Page 94 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Amelia appears at my elbow holding what looks like three tubes of glittery bath cream and a single Christmas pudding-shaped dog toy.
“I don’t even have a dog,” she says, baffled. “Why am I holding this?”
“Capitalism,” I offer.
“Peer pressure,” Lizzie adds, sinking into a nearby bench with a groan. “And possibly early-onset festive madness.”
I lower myself beside her and glance into my bag. Books, LEGO, a jumper for SJ that he’ll hate and wear once for photos.
“Tell me again why we thought this would be fun?” I ask, pulling off my coat for the fifth time today.
“Because we were promised pretzels and festive drinks,” Amelia says, scanning the horizon like a snack-deprived meerkat. “Also, I wanted to feel like a functioning adult with a list and a plan.”
“And how’s that going?”
“I’ve spent £83 on things I don’t remember picking up, and I’m pretty sure I lost feeling in one foot around Marks & Spencer.”
“Excellent,” Lizzie mutters. “So we’re all thriving.”
There’s a brief, collective sigh as we sit there, surrounded by bags and general yuletide chaos.
Then Amelia claps her hands once, startling a passing toddler. “Right. Costa. Stat. If I don’t get some water and a hot chocolate in the next ten minutes I’m going to lie down on the escalator and let fate decide the rest.”
Lizzie and I both grunt in agreement and haul ourselves upright with the weary grace of women who’ve survived total shopping mayhem. We gather our bags and make the slow, determined trudge toward the nearest Costa like three very glamorous pack mules.
Five minutes later, we’re installed at a sticky table with cardboard cups, cinnamon dust, and a vague sense that we’ve earned this.
“So,” Lizzie says, pulling the lid off her coffee and blowing steam across it. “Jasper.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Subtle.”
“Thank you,” she says, deadpan. “Now talk.”
Amelia leans in, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got that post-shag glow.”
“I do not,” I protest.
“You do,” they say in unison.
I roll my eyes, trying to sip my latte like a woman with dignity, but Lizzie kicks my foot under the table.
“Out with it.”
I pause.
I glance down at my coffee, then back up at them, cheeks starting to burn. “We’ve… spent the last couple of weeks together.”
“Define ‘together’,” Amelia says, already grinning.
“Together-together,” I admit.
Lizzie lets out a loud whoop that turns several heads, none of whom she notices or cares about. Amelia follows suit with a high-pitched “Yesss!” that could probably be heard from the John Lewis homeware department.
“Keep your voice down!” I hiss, laughing despite myself.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Lizzie says. “This is the most exciting thing to happen since Bri hooked up with Omar.”
“I swear to God, if you start asking for details—”
