Christmas at the Cat Cafe Page 4

  I sat in the cardboard box, listening to the ceiling joists creak beneath Sophie’s thudding footsteps. I was aware of stirrings of disquiet in the pit of my stomach and a feeling of foreboding that life in the flat might be about to get worse. Debbie had directed her annoyance at Sophie rather than Linda, but I suspected she might be harbouring frustrations of her own. As I watched Debbie chew her way stoically through her superfood salad, I wondered whether, in fact, she didn’t much like quinoa, either.

  6

  Since Debbie had made the decision, a few months earlier, to close the café at weekends, Saturday mornings in the flat were usually a laid-back, leisurely affair. Debbie would stock up on pastries from the bakery, and she and Sophie would settle down on the sofa in their pyjamas, licking sugar and crumbs off their fingers while the kittens and I napped or washed nearby. The Saturday morning that followed the superfood-salad argument, however, did not begin in the customary relaxed manner. The effects of the previous evening’s conflict seemed to hang over the flat and its residents like a cloud.

  When I awoke at the foot of Debbie’s bed, I discovered she had already risen. I padded downstairs and found her in the kitchen, shooting impatient looks at the closed living-room door, while roughly stacking dirty plates in the dishwasher. When, some time later, Linda finally emerged in a state of puffy-eyed disarray, she found a frosty Debbie hanging damp laundry over the hallway radiator.

  ‘Morning, Debs. Can I do anything to help?’ Linda asked.

  ‘The dishwasher will need unloading,’ answered Debbie curtly. Linda rolled up her dressing-gown sleeves and headed diligently into the kitchen.

  A little while later, Debbie was extracting the vacuum cleaner from the hallway cupboard when the bell over the café door tinkled.

  ‘Deb, it’s me,’ shouted a man’s voice from downstairs. It was John, Debbie’s boyfriend.

  ‘Hi, John, come up,’ Debbie called over the banister.

  Feeling relieved, I padded across the hallway to meet him. John’s gentle manner was just what the flat needed on this rather tense Saturday morning.

  John hummed to himself as he made his way up the narrow staircase and smiled jovially as he rounded the top of the stairs. ‘Croissants,’ he said, handing a large paper bag to Debbie, before kissing her lightly. John was tall but stockily built, with sandy hair and a kind, freckled face. I had always liked him, not least because I had been instrumental in bringing him and Debbie together.

  ‘Come and meet my sister,’ Debbie said, leading John into the living room, where Linda was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper. ‘John, Linda. Linda, John.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Linda,’ John said, holding out his arm to shake Linda’s hand, whereupon Beau, who had been asleep on the rug, jerked awake in alarm at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. Upon seeing a strange man advancing, arm outstretched, towards his owner, Beau was unable to contain his guard-dog instincts. He leapt to his feet in panic.

  ‘Beau, stop it!’ Linda shouted over the animal’s frenzied barking. ‘I mean it, Beau!’ she pleaded ineffectually, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as Beau snarled and snapped around John’s ankles.

  John’s eyes crinkled into a smile as he regarded his furry assailant with mild surprise. Dropping to his haunches, he put a hand out for Beau to sniff. ‘At ease, fella. We’re all friends, here,’ he said placidly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, John, he’s not normally aggressive,’ Linda apologized, as Beau’s damp muzzle twitched across John’s fingers.

  ‘He’s just being territorial,’ Debbie cut in drily. ‘He’s a Lapsang Souchong, you know.’

  Linda shot her sister a look over the top of John’s head. ‘Lhasa Apso, Debs,’ she said crisply. ‘He’s a dog, not a cup of tea.’

  Reassured that John posed no immediate threat, Beau retreated to his corner of the rug. He lay down and lowered his chin onto his forepaws, but maintained his beady surveillance of John, lest his services as Linda’s bodyguard be required after all.

  The buttery smell of freshly baked croissants had lured Sophie downstairs from her bedroom for the first time since her ill-tempered departure at dinner. She hovered in the doorway, watching hungrily as Debbie piled them onto a plate in the middle of the dining table.

