Page 38 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Is £75 too much for a vibrator if it’s got lipsanda flicky bit?
I’d addAsking for a friend, but we all know the game’s up.
Amelia instantly reacts with a crying-laugh emoji. Bri sends a gif of someone being baptised in a river. Lizzie doesn’t respond. Suspiciously quiet.
Two minutes later, my phone buzzes with an email.
Subject: Happy (Early) Birthday, You Deprived Legend
It’s a £100 voucher for a website called BlissfulBuzz.co.uk, which I absolutely didnotknow existed before now. There's a note:
Get the one with the flicky bit.
Early birthday present from all the girls.
Use the rest for lube and condoms in case the neighbour pops over.
Love, Lizzie x
I let out a laugh before I can stop it. Loud. Genuine. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere slightly ridiculous and completely needed.
I stare at the screen a moment longer, then follow the link in the email, find the right vibrator and clickAdd to basket.
Because why not.
If I can’t sort myself out tonight, maybe I’ll be better equipped by Thursday.
And if nothing else… it’s good to have friends who know when to crowd-fund your orgasm.
Chapter ten
Walking in a Kitten Wonderland
Miranda
I’m five minutes early, which is very unlike me. Normally I operate on a precise rhythm ofjust in time, mildly flustered, apologetically charming. But I couldn’t sit in the flat any longer pretending not to stare at the clock. So here I am, standing outside a converted villa with the kind of front door that screams “money, but make it rustic.”
It’s similar to Jasper’s, only a different shade of expensive, and without an annexe clinging to the side like a witch’s wart.
That’s the thing no one warns you about when you flee London for a fresh start in a countryside village—half the people here aren’t locals at all. They’re ex-city dwellers with perfect teeth and muddy Land Rovers, hiding their burnt-out ambition under soft knits and sourdough starters.
I knock.
Stella answers like she’s been standing there waiting. Her hair’s up, her outfit casual in a way that only expensive jeans and confidence can pull off. She greets me with a warm smile that somehow manages to be both matey and managerial.
“Come in, come in,” she says, stepping aside. “Callum’s just finishing up a call, but I’ll take you through.”
The house smells like expensive candles and good decisions. She leads me through a corridor of clean lines and quiet wealth, and I do my best not to imagine the state of my own hallway—which currently features a toppled cat tower and an empty cereal bowl.
We reach a door at the back of the house, slightly ajar. Stella knocks once, then pushes it open.
Callum is standing behind a desk that would not look out of place in a Bond villain’s lair. He’s tall. Not Jasper-tall, but still over six foot. Tattoos creep out from the sleeves of his T-shirt… black ink and muscle, just enough to make any woman swoon.
He looks up and offers a nod and a smile.
“Hi. Miranda, right?”
His voice is warm. Polite. There’s a glint in his eyes; not flirtatious exactly, but not entirely neutral either. Like he knows something funny about the situation but isn’t ready to share it yet.
