Molly and the Cat Cafe

‘Molly’s Blushes!’ Debbie repeated, clinking her glass against Jo’s. ‘Come on, Soph, join in – it’s a toast,’ she chided.

Sophie rolled her eyes and reluctantly lifted her glass of water. ‘Molly’s Blushes,’ she mumbled self-consciously.

They all looked at me as they sipped their drinks, and I was relieved that none of them could see my actual blushes through my fur.

21

Debbie was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She and Jo had shared a bottle of wine with their takeaway meal and judging by Debbie’s puffy eyes and pallid skin this morning, they had opened a second bottle. I was hungry but, seeing her fragile state, decided to wait until Debbie had a cup of tea in her hand before mewing for my breakfast. She pulled the fridge door open and peered inside, letting out a loud groan.

‘Soph! Did you finish the milk last night?’ she called huskily.

‘Might’ve,’ Sophie replied vaguely from inside the bathroom. ‘I had a bowl of cereal at bedtime.’

Debbie closed the fridge and pressed her forehead against the door with a pained expression. ‘There’s no milk left and I have a half-made cup of tea in front of me. Could you please pop out and get a pint?’

‘What?’ Sophie yelled over the sound of running water.

‘I said’ – Debbie was shouting now – ‘since you finished the milk, could you please go and buy some more?’ She winced in pain at the sound of her own voice.

The water pipes fell silent as Sophie turned off the taps. Debbie emptied her mug of half-made tea into the sink and rubbed her face, catching sight of me at last as I sat patiently in the doorway. ‘All right, Molly, I know. You want feeding, don’t you?’

I stood next to my dish while she squeezed out a cat-food pouch, starting to gag when some of the meaty liquid dribbled over her fingers. ‘Urgh, I feel sick,’ she moaned, rinsing her hand under the kitchen tap, as I tucked happily into my breakfast.

While I was eating, Sophie appeared in the doorway. She had pulled jeans and a hoodie over her pyjamas and was clumsily stuffing bare feet into a pair of trainers.

‘Thanks, love,’ Debbie said, handing her some money.

Sophie grunted and ran downstairs. I followed her out, slipping through the café door behind her.

I rarely ventured further than the alleyway and churchyard on my excursions out of the café, but early on a Sunday morning was a good time to roam further afield. The air smelt sweet and clean, untainted by the fumes of passing traffic, and the narrow streets were peaceful, devoid of shoppers and tourists. Sophie turned left, heading for the market square, but I set off in the other direction. I meandered along the quiet cobbled streets, pausing to watch as a group of Lycra-clad cyclists sped past. In the brilliant sunshine of early spring it was difficult to imagine that vicious alley-cats lurked in hidden passageways, and yet I made sure to give a wide berth to every alley I passed.

As I made my way back along the cobbles towards the cafe I saw a figure standing in front of the bay window. She had one hand pressed against the glass, shading her eyes from the bright reflection as she peered inside. Dropping to my haunches, I crept closer, my hackles rising as soon as I noticed the familiar shopping trolley by her side. When I was a couple of feet away, the old woman noticed my movement at the edge of her vision and spun round to face me. Sensing hostility and alert to possible danger, I stopped mid-step, one paw hovering off the ground, tail twitching as she glared at me across the cobbles.

Without saying a word, the old woman grabbed her shopping trolley and thrust it forward with both hands. Its wheels scraped on the ground as it lunged towards me. I darted effortlessly out of its path and watched the trolley wobble, before falling sideways, landing on the street with a thud.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’

The woman and I both turned in the direction of the voice. Sophie was walking up the street, a pint of milk in one hand. Her hood was pulled up, but I could make out her angry expression underneath. In my confusion I assumed that her words were addressed to me, but to my surprise the old lady answered. ‘I’m . . . I’m not doing anything – it . . . it slipped,’ she stuttered defensively.

Sophie strode towards her with a look of incipient fury and the old woman began to shuffle backwards. The alarming thought crossed my mind that I was about to witness a physical assault. When Sophie reached the upturned shopping trolley, however, she stopped. I instinctively stepped behind her ankles for protection. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time than try to hurt people’s pets?’ Sophie demanded.

‘It just fell over. I didn’t mean to . . . ’ the woman muttered, unconvincingly.

Sophie lifted up the shopping trolley by its handle, standing it upright in front of its owner. ‘Well, it’s not fallen over any more, is it? So you can go now.’