Page 109 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I close the door gently.
Lean against it for a second.
The gift is still in my hands, paper neat, corners folded just-so. I press it against my chest.
One tear slips down my cheek before I can blink it back.
Just the one. That’s all I allow myself.
Chapter twenty-nine
Good King Wenceslas Ordered Chips (and Whisky)
Jasper
The house is still when I get back from the corner shop. Proper still. Not peaceful, just... empty.
I shoulder the door closed and set the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. It contains a few questionable microwave meals, a multipack of beer that was on offer, and a bottle of single malt whisky I didn’t technically need but wasn’t about to leave behind.
The heating's on, but the place still feels cold. Or maybe that’s just in my head.
I flick the kitchen light on. The bulb does its usual reluctant flicker before flooding the room with a glare that feels unnecessarily clinical.
I shove the beers and microwave meals in the fridge. The whisky stays on the counter. It’s a decent one—picked it up more out of defiance than celebration. Something to make the place feel less bleak, maybe. Or maybe just something to toast the end of a weird year with.
I lean against the counter and glance around the kitchen.
Right then. This calls for company.
I reach for my phone and scroll to Geoff’s number. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, little brother. If you are calling to moan about your non existing love life again, I’ll tell you now, I’m not in the mood for once.”
“Charming. When are you off to the rich wanker Christmas?”
“Tomorrow. Crack of dawn. I’m already regretting every decision that led me to this.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Come over. Early Christmas. I’ve got beer and a bottle of whisky too good to drink on my own.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Be there in an hour. Don’t open the bottle until I’m there.”
He hangs up before I can reply.
Pity Party for two coming up.
We’ve nearly finished the whole bottle of whisky, and I’m pretty sure I’ve absorbed half a kilo of melted cheddar through my bloodstream.
Geoff brought over two massive portions of cheesy chips—still warm when he arrived—and now the tray is littered with congealed leftovers and a fork stuck at a tragic angle like a shipwrecked sailor.
He’s half collapsed in the armchair, legs sprawled, glass in hand. I’m on the sofa, stomach full, brain foggy, whisky glass resting on my jumper.
“She’s gone to Cornwall,” I say, for probably the third time.
Geoff raises an eyebrow. “You mentioned.”
“Withhim.”
“Still the ex, yeah?”
