‘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.
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 caf?. 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 caf? 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 [Êàðòèíêà: i_002.jpg]
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.