  ‘Morning, Soph, how are you?’ John asked warmly.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ she mumbled.

  While Debbie made coffee, John and Linda chatted at the dining table. Once John had established that Linda found Stourton charming and thought Molly’s was fabulous, Linda swiftly turned the topic to John himself.

  ‘So, Debbie tells me you’ve lived in Stourton all your life?’ she enquired, popping a chunk of croissant into her mouth.

  ‘Born and bred,’ John nodded.

  ‘And you’re a plumber, I gather,’ Linda probed.

  ‘That’s right. Did Debbie mention how her boiler nearly burnt the place down?’

  Debbie had just placed their drinks on the table, and she rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, all right, John – are you ever going to stop going on about that? Besides, if it hadn’t been for the boiler, you and I might never have met.’

  Whether it was the effect of the croissants or John’s good-natured presence, the residual awkwardness from the previous evening seemed to dissipate. Debbie looked more relaxed than she had done for days, and even Sophie seemed in no hurry to leave. Once all that was left of the croissants was a scattering of crumbs on the table top, Debbie drained her coffee cup and glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry to break up the party,’ she said, with a sombre look at John, ‘but we’ve got to get the cats to the vets.’

  I had long accepted that visits to the vet were a non-negotiable aspect of life as a pet cat and, though I didn’t exactly enjoy the experience, I never doubted that the long-term benefits outweighed the short-term discomfort. Jasper, however, had been born on the streets and had gone through life without ever experiencing the chill of the black examination table or the sting of the vaccination needle. His first-ever trip to the vet had taken place several months earlier, when he had begun to spend time indoors. Debbie had decided that Jasper deserved the same provision of care as the rest of us, and he had woken one morning to find himself being bundled into the cat carrier.

  The fact that Jasper’s first visit had resulted in him being neutered did nothing to endear the vet to him. When he had returned to the café after his ordeal, groggy from the anaesthetic, he had immediately taken refuge in the alleyway and proceeded to sulk for several days. Eventually, though, Jasper had realized that life would go on. In time, he had forgiven Debbie, although he retained his distrust of the vet, as well as his aversion to the cat carrier.

  So it was that, on the occasion of our annual check-up, John had been roped in to help round us up, and we found ourselves sitting in a row of carriers on the back seat of Debbie’s car. I shared my carrier with Eddie and Maisie; to our right, Purdy, Abby and Bella jostled for space; and to our left was a third carrier in which Jasper travelled alone, in bad-tempered isolation. I could make out his shadowy profile through the ventilation holes and, although he was silent, his resentment emanated through the plastic walls between us.

  Over the sound of Purdy’s frantic scratching, the occasional squeak of complaint from Abby and Bella as she trod on their tails, and Maisie’s meek mewing behind me, I tried to concentrate on Debbie and John’s conversation. They were talking about Linda.

  ‘She is starting to do my head in a bit,’ Debbie admitted guiltily.

  ‘Has she ever left her husband before?’ John asked from the passenger seat.

  Debbie shook her head. ‘Never. I thought she had the lifestyle she’d always dreamed of: manicures, personal trainer, skiing trips with her friends.’

  John raised his eyebrows. ‘Very nice,’ he remarked in a tone of diplomatic neutrality.

  ‘Ray’s the finance director for some marketing company in London. Linda used to work for him,’ Debbie explained. ‘He earns a fortune, though I always foun
d him as dull as ditch-water.’

  ‘Maybe money can’t buy you happiness after all,’ John said sagely, with the merest trace of a smile around his lips.

  Debbie tilted her head in agreement. ‘Apparently not.’ She steered the car around a large roundabout, and there was a chorus of scrabbling on the back seat as we all slid sideways inside our carriers.

  ‘Any kids?’ John asked, once the car had joined the main road.

  Debbie shook her head. ‘Only Beau,’ she joked, her eyes glinting as she glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘They never got round to it. Or at least that was the official version. Who knows what the real story is.’ After a week in Linda’s company, Debbie seemed relieved at being able to talk about her sister.

  ‘She’s lucky she’s got you,’ John said, turning briefly to face Debbie.

