Christmas at the Cat Cafe Page 13

  ‘Well, what just happened with David has given you time to think, at least. The way I see it, David just showed you who he really is, which is a thoroughly unpleasant bully.’

  Debbie gave an acquiescent shrug. ‘So?’

  ‘Well,’ Linda went on, ‘I’m starting to wonder if there was a reason why Margery didn’t want him to inherit . . .’ She trailed off, directing a significant look at her sister.

  Debbie’s brow furrowed. ‘What are you saying, Linda? That he bullied his mother? That he . . .’

  Linda hunched forward, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘I don’t know that for sure, Debbie. How could I? All I’m saying is, maybe it would be wrong to dismiss Margery’s wishes out of hand.’ Her face was full of fervour, and two spots of pink had appeared in her cheeks. ‘There might have been more going on in that family than you realize. Margery may have had good reason for not wanting to leave her estate to David.’ Linda raised her eyebrows and gave a slow, emphatic nod.

  A look of panic started to spread across Debbie’s face. ‘Oh, God,’ she cried pitifully. ‘Oh, Linda, why did you have to say that? Now I really don’t know what to do!’

  Linda sat back again and glanced down at Beau, who had been staring longingly at her lap since being dislodged from the sofa cushion. Taking her look as a tacit invitation, he bounded onto the sofa, making a nest for himself in the space between the sisters. Debbie had stopped rocking and was staring blankly into the middle distance as if in a trance, while Linda picked at her chipped nail varnish. Between them, Beau seemed blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around him; he cocked one leg sideways and began licking his genitals noisily.

  In the shoebox, my tail twitched with frustration. It should have been me sitting on the sofa beside Debbie, not Beau, and I should have been comforting her, rather than Linda. My calm, purring presence would have soothed her far more than Linda’s glib reassurances and dark speculations. Admittedly, I could not tell Debbie how proud I had been of the dignified way she had handled David, or that I knew that what she felt about Margery had nothing to do with money. But I was confident that, without saying a word, I could have done more to help her than Linda.

  It was only Sophie’s unexpected appearance at the top of the stairs, and her blasé announcement that she would be home for dinner, that seemed to lift Debbie out of her trance. She disappeared into the hallway to greet her daughter and was soon ensconced in the kitchen, preparing a meal for the three of them.

  For several days after David’s visit the atmosphere in the flat was stiff with tension. Debbie seemed preoccupied, as if she were present in body, but not in spirit. She didn’t mention Margery, David or the legacy at all, and steadfastly ignored Linda when she attempted, with varying degrees of subtlety, to talk to her about it. Linda found numerous ways to ask the same question, always in the same casual voice – ‘Have you heard anything more from David?’, ‘Has the solicitor been in touch?’, ‘Have you thought any more about what I said?’ – and ‘Nope,’ Debbie answered flatly each time, before standing up to leave the room.

  Linda’s frustration at her sister’s stonewalling grew more apparent over time; her silent eye-rolls gave way to tuts of annoyance, until on one occasion she called pompously, ‘You can’t bury your head in the sand forever!’ at Debbie’s retreating back. To no avail. With Debbie stubbornly refusing to talk about it, Linda had no choice but to let the issue of the inheritance drop, and Margery’s legacy became a taboo subject around the flat.

  It occurred to me one morning, as I watched them eating breakfast in silence, that there were now so many issues being avoided by the sisters that it was a miracle they found anything to say to each other at all. Like Margery’s legacy, the question of when Linda would move out also remained out-of-bounds; Debbie had either forgotten the promise she’d made to Jo, or was simply too taken up with Margery’s legacy to contemplate revisiting the subject. Sophie continued to spend no more than the bare minimum of her time in the flat, but this too was something that Debbie seemed reluctant to address openly.

  Eddie had been missing for over a month, but his and Jasper’s continuing absence was similarly never mentioned, although I heard Debbie call their names into the alleyway every morning, and I knew she missed them keenly. As if that weren’t enough, my fear that John would decide he’d had enough of us seemed to have been proved right. Almost a week had passed since Debbie and John’s last date-night, when things had turned sour over the issue of the legacy. As far as I was aware, they had not spoken since.

