Molly and the Cat Cafe

I wished I could see his face to gauge his reaction, but his back was squarely to me. He remained silent while he considered her words. ‘An old woman with a shopping trolley?’ he asked at last. Debbie nodded, still staring sadly at her hands. ‘Red hair?’

She looked up. ‘That’s the one. Why, friend of yours, is she?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Not exactly, but I’m pretty sure I know who you mean. She’s lived in Stourton for as long as I can remember. Used to own this place in fact.’

Debbie fixed him with a stare. ‘This place? You mean the café?’

John nodded. ‘I used to come in here when I was a kid. She was always behind the counter.’ Debbie stared at him, wide-eyed, impatient to hear more. ‘She owned it with her husband, but then one day he disappeared, did a runner—’ John stopped mid-sentence, realizing that he had unwittingly echoed the letter’s accusation against Debbie. ‘Anyway, according to town gossip, he’d run up huge debts: gambling, I think. The café was in their joint name, so when the bailiffs showed up, she had no choice but to sell. After that she seemed to take it upon herself to make other people’s lives miserable. She was always making complaints, writing letters, reporting people to the police for no good reason. After a while no one took her seriously – everyone just ignored her.’

‘Well, I can’t ignore her, can I?’ Debbie cut in sharply. ‘The café nearly went under, thanks to her interference. I thought we were going to default on the mortgage. Sophie and I could have been homeless.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘And now she’s played her trump card by scaring you off. I’ve got to hand it to her, she plays a good game.’ She turned her head towards the window so that John could not see her tears.

‘Who said anything about her scaring me off?’ John replied quietly.

‘Well, isn’t that why you’re here?’ Debbie shot back defiantly. ‘That’s what “We need to talk” usually means. This is a small town. You couldn’t risk getting involved with someone with my reputation.’ She picked up the letter and waved it towards him. ‘There’s no smoke without fire, after all – isn’t that what you think?’

I had never seen Debbie like this before, not even in the heat of an argument with Sophie. Her lips were white and, although she was crying, she looked like she was seething with rage. I held my breath, praying that John would see through her hostility and recognize the hurt that lay underneath. I willed him to say that he didn’t believe what was written in the letter, that the old woman was crazy and that he trusted Debbie completely. But he didn’t say anything. He was looking down at the table, seemingly in no rush to put her out of her misery.

‘I know you don’t get on with Sophie’s dad,’ he began slowly, ‘but that’s all I know. To be honest, it’s never felt appropriate to ask. Your past is your private business—’

‘Not any more, apparently,’ Debbie interrupted, curtly.

John sighed and I saw his shoulders drop. The thought flashed through my mind that he was giving up, that he was about to take his coat and leave. The hairs on my back prickled in frustration. Surely they could see that this mutual distrust was exactly what the old woman had hoped to achieve, and that if John walked out now, she would have won? I wished I could do something to rescue the situation, to make them realize that they were on the same side. But I knew that, on this occasion, there was nothing I could do but watch.

‘Look . . .’ When John finally spoke, his voice was conciliatory. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe a word of this letter. Like you said, this woman has clearly had it in for you for a while. But maybe’ – Debbie breathed in sharply – ‘maybe it is appropriate for me to ask about your past. Not because I’m suspicious of you, but just because I’m interested.’

John sat back in his chair to show that he had said his piece. His words had sounded good to me, but Debbie’s face remained stony. Outside, the storm had swept in, blowing sheets of rain horizontally along the parade and rattling the café door in its frame. The sky had darkened to an ominous steel-grey, leaving Debbie and John sitting in near-darkness. I felt my pupils dilate as my eyes adjusted to the low light.

‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Since you’re interested . . . ’ Her chin dropped and her eyes rested on the table between them as she spoke. ‘Sophie’s father and I ran a business together in Oxford – property management. He did the hands-on maintenance stuff, and I kept things ticking over in the office at home: answering phone calls, speaking to tenants, that sort of thing. It was my contribution to the household while Sophie was little.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if girding herself to continue.