  She shrugged. ‘Linda’s got loads of friends, but they’re mostly the wives of Ray’s colleagues. They’re a gossipy bunch, from what I’ve heard. Linda would hate to think that her marital problems are the talk of north London.’ Debbie drove on, concentrating on the road ahead. ‘Sometimes I think I’ve been more of a mum to her than a sister,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘And since Mum and Dad moved to Spain – well, who else has Linda got . . . ?’ She trailed off, and John didn’t press her any further.

  The rest of the journey passed in silence, broken only by the sporadic yowls and mews from the carriers on the back seat.

  When John pushed open the surgery door I was immediately assailed by the smell of disinfectant.

  ‘Good morning,’ the receptionist trilled in a singsong voice, as we were lowered onto the grey linoleum floor.

  ‘Debbie Walsh. Check-ups for seven cats.’

  ‘Ah yes, Molly’s Cat Café,’ the receptionist smiled, scanning her computer screen. ‘Quite a job just to get them all here, I bet.’ She grinned, peering over her desk at the three carriers.

  ‘I’ve got the scars to prove it,’ Debbie replied, holding out her hand to reveal a livid red scratch left by Jasper in his struggle to evade capture.

  The receptionist winced in sympathy. ‘Take a seat, the vet won’t be long.’

  The young, enthusiastic vet seemed impervious to Jasper’s warning growls, which had risen in volume as soon as we entered the consulting room. ‘Who’s a handsome boy?’ she cooed through the wire door, undeterred by the high-pitched rasp issuing from inside. ‘Come on then, big boy, out you come,’ she coaxed.

  ‘Sorry, he’s always a bit grumpy when he comes here,’ Debbie apologized.

  Unable to lure Jasper out, the vet had no choice but to upend his carrier. There was a scraping sound of claws against smooth plastic, as gravity took its course and Jasper slid out, backwards, on the sheaf of loose newspaper that lined the carrier floor.

  On the examination table, Jasper’s hostility was replaced by a look of stoic resolve. He gallantly submitted to the vet’s ministrations, sitting motionless while she looked inside his ears and prised open his mouth to check his teeth, and did not even flinch when she briskly administered an injection between his shoulder blades. ‘Good boy, Jasper! All done!’ she exclaimed, giving him a congratulatory rub around the ears. He slunk back inside his carrier, to stare at her reproachfully through the wire door.

  One by one, the kittens and I endured the same procedure. Maisie, whose timidity was never more apparent than at the vet’s, trembled throughout; Abby and Bella clung together so insistently that the vet had to conduct their examinations in tandem; and Eddie was his usual placid self, gazing up trustingly at the vet and purring gratefully when she gave him a treat. Purdy, as usual, treated the whole experience as an adventure, leaping from the examination table to the vet’s worktop, where she strode brazenly across the computer keyboard to sniff at the electronic scales.

  Back at the café, Debbie unlocked our carriers and let out a long, relieved sigh. ‘Thank goodness that’s over for another year,’ she said to John, watching Purdy follow Jasper out through the cat flap.

  ‘I think we’ve earned lunch at the pub, don’t you?’ John replied, brushing Debbie’s fringe tenderly out of her eyes.

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ said Debbie. ‘I’ll just pop up and tell Linda.’

  I followed Debbie upstairs to the hallway, registering the laundry hanging over the radiator and the vacuum cleaner standing amidst Linda’s jumble of shoes. In the living room, the empty mugs and crumb-covered plates were still on the dining table, untouched since breakfast. When I saw Linda dozing on the sofa, with Beau snoring on the cushion beside her and the newspaper strewn messily across the floor, I felt my hackles instinctively rise with annoyance. Judging by Debbie’s sharp intake of breath, I suspected that, had she been a cat, hers would have risen, too.

  7

  Debbie stood in front of the sofa with her hands on her hips while, behind her, John hovered awkwardly in the doorway. When it became apparent their presence was not enough to wake Linda, Debbie strode forward and began to scoop the sheets of newspaper noisily off the floor.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I must have dropped off,’ Linda mumbled, pushing herself upright with her elbows and shoving Beau off the cushion with her bare feet. Catching sight of John, Beau barked groggily, but quickly rearranged himself on the rug to continue his nap.

