, looking like he wished the ground would swallow him up, and the next minute he’d vanished. He must have gone while we were arguing,’ she said in a flat, expressionless voice.
Sophie leant back against the sofa arm, frowning. ‘Have you tried to call him?’ she asked with an air of no-nonsense practicality.
Looking faintly surprised, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her, Debbie craned forward, reaching over me to fish her phone out of her handbag. She tapped at the screen, then held it to her ear, biting her lip nervously. ‘It’s just going to voicemail,’ she said, before leaving a brief message: ‘Hi, John, it’s me, could you give me a call when you get this?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mum,’ Sophie reassured her, as Debbie tossed the phone back into her bag.
‘He might have thought he was getting in the way and wanted to give you some privacy.’
‘Hmm, I’m not so sure, sweetheart,’ Debbie smiled thinly. ‘I think he’s probably had enough of me and my sister. And who could blame him?’ She tried to muster a watery smile.
Sophie was beginning to look pained, as though she had exhausted all the avenues of reassurance she could think of and was struggling to come up with something else to say. ‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’ she asked at last.
Debbie smiled appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Soph, that would be lovely.’
When Sophie had placed the two mugs of tea on the coffee table, she grabbed the remote control and curled up alongside Debbie. Leaning back against the sofa arm, with her feet pressing against Debbie’s thigh and her toes touching my fur, Sophie flicked through the television channels. I stretched out lengthways on Debbie’s lap and rested my chin on her knees, purring steadily as she absent-mindedly stroked my back. I closed my eyes and indulged in the blissful fantasy that Linda was gone for good and I would never see her again. I lost track of time, as I hovered deliciously between consciousness and sleep for what might have been a few minutes or a few hours, until the sudden slam of the café door reverberated through the flat.
I jerked awake and instinctively sank my claws into Debbie’s legs in alarm. ‘Ow, Molly!’ she exclaimed, sucking air between her teeth as she gently unhooked my embedded claws, one by one, from her knees. ‘Hello?’ she called in a pained voice, shifting forward on the sofa under me.
Disorientated, I looked around, noticing that the candles had burnt down considerably since I had last noticed them.
‘Debbie, it’s me. You might want to come down.’ It was John. Something in the tone of his voice made my heart lurch.
Debbie and Sophie exchanged surprised looks above my head and we all scrambled to our feet and made for the stairs, Debbie in front, followed by Sophie, with me at the rear. I was still in the stairwell when I heard Debbie gasp, ‘Who is it?’ Feeling my pulse start to race, I ran down the remaining steps and onto the flagstones.
John was standing on the doormat, unwinding a scarf from his neck. In a split second I noticed the cat carrier on the floor by his feet. Debbie ran forward and crouched in front of the carrier, fumbling to unlock its door. I felt strangely detached, as if I was watching the scene unfold from a distance, or in a dream. When Debbie flung open the door, there was a faint rustle of newspaper and a glimpse of black fur inside. Then, slowly, nervously, Eddie crept out.
He looked around warily, glancing first at Debbie, then at Sophie. Then, at
last, his eyes found mine. In an instant, I saw a succession of emotions flash across Eddie’s face: relief, shame and happiness – all conveyed in the look he gave me across the flagstones.
I felt a wonderful soaring sensation in my stomach. As Eddie began to walk gingerly towards me, I devoured him with my eyes. What struck me most was his height – I had forgotten how large and grown-up he was. During his disappearance, whenever I had pictured him in my mind, it had been as a gangly kitten. Seeing him in front of me, I was reminded that, outwardly at least, there was nothing kittenish about the rangy tomcat coming towards me.
His bulk was another surprise. I had convinced myself that Eddie would be half-starved after so long on the streets, and yet I saw no hollow cheeks, no protruding hip-bones or concave flanks. Wherever he had spent the past few weeks, I realized with a rush of relief that he had found food. One of his ears bore a fight scar, and his fur looked a little dull and scantily groomed. Other than that, he seemed unhurt; his gait was strong and his eyes as bright as ever.
He stepped closer and his wary expression softened, as if my proximity was bringing out his vulnerability. When Eddie sat down in front of me, he lowered his head and looked up submissively, just as he had when he was a kitten expecting a telling-off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Feeling my throat tighten and my eyes tingle, I leant towards him, allowing our noses to touch, before nuzzling my face into the fur of his neck. I closed my eyes, the better to allow my sense of smell to glean all it could about where Eddie had been. He smelt of hedgerows and damp earth, but also of furniture polish and log fires and people.
‘Molly, look.’
I opened my eyes, fleetingly annoyed by the interruption. Across the café, Debbie was beaming at me, one arm extended, her finger pointing across the floor. I followed her arm and saw that, sitting in front of the open carrier, with a look of paternal satisfaction, was Jasper. I stared at him in stunned disbelief and, when he blinked slowly, his amber eyes twinkling, I thought for a moment that my heart might burst with happiness.
Christmas at the Cat Cafe Page 15
