Christmas at the Cat Cafe

22

When Linda emerged from the bathroom the following morning, Debbie was waiting in the hallway for her.

‘John’s coming round for dinner tonight, Linda, so could you make yourself scarce this evening?’

I peered around the kitchen doorway to watch them. Adjusting her makeshift towel turban, Linda looked taken aback. ‘No problem,’ she replied compliantly.

‘Great, thanks,’ said Debbie, heading briskly into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.

Later, when Sophie finally wandered down from her bedroom, puffy-eyed and pale-faced in her pyjamas, Debbie patted a dining chair and beckoned for her to sit down. She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged moments later with a plate of sticky pastries and a mug of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.

‘There you go, Soph. Sugar and carbohydrate. The best-known cure for a broken heart,’ she said, lowering them onto the table.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Sophie said, breaking into a smile. ‘Did I hear you say John’s coming over tonight?’ she asked, licking icing off her fingertips.

‘Yep,’ Debbie said decisively. ‘I took the advice of my ever-so-mature seventeen-year-old daughter’ – Sophie smiled bashfully – ‘and texted him this morning to invite him round, to say sorry for how I’ve been behaving recently.’

Sophie looked quietly impressed. ‘Good on you, Mum,’ she said approvingly, taking a noisy slurp of hot chocolate through the swirls of whipped cream.

After breakfast, Sophie retreated to her bedroom, Linda took Beau out for a walk, and Debbie set about tidying the flat with a look of resolute industriousness. I watched from the sofa as she ruthlessly disposed of piles of newspapers, emptied wastepaper baskets and cleared the dining table of its accumulated clutter. Eyeing the mound of Linda’s belongings, she marched over to the alcove and shoved as many of her sister’s clothes as possible inside the suitcase. When it was full to bursting, she forced it shut and pushed it roughly against the wall next to the pet carrier. Then she dusted the surfaces, and pushed the Hoover around with a look of grim determination. Finally satisfied, she fell heavily onto the sofa next to me. ‘That’s better, isn’t it, Molls?’ she panted.

The evening started well. Following her sister’s instructions, Linda had gone out and – an added bonus – had taken Beau with her. I padded around the pristine flat, enjoying the change in atmosphere occasioned by their absence. In the living room the lights were dimmed, candles flickered on the table and music played softly on the stereo. Debbie had done a thorough job with the air freshener, and any lingering trace of Beau’s musky odour was masked by the artificial scent of freesias. Stalking from room to room, I felt a glimmer of territorial pride; for the first time in ages, the flat felt like our home again.

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.