Molly and the Cat Cafe

Sophie eyed her mother up and down dispassionately. ‘No, Mum, you actually look all right.’

Debbie sighed and stared at her reflection, the look on her face suggesting resignation rather than satisfaction.

‘Hurry up, Mum – you don’t want to keep John waiting,’ Sophie teased. My ears pricked up. I was delighted, at last, to hear confirmation that Debbie’s plans involved John.

Debbie glanced at her watch and gasped. ‘I’ve just remembered why I never wear heels!’ she muttered as she sat on the end of the bed, struggling to force her feet into a pair of shoes. She slipped on her jacket and grabbed her handbag. ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she instructed Sophie, who rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

In the hallway, Debbie blew us both a kiss before disappearing downstairs and letting herself out through the café. I sat at the top of the stairs, listening as the clicking of her heels on the cobbles faded into the distance.

Much later that evening, after Sophie had gone to bed, I was woken by the sound of the café door slamming. Debbie climbed the stairs and groaned with relief as she slipped her shoes off. I stepped into the hall to greet her.

‘Good evening, Molly,’ she smiled and I trotted towards her, my tail raised in salutation.

The giggly tone of Debbie’s voice suggested the evening had gone well, and I hoped she would want to talk about it. She poured herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink before hobbling to the sofa, where I jumped onto the cushion next to her.

‘What is it, Molly? Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked. I purred encouragingly. ‘Well, you can purr all you like. I’m not a crazy woman who talks to cats, you know. At least, not yet.’ She chuckled. ‘And, besides, a lady will never kiss and tell.’ She pressed my nose gently but firmly with the tip of her finger, before drinking her water in one long gulp. When the glass was empty she pushed herself upright. ‘Time I got to bed,’ she announced, wincing at the pain in her feet.

My tail twitched with frustration as I watched her limp out of the room. I desperately wanted to hear details about how the evening had gone, and her refusal to talk left me feeling thwarted. She made her way slowly upstairs to the bedroom, and I smiled inwardly when I heard her groan, upon finding her bed still covered in piles of clothes.

31

The week after Debbie and John’s date began like any other. Sophie rushed out on Monday morning, late for her bus; Debbie ate a piece of toast at the kitchen sink, before disappearing downstairs to work; and I spent the day in the flat, supervising the kittens. They were almost three months old now, and although I had done what I could to curb their more boisterous tendencies, I couldn’t help but notice the damage they had wrought around the living room: the frayed fabric on the sofa corners, the chewed rug tassels and the scratched wallpaper.

Debbie had never said a word to admonish them for their behaviour, but my heart always sank when I uncovered new evidence of their destructiveness; it meant the time was surely coming when Debbie would rehome them. I knew the kittens would thrive in their own homes, with loving owners and the space they needed to develop into mature, independent cats. I knew it would be wrong to keep them cooped up together with me in the tiny flat. And yet, in spite of all that, my heart ached whenever I thought of being separated from them.

When Debbie returned to the flat that evening she looked tired and worn out. She flopped onto the sofa next to Sophie, kicking off her shoes.

‘Good day at school?’ Debbie asked.

Sophie shrugged. ‘It was all right. Just teachers stressing about exams, as usual.’

Debbie patted Sophie’s arm encouragingly. ‘Nearly there now, Soph, just a few more weeks to get through, then you can relax.’ She flicked through the pile of post that she had carried upstairs with her, sighing when she saw the postmark on one of the envelopes. ‘Another letter from Stourton District Council. I wonder what demand they’ve come up with this time.’ The previous few weeks had been punctuated by the arrival of letters from the town council, each one raising a new objection to Debbie’s plans for the cat café. She grimaced as she ripped open the envelope.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ she said, scanning the letter’s contents.

‘What?’ Sophie replied. Debbie’s mouth had fallen open and her lips were pale. ‘Mum, what’s wrong? You’re worrying me.’

‘I can’t believe it. Nothing’s wrong, Soph. Read this, will you?’ She handed the letter to Sophie, sliding forward to perch on the edge of the sofa.

Not wanting to be left out of whatever crisis was brewing, I jumped off the windowsill and went to sit by Debbie’s feet.

Sophie’s eyes flicked across the letter, her brow knitted in concentration. But, as she handed the letter back to Debbie, she grinned. ‘They’re giving you permission to open the cat café. They’ve said yes, Mum!’