  Any relief Debbie might have felt after spending time with John had been short-lived, and the fractiousness she had exhibited earlier returned. With pursed lips and a clenched jaw, she set about tidying the living room.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ Linda said, jumping up from the sofa and making for the table, where Debbie had begun to collect the dirty plates and cups.

  ‘No, it’s fine, thank you,’ she replied testily, before striding out of the room towards the kitchen.

  I watched from a distance as John and Linda exchanged an uncomfortable look.

  ‘I think I’ll take Beau for a walk,’ Linda muttered, pulling on her shoes. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said, giving John a friendly peck on the cheek. She picked up the sleeping Beau and carried him, bleary-eyed and disorientated, downstairs.

  John stepped across the hall and leant against the kitchen doorframe. ‘Why don’t you leave the tidying for now? It can wait till after lunch,’ he suggested hopefully.

  Debbie’s face remained closed as she rinsed the plates under the tap. ‘Actually, you know what, maybe we should just give lunch a miss today. I’ve got too much to do here,’ she said over the splashing of water in the sink.

  John’s shoulders drooped with disappointment. ‘Okay, well – if you’re sure?’

  ‘Really, I think I’m starting to get a headache anyway. I’d rather just get the flat tidy,’ she insisted.

  John gave a resigned shrug and leant into the kitchen to give Debbie a kiss, which she accepted without taking her eyes off the sink. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as he grabbed his jacket and made his way downstairs alone.

  As soon as the café door had closed behind him, Debbie heaved a sigh and gazed disconsolately around the kitchen. I pressed myself against her ankles in an effort to cheer her up, but she seemed too preoccupied to notice me. She pulled on her apron and set to work cleaning the flat: dusting, hoovering and mopping with ruthless efficiency. When she had finished and the dust-free surfaces gleamed, she sank onto the sofa.

  Not wanting to waste the opportunity for some one-to-one affection, I jumped onto her lap for a cuddle and purred ecstatically while she stroked me.

  All too soon we heard Linda’s footsteps on the stairs, and I felt Debbie’s muscles tense beneath me. Linda’s simpering, orange-toned face appeared around the living-room door.

  ‘Debs, I’ve got you something,’ she announced gaily.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Debbie replied in a tone which suggested that, whatever Linda had bought her, she was not expecting to like it.

  ‘It’s a NutriBullet!’ Linda proclaimed jubilantly, pulling a sizeable cardboard box out of a carrier bag and thrusting it at Debbie.

  ‘A nutri-what
?’ Debbie asked, blank-faced.

  ‘It’s a fruit and vegetable juicer. They’re brilliant! You can chuck anything in there. Skins, pips, stalks – the lot. It was in the sale,’ Linda added, as if this made the logic of its purchase unquestionable. ‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ she said, grabbing her sister by the hand.

  I had no choice but to jump down from Debbie’s lap as she was dragged from the sofa. She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched listlessly as Linda unpacked the stainless-steel gadget and placed it on the cluttered worktop, where it occupied almost half of the available surface area.

  Debbie eyed the device dubiously. ‘But, Linda, I’m not sure we really need—’ she protested.

  ‘Trust me, Debs. You’ll wonder how you ever lived without one,’ Linda said authoritatively.

  Debbie stared at the NutriBullet with sagging shoulders. ‘Linda, please stop buying us gifts. It’s not necessary,’ she began in a small, tight voice.

  ‘I know, Debs, but it’s the least I can do, to say thank you for putting me up,’ Linda riposted brightly.

  ‘But, Linda,’ Debbie persevered, ‘there’s no need for it, and it must be costing you a fortune—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Linda cut her short. ‘It’s going on Ray’s credit card.’ A look of triumph flashed in her eyes.

  Debbie took a short, exasperated intake of breath. ‘Well, even if Ray’s paying, it’s not necessary. In fact it’s making me uncomfortable.’ There was a pause as Linda absorbed her words.