  All of which meant that conversation in the flat consisted of little more than discussing the day-to-day concerns of the café, and deciding what to have for dinner. Linda tried to cheer Debbie up one evening by suggesting that they buy a Christmas tree for the café.

  ‘Mmm, not just yet, Lind, it’s still a bit early,’ Debbie replied apathetically.

  ‘Come on, Debs, it’s only a few weeks away. Show a bit of festive spirit! It’ll be good for business,’ Linda urged, but Debbie was not to be persuaded. The fact that Christmas was looming ever closer was something that she, like me, seemed unwilling to acknowledge.

  Her plans for a tree may have been thwarted, but that did not stop Linda doing her best to impose a festive mood on the café by stealth. She filled the table vases with sprigs of holly and, one morning, I discovered she had pinned a string of fairy lights around the window frame overnight.

  ‘Don’t worry Debs, they’re very tasteful,’ she reassured her sister, as I sniffed disapprovingly at the plastic stars looped around my cushion.

  A couple of days later, Linda returned from the market brandishing a large bunch of green foliage.

  ‘Look, Debs,’ she said excitedly, ‘some mistletoe to go above the cat tree. I’m going to hang a photo of Ming from it – we can call it Ming-istletoe!’

  ‘Whatever you say, Linda,’ Debbie replied wearily. She watched with folded arms as Linda clambered onto a chair and attempted to fasten the mistletoe to one of the ceiling beams. She had been fiddling around with string and drawing pins for a few moments, craning her neck awkwardly, when Debbie said with a mischievous smile, ‘If we’re going to have Ming-istletoe, Linda, surely we should also deck the halls with boughs of Molly?’ There was a moment’s silence, during which Debbie bit her lip to conceal a smile.

  ‘Hmm, I suppose we could,’ Linda replied vaguely. ‘Why don’t you take charge of that, Debs?’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ Debbie replied primly, heading back into the kitchen.

  The following day, Linda came bustling through the door just after closing time. ‘Guess what I just found in the pet shop?’ She grinned, swinging a plastic carrier bag onto the counter.

  Debbie wandered closer as Linda pulled the bag open and rooted around inside.

  ‘A Santa hat – for a cat!’ she exclaimed, pulling out a miniature Christmas hat from the bag. ‘Isn’t it just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?’ The red, pointed hat was fringed with white fur, with a fluffy bobble at the tip. ‘Look, there are slits for the ears – isn’t it just hilarious?’ she preened, holding the hat up for Debbie’s approval.

  Debbie sighed. ‘Yes, Linda, it’s very cute, but do you really think any of the cats will wear it?’

  Taking this as a challenge, Linda spun around in search of a cat to model her purchase. Purdy happened to be striding across the café on her way to the cat flap, and was shocked and distinctly unamused to find herself scooped under the belly by Linda and carried across the room. This should be interesting, I thought, when Purdy was plonked ignominiously on the counter. She had begun to growl before Linda had even removed the item from its cardboard packaging and, when she lowered the hat towards Purdy’s head, her growl turned into high-pitched shriek of warning. ‘Come on now, Purdy, be a good girl,’ coaxed Linda. Purdy’s ears were pressed flat against her head and the whites of her eyes were showing.

  ‘Linda, I really don’t think—’ Debbie warned, but it was too late.r />
  Linda, smiling rigidly, placed one hand around Purdy’s shoulder blades to steady her, and began to lower the hat over Purdy’s flattened ears with the other hand. There was a furious explosion of hissing and spitting, then Linda swore loudly, dropped the hat and yanked her hands away from Purdy. ‘Ow!’ she shouted, sucking her bleeding knuckles. Purdy leapt down from the counter and streaked across the café to the door. ‘That cat’s vicious,’ Linda complained, glaring at the swinging cat flap through which Purdy had fled.

  ‘No, Linda, she’s not vicious,’ Debbie explained patiently. ‘She’s just a cat. There’s a reason why you don’t tend to see cats wearing hats. They’re not big fans of hats, as a rule.’

  ‘Huh,’ Linda grunted, picking up the rejected item from the counter. ‘Well, maybe that’s true of some cats. But I bet Ming would wear it,’ she said ruefully. She glanced across the room at Ming, who was curled up sound asleep on her platform. ‘Although Ming’s ears are so big, I’m not sure they’d fit through the holes,’ Linda said disappointedly, waggling her bloodied fingers through the slits in the felt.

