Molly and the Cat Cafe

As I tried to find a space on the sofa amidst the dirty contents of her PE kit, I wondered whether Sophie’s problem was, in feline terms, a territory issue. Perhaps, like an alley-cat, she needed to feel in control of her surroundings, and saw me as a territorial rival. Certainly, much of her frustration was directed at the flat itself. She took issue with everything, from the size of her bedroom to the poor Wi-Fi signal. The balled-up dirty socks that she had left on the cushion seemed to me to serve the same purpose as a cat’s scent-marker: they let everyone know that she had been there, reminding us of her presence even when she wasn’t around.

One weeknight, over dinner, Debbie politely enquired how Sophie’s day had been.

‘Crap, as usual,’ Sophie answered bluntly. I had heard her tell Debbie on many occasions that she missed her friends from her old school and wished they had never left Oxford.

Debbie sighed wearily, and I braced myself for the row that would inevitably follow.

‘Look, Sophie, I know it’s hard for you, but give it time. We’ve both got to find our feet here.’ She looked at Sophie pleadingly. ‘It’s not easy for me, either.’ The reference to her own difficulties ignited Sophie’s fury.

‘Not easy for you?’ she repeated sarcastically, her face starting to redden. ‘At least you’ve got Jo and that . . . mangy fleabag’ – she pointed at me – ‘I haven’t got one single friend in this town. And it’s all thanks to you and your fresh start.’

‘Her name is Molly, Sophie, and she doesn’t have fleas,’ Debbie replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

I had heard Debbie and Sophie row on many occasions, but this was the first time I had become the subject of one of their arguments, and I felt excruciatingly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to hear a detailed account of Sophie’s many grievances against me, so I jumped off the sofa and crept out of the room, not wanting to inflame the situation any further by my presence. I walked across the hallway to the kitchen, where I ate a few dry cat biscuits disconsolately.

In the living room Debbie was making every effort not to get drawn into a shouting match, knowing that, if she did, it would end in the same way as all their previous rows: with Sophie storming out of the flat. When she finally spoke, Debbie’s voice was low and calm.

‘Look, Soph, you’re angry, I get that. You didn’t want to leave Oxford, and I get that, too. But we’re here now, and I’m asking – begging – you to accept that I made what I thought was the right choice for us. Not because I wanted a fresh start, but because there was no alternative.’

I crossed the hallway and peered around the living-room door. Sophie was sitting on a dining chair with her shoulders slumped, staring at the carpet. Debbie stood in front of her, her hands on her hips. ‘But you’re right,’ Debbie went on. ‘I have got Jo, and I’ve got Molly, but maybe that’s because I was open to the idea of making friends. You never know, Sophie, it might work for you too, if you try it.’

Sophie was staring at the carpet defiantly, refusing to look at her mother’s face as she talked.

Debbie’s cheeks were flushed, and I could see how much she wanted Sophie to say something – anything – to acknowledge that she had heard her. I pondered the workings of the human mind. I couldn’t fathom why, if Sophie was jealous of Debbie’s affection for me, she made it so difficult for her mother to love her. Her anger was pushing Debbie away, creating a breach between them that was in danger of becoming irreparable.

‘Let’s not make life any harder for ourselves by fighting all the time. Please?’ Debbie’s voice was desperate, but Sophie remained stubbornly silent. Debbie stepped forward to tuck a messy strand of hair out of Sophie’s face, but Sophie batted her hand away. She turned towards the door to avoid Debbie’s gaze and I caught sight of her eyes, which were red and watery. Within seconds she had grabbed her phone from the table and walked past me, out into the hall. Debbie remained in the living room, waiting for the sound of Sophie’s footsteps running downstairs. But instead Sophie walked to the other end of the hall and climbed the stairs to the attic, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Debbie puffed out her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. I walked over to her and leant against her leg in a show of moral support that I knew would be of little help. Debbie slowly cleared the table, emptying Sophie’s half-eaten meal into the bin and washing up the dirty plates. Then, although it was still early, she turned off the lights in the flat and, without saying goodnight to me, went upstairs to her own bedroom.