‘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!’
Debbie leapt up, her sudden movement sending me and the kittens scattering across the room in panic. She was clutching the letter close to her chest, as if frightened that someone might snatch it from her. She paced back and forth across the rug, rereading phrases from the letter aloud, reassuring herself that she hadn’t misunderstood their meaning.
‘ “As long as all the cats in question are the owner’s pets and will not to be offered to the public for adoption, it will not be necessary to obtain a licence for the cat café from Animal Welfare.” ’ Debbie emitted a gasp of disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it! After everything they put us through, it turns out all they needed was confirmation that the cats belong to me and won’t be rehomed!’
She let out a high-pitched squeal and began to jump up and down on the rug as the letter’s meaning sank in. The kittens, responding to her excitement, began to chase each other in frenzied circuits around the living room, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice them. ‘“Molly’s Cat Café”. It’ll be your café, Molls – yours and the kittens’. What will the old battleaxe make of that, eh?’ Debbie smiled at me, her eyes glinting. Behind her, Purdy, hotly pursued by Abby, shot up the living-room curtain, startling Debbie and making her shriek.
Sophie stood up and touched her mother’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should sit down while you let it sink in, Mum,’ she said soothingly.
‘Sit down? How can I sit down! This calls for a celebration,’ Debbie shouted gleefully, waving the letter in the air. She ran into the kitchen, where I could hear her rummaging noisily through the kitchen cupboards. ‘Why is there never any champagne when you need it?’ she shouted.
‘Because you drank it the night the kittens were born,’ Sophie replied drily.
‘Well, I should have bought some more to replace it,’ Debbie yelled. ‘Anyone would think we don’t have enough things to celebrate in this flat!’ A few moments later she reappeared, carrying a bottle and two wine glasses on a tray. ‘Right, I’m afraid this is the best I can do,’ she said, placing the tray on the dining table.
‘Oh, Mum, what is that?’ Sophie asked, picking up the bottle dubiously. ‘Lambrini Cherry? Are you kidding?’
‘I know, but it’s the best we’ve got. I won it at the tombola at the school Christmas fair, remember?’ She peeled off a paper raffle ticket, which had been taped to the neck of the bottle, then poured the fizzing pink liquid into the glasses.
‘To Molly’s Cat Café!’ Debbie toasted merrily, clinking her glass against Sophie’s.
Sophie took a sip, winced, then ran into the kitchen to spit her mouthful into the sink. ‘Urgh, that’s rank, Mum,’ she shouted, rinsing her mouth with tap water.
Debbie picked up the bottle and examined the label. ‘Hmm. Expiry date was October of last year. That might explain the vinegary tang. Never mind.’ She took the bottle into the kitchen and emptied it down the plughole.
The following fortnight passed in a state of frenetic activity as Debbie prepared for a final inspection by Environmental Health. She spent her days making adjustments to the café, while I listened to the goings-on from behind the plyboard panel at the top of the stairs. The installation of a new gate next to the serving counter – designed to block feline access to the kitchen – was of little interest to me, but my ears pricked up with curiosity when I heard her accept a large delivery from a pet-supplies van parked outside. When John was set to work in the alleyway with a saw and long pieces of timber, I pressed my nose against the living-room window, eager to see what he was building, but all I could make out were the offcuts of wood that he threw into the recycling bin. Debbie spent her evenings in the flat with Sophie, whose exams were at last finished, and together they devised dishes for the new cat-themed menu.