  The corners of Debbie’s mouth began to curl upwards. ‘Maybe, when it comes to pet costumes, Beau might be a little more . . . compliant?’ she suggested.

  Linda said nothing, but returned her clenched fist to her mouth, sucking her knuckles solemnly. Debbie stood opposite her at the counter, struggling to supress a smile. Linda looked at her reproachfully. ‘’S’not funny,’ she said, her words muffled by the fistful of knuckles in her mouth.

  Debbie’s shoulders started to shake and she bit hard on her lip. ‘Sorry, Lind, it’s just – you should have seen your face!’

  Linda removed her hand from her mouth. ‘Debbie, don’t laugh. It really hurts!’

  Debbie’s upper body was now shuddering with laughter and a sudden snort escaped from the back of her throat. ‘Santa hats for cats! You really don’t know very much about cats at all, do you?’ she squeaked, while Linda glared at her. Debbie placed one hand over her mouth and stared fiercely at the till, doing everything she could to bring her fit of giggles under control.

  Still sucking her injured hand, and with a look of hurt disappointment, Linda turned away from the counter and stomped upstairs.

  Wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, Debbie picked up the discarded hat and dropped it into the bin.

  I blinked at her approvingly, and not just because she had thrown the wretched hat away. For the first time in a long while, Debbie had found something to laugh about. The fact that her laughter had been at Linda’s expense made my pleasure all the sweeter.

  20

  ‘Deb, there’s another letter here from the solicitor,’ said Linda, picking up the morning’s post from the doormat. Placing the envelope bearing the solicitor’s insignia uppermost on the pile, she handed the mail to Debbie.

  Debbie regarded the letter warily, as if it were a grenade at risk of exploding in her hand. ‘I’ll deal with that later,’ she muttered, tucking it on the shelf beneath the till.

  Linda moved between the tables, ostensibly refilling the sugar bowls, but watching her sister keenly out of the corner of her eye.

  Later on, upstairs in the flat, Debbie was in the kitchen when Linda slipped in after her. ‘What did that letter from the solicitor say?’ she asked, gathering cutlery from the drawer.

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t opened it yet,’ Debbie admitted, then added morosely, ‘It’s probably a court summons.’

  ‘Of course it’s not a court summons, Debs. Don’t be ridiculous,’ Linda tutted. ‘You can’t put off dealing with it forever, you know,’ she chided.

  From my vantage point in the hallway, Linda’s legs blocked much of my view, but when Linda shoved the cutlery drawer shut with her hip, I glimpsed Debbie twitchily brushing away her fringe – a nervous habit that I had begun to notice in her with increasing frequency of late.

  ‘Have you thought about what I said, Debs, that maybe Margery—’ Linda continued, but Debbie stopped her before she could finish.

  ‘Yes of course I’ve thought about it, Linda,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve thought about very little else for the last week or so.’ Although her face had disappeared behind her sister’s body, there was no mistaking Debbie’s defensive tone.

  Linda produced the unopened solicitor’s letter from her back pocket. ‘Well, come on then – there’s no point prolonging the agony,’ she said decisively, holding the letter out.

  I heard Debbie sigh, followed by the sound of ripping paper as she tore the envelope open.

  ‘Well?’ Linda sounded impatient.

  ‘It’s not a court summons,’ Debbie answered, sounding relieved. ‘They’re just asking me if I’ve made a decision about the legacy. Impressing upon me the urgency of having the matter resolved quickly.’

  Linda tapped the cutlery against the side of her thigh. ‘Hmm, I bet David’s behind that,’ she said shrewdly. ‘He must be all over the solicitor like a rash.’

  ‘Well, I guess he just wants to know what’s going on,’ said Debbie meekly. ‘Which is fair enough, I suppose . . .’

  Linda snorted dismissively. Turning on her heels, she strode past me, gripping the knives and forks tightly, like a weapon.

  No sooner had Debbie brought their food through and sat down at the table than Linda turned to face her. ‘Now, Debbie, there’s something I’d like to put to you,’ she said, with an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Sounds ominous,’ Debbie remarked.

  ‘Well, it’s a business proposition, actually,’ Linda explained.

