Christmas at the Cat Cafe

The sun had now dropped behind the tiled rooftops on the parade, and the warm yellow light that had filled the café was replaced by the cool tones of the October evening. My ears flickered as a gust of wind rattled the awning outside and a draught seeped through the wooden window frame, sending a shiver up my back. Linda was engrossed in her phone once more, its blue glow illuminating her face. When she had drained her tea, she tossed the phone back into her bag and, as she straightened up, her eyes met mine for the first time. She appraised me coolly, as if I were merely another of the café’s fixtures and fittings. For the second time since Linda’s arrival, my fur bristled.

After a couple of moments my unblinking stare seemed to unnerve her. She stood up and carried her plate and teacup over to the counter. ‘That was lovely Debs. I’ll head upstairs now,’ she called through to the kitchen.

Debbie appeared in the doorway, a pair of sopping wet yellow rubber gloves on her hands. ‘Good idea. I won’t be long. Oh, I almost forgot! Have you seen? That’s Molly.’ Debbie gestured with one dripping glove towards the window where I was still staring defiantly at Linda’s back.

Linda turned and her eyes flicked briefly in my direction. ‘Oh, yes, I thought I recognized the famous Molly,’ she said, with an emphasis that struck me as somewhat sarcastic. There was a pause, during which Debbie smiled indulgently at me while Linda looked as if she was struggling to think of something else to say. ‘She’s been watching me since I got here,’ she remarked eventually.

‘Well, don’t forget: it’s her name above the door, so she does have the right to refuse entry,’ Debbie joked.

Linda emitted a fake-sounding laugh and walked back to the table to fetch her belongings. Feeling suddenly protective towards the empty flat, I jumped down from the windowsill to follow her as she climbed the stairs, holding my breath as her sickly-sweet perfume filled my nostrils in the narrow stairwell.

Rounding the banisters into the hallway, Linda glanced briefly into the tiny kitchen on her right, before turning left into the living room. I slunk in silently a few paces behind her and crept across the room to an empty shoebox that sat on the floor next to the television. I climbed into the box to watch, as Linda made an inquisitive circuit of the living room, taking in the dining table cluttered with unopened post, a bowl of overripe fruit and a stack of lever-arch files; the well-worn sofa and armchair, whose threadbare fabric was concealed by an assortment of colourful cushions and fluffy throws; and the coffee table that was overflowing with old newspapers and an empty box of tissues.

Noticing two photographs among the jumble of ornaments that stood on the mantelpiece, Linda glided across the rug for a closer look. She glanced cursorily at the cardboard-mounted school portrait of Sophie, Debbie’s teenage daughter, but her eyes lingered longer on the photo of Debbie beaming with pride, as she held me in her arms on Molly’s launch day. Her curiosity satiated, Linda turned back to face the room, with a faintly bored expression. She casually swiped a magazine from the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa, kicking off her boots with a relieved groan.

Like all cats, I had an instinct for evaluating people’s laps and, as I observed Linda, I tried to picture myself jumping into her lap for a cuddle. But, try as I might, I could not imagine feeling comfortable in it: it was not a lap that I would classify as inviting. Overall, there was something I found off-putting about Linda, and it was not just to do with her spiky boots and talon-like fingernails. I guessed that Linda was a few years younger than Debbie, probably in her mid-forties, but whereas Debbie’s physique gave an impression of softness and curves, Linda seemed to be all angles and edges. Her face, which was a curious shade of orange, was longer and thinner than Debbie’s, and her nose and chin were more pronounced.

Linda sat flicking through the magazine absent-mindedly for about fifteen minutes, until Debbie’s heavy end-of-the-day tread could be heard on the stairs. ‘One day my knees are going to pack up on me, I swear,’ she complained, collapsing onto one of the dining chairs with an involuntary ‘oof’ noise and rubbing her kneecaps with both hands.

Linda sprang up from the sofa. ‘Let me get you a cuppa, Debs. You stay here.’ She rummaged about noisily in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets in search of mugs and teabags.

At the dining table, Debbie began to sort half-heartedly through the unopened post. ‘So, how’ve you been, Linda?’ she called across the hall.

My ears flickered as I tried to make out Linda’s reply over the clatter of teaspoons against the worktop, but the next thing I knew, Debbie had leapt up from her seat and dashed out of the room.