Molly and the Cat Cafe

It was late afternoon by the time Debbie came upstairs to the flat, and she disappeared immediately into the bathroom to run herself a bath. I was desperate to know how she and John had got on with each other, but I had to wait until she and Sophie ate dinner before my curiosity was satisfied.

Debbie looked refreshed in clean pyjamas, her hair still damp from the bath, as she placed two bowls of pasta on the dining table.

‘Soph, just out of interest, how would you feel if, one evening, I went out for a drink?’ Her voice was studiedly casual, but my ears pricked up.

‘With Jo?’ Sophie asked disinterestedly, scrolling across the screen of her phone.

Debbie paused. ‘No, not with Jo. With John.’ Her eyes flicked nervously across the table.

‘John? Who’s John?’ A distracted frown was forming between Sophie’s brows.

‘John the plumber. Who replaced the boiler.’

Sophie looked up, her face a study in befuddlement. ‘John the plumber?’ Debbie nodded. Sophie looked perplexed for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘Whatever?’ Debbie repeated. ‘Is that “whatever” as in “I don’t mind”, or “whatever” as in “I do mind”?’

Sophie looked infuriated and amused in equal measure. ‘It means “whatever”, Mum, as in “Do whatever you like”. You can go for a drink with whoever you want to go for a drink with.’

Debbie seemed troubled, unsure whether Sophie’s encouragement was genuine or sarcastic. Sophie lifted a forkful of pasta into her mouth with one hand while tapping her phone with the other, oblivious to her mother’s discomfort.

‘But, you wouldn’t find it . . . strange at all?’ Debbie persisted.

Sophie put her fork down on her plate and looked calmly at Debbie. ‘Mum, like I said, I don’t mind. If you want to go for a drink with John, then go for a drink with John. It’s about time you got yourself out there.’ Debbie smiled, visibly touched by Sophie’s response. ‘Otherwise you’re going to turn into one of those crazy women who live alone and talk to their cats. Let’s be honest, you’re not far off it already.’

Debbie’s smile faded. She opened her mouth to protest, but hesitated, looking down at her food in silence. From my position on the arm of the sofa I delivered my haughtiest stare at Sophie, bristling at the suggestion that there was anything crazy about the way in which Debbie talked to me.

‘Okay, I just wanted to check. Thanks, Soph,’ Debbie said meekly, and Sophie shrugged again.

John’s name was not mentioned again, and as the week went on I began to despair of Debbie following through on her plan to take him for a drink. A few nights later, however, she disappeared up to her bedroom after work. I could hear drawers being opened and closed, and her cries of frustration made me think that her evening’s plans must involve something other than a takeaway with Jo. My curiosity piqued, I trotted upstairs and peered round her bedroom door, to see Debbie standing next to the bed in her dressing gown, pink-cheeked and agitated. She had emptied the contents of her wardrobe onto the bed, where the clothes lay in a tangled heap on the quilt. Sophie was sitting at the dressing table, her chin resting on her hand, looking bored.

‘How I can have so many clothes, and yet still have nothing to wear?’ Debbie whined.

I jumped onto the bed, treading carefully around the mounds of sweaters, skirts and trousers.

‘You’ve got loads of stuff to wear, Mum, you’ve just got to make a decision,’ Sophie replied glumly.

Debbie dropped hopelessly onto the edge of the bed. She looked close to tears, so I scaled a mound of knitwear to rub against her arm. She stroked me despondently while Sophie, tutting with frustration at her mother’s indecisiveness, leant over to tackle the mountain of clothes.

‘No; no; possibly; no,’ Sophie said, assessing each item in turn before placing it back on the bed. ‘This is quite nice.’ She held up a pink V-necked top.

Debbie took it and held it in front of her body. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit . . . revealing?’ she asked, an uncertain smile playing around her lips.

‘Well, if you’re worried, why don’t you wear this under it?’ Sophie replied calmly, plucking a cream-coloured camisole from the pile and handing it to Debbie. ‘Or something on top . . . No, Mum, not that!’ – Debbie had picked up a chunky-knit cardigan – ‘a scarf or something. You could wear your nice jeans, the fitted ones.’

Debbie was unconvinced, but Sophie’s enthusiasm gave her the confidence to try the ensemble. While she changed, I climbed onto a pile of rejected clothes, circling a few times to form a nest. I lay down and began to wash.

‘What do you think?’ Debbie asked, standing in front of her full-length mirror. It was not often that I saw her wear anything other than her work uniform of black trousers and nondescript sweater. The deep pink of her top brought out the blue of her eyes. ‘Are you sure it’s not too much, Soph?’ She smiled, girlishly self-conscious, and for a moment I glimpsed Sophie in her face.