  Debbie assumed an expression of polite curiosity while, in my shoebox, I wondered what new item of Ming-based merchandise Linda was about to suggest.

  ‘I’ve been working in the café for a while now,’ Linda began, somewhat pompously, ‘and, as you know, I’ve been trying to bring the benefit of my marketing expertise to the role.’ The merest flicker of a sardonic smile passed across Debbie’s face as she inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I’ve been thinking hard about Molly’s – its strengths and weaknesses – and where it can go from here.’ Again, Debbie gave a single nod. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong,’ Linda went on, ‘the café is fantastic. It’s popular, the cats are great and, most importantly, it’s making money.’

  At this, Debbie raised an eyebrow in a way that communicated – to me, at least – a wish for Linda to get to the point.

  ‘But the problem with your current business model, Debs, is that it’s just not scalable,’ Linda intoned gravely.

  ‘Scalable?’ Debbie frowned.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Linda. ‘It’s all well and good having a little café, Debs, but you really need to be planning ahead. These are tough times for small businesses, and you’ve got a lot of competition here in Stourton.’

  ‘What competition?’ asked Debbie, perplexed. ‘There aren’t any other cat cafés in Stourton – or anywhere else in the Cotswolds, for that matter.’

  ‘Not yet there aren’t,’ shot back Linda. ‘But how long do you think that will remain the case, once people start to get wind of Molly’s success? Do you really think you’re going to have a captive market of crazy cat ladies forever?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t . . .’ Debbie stammered, the wind taken out of her sails.

  Linda shook her head sadly, with the air of someone being the reluctant bearer of bad news. ‘It’s a jungle out there, Debs, and if your business isn’t growing, it’s dying.’

  Debbie’s composed neutrality had been replaced by a look of confusion, mingled with alarm. ‘But how can Molly’s be scalable? There’s only one Molly, and only one café. I don’t—’

  ‘Debs,’ Linda interrupted sternly. ‘Let me spell it out for you.’ Suddenly she spun round in her chair and looked straight at me. ‘What do you see over there in that shoebox?’ she asked, fixing me with a cold stare.

  Mirroring her sister, Debbie turned to face me. ‘I see . . . Molly,’ she answered dubiously.

  ‘And what is Moll
y?’ Linda smiled.

  Debbie paused. She wore the expression of someone who suspected she was walking into a carefully laid trap. ‘A cat?’ she asked.

  Linda grinned; Debbie had given exactly the answer she was expecting. ‘She might be a cat to you, Debs,’ Linda observed loftily, ‘but to me, she’s a brand.’

  Debbie and I stared at Linda with matching looks of utter incomprehension.

  Linda flung one arm out, pointing at me with a chipped pink talon. ‘That cat, sitting over there in that shoebox, has brand potential.’ She was almost glowing with the fervour of her conviction. ‘Or, rather, her name does. Personally, I’ve always felt Ming would be a better brand-ambassador than Molly, but it’s too late to change the name now.’ At this, Linda gave a disappointed sigh as she contemplated the commercial glory that might have been, had the café been named after Ming rather than me.

  Debbie looked dumbstruck, and my head was reeling. Very little that had come out of Linda’s mouth since she had uttered the words ‘business proposition’ had made sense to me. I didn’t understand about business models, captive markets or scalability. The only thing I was certain of, as I sat in the relentless glare of Linda’s professional scrutiny, was that I had absolutely no desire to become a ‘brand’. It was quite enough of a challenge just being a cat.

  ‘Think about it, Debs. Do you really want to still be clearing tables, and cashing up tills and . . . changing litter trays, in your sixties?’ Linda wheedled.

  ‘The cats don’t use litter trays,’ Debbie objected meekly.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Linda retorted with a dismissive flutter of her beringed fingers. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to delegate some of the more . . . hands-on aspects of the job?’ She cast a sly glance in my direction, and I bristled at the implication that I was one such hands-on aspect.

  Debbie opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no words came out.

  ‘Look, I know it’s a lot to take in,’ Linda said coolly. ‘There’s no rush to make a decision, but I think it wouldn’t hurt for you to start thinking about the future a bit more. After all, you’re no spring chicken, are you? You’ll be fifty in a couple of years, and your knees are already suffering from being on your feet all day, aren’t they?’