Christmas at the Cat Cafe

Debbie stood squarely behind her sister, taking deep, calming breaths. When at last she spoke, I detected a tremor of suppressed anger. ‘Linda, you don’t seem to understand. This is a café, not a . . . Ming theme park!’

A brief silence, then, ‘Well, you could get some made of Molly too, if you like,’ answered Linda airily.

‘That’s not the point!’ Debbie snapped.

Linda finally turned to face her sister. Her mouth was fixed in a defiant smile, but two spots of pink had appeared on her cheeks.

‘This is a cat café,’ said Debbie, with a dismissive gesture towards the box of mugs on the armchair, ‘not a . . . crockery warehouse. I’m sorry, Linda, but these mugs are . . . tacky.’ She picked up one of them and studied the offending item closely. ‘Besides, haven’t you noticed? It looks like it says “Ming’s smug”.’ Debbie held the mug up and pointed at the hashtag with a look of exasperation. ‘Who would want to buy the merchandise of a smug cat?’

Linda looked momentarily crestfallen, then she turned wordlessly back to face the mantelpiece. ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel. You’re the boss, after all,’ she muttered churlishly. She began to dismantle the pyramid with pursed lips, the mugs chinking against each other as she carelessly looped them over her thumbs.

Once she had repacked the box, she heaved it into her arms and made her way awkwardly towards the door.

‘I guess I’ll just have to give these to a charity then,’ Linda said loftily. Balancing the box between one hand and a raised thigh, she wrestled to unlock the door with her free hand, struggling for a couple of minutes, until Debbie walked over and opened the door for her. ‘Thank you,’ Linda mumbled grudgingly. She shifted the weight of the box between both arms and then, with her nose in the air, she and her mugs flounced out of the café.

The atmosphere between the sisters remained tense in the aftermath of the mug debacle. On Friday, Linda rushed upstairs straight after the café closed, and there was a note of triumph in the way she announced that she was to spend the evening with friends.

Debbie smiled politely. ‘Have fun!’ she called to her sister’s back as it disappeared down the stairs. But she breathed a loud sigh of relief as soon as the café door slammed shut.

A little later that evening Jo turned up with a takeaway, and Debbie and I trotted downstairs to meet her. My spirits immediately lifted at the sight of Jo’s mop of curly hair and jovial face at the bottom of the stairs. Her down-to-earth personality was in sharp contrast to Linda’s tendency towards drama and self-pity, and she could always be counted on to help Debbie see the funny side of any situation.

It didn’t take long for Debbie to begin to offload her frustration with Linda. ‘I mean, you should have seen these mugs, Jo,’ Debbie complained, grimacing as she poured out two glasses of wine. ‘I’ve never seen anything so hideous in my life. The photo made poor Ming look like a cross-eyed freak!’

Jo had crouched down to stroke Purdy on the flagstones. Jo was affectionate towards all of the kittens, but had long-ago singled out feisty Purdy as her favourite. Her brown curls were shaking with laughter. ‘Not so much “Ming’s Mug” as “Ming’s Ugly Mug”, by the sound of it.’ She grinned as Purdy rubbed against her knees. ‘I wish you’d kept one to show me – they sound hilarious.’

She stood up and took her glass from the countertop, while Purdy contentedly climbed the wooden walkway up to the cat hammock.

‘Maybe Linda just got carried away, after the Fortune Cookies went down so well,’ Jo suggested diplomatically, taking a sip of wine.

Debbie shrugged. ‘Maybe. I can’t decide whether she’s a marketing genius or a total fruitcake, to be honest. Either way, she’s doing my head in.’

Jo watched shrewdly as Debbie lifted a stack of foil trays out of the bag and placed them on the counter. ‘If she’s really doing your head in, you could always move into John’s place,’ she said, a mischievous smile playing around her lips. On the window cushion, my ears pricked up.

‘Funny you should mention that,’ answered Debbie quietly. ‘John said the same thing.’

Jo did a dramatic double-take over her wine glass. ‘Really? When?’ Her eyes glistened with excitement, but Debbie was already shaking her head.

‘A couple of weeks ago, but I said no.’

‘Why?’ Jo squealed, dropping disappointedly onto a chair. ‘Surely that’s the obvious solution? It’s the natural next step for you two; plus it would give you some space from Linda.’

Debbie’s face clouded and she braced her arms against the wooden worktop for support. ‘But it’s not that simple, Jo. What about Sophie? I can’t ask her to move house again – not after all the upheaval of the divorce. Besides, the flat is my home, and I don’t want to give it up just because . . .’ she struggled to find the right words, ‘just because my sister’s driving me crazy.’

Jo’s shoulders drooped despondently.