Page 114 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
He just stood there. Sipped his drink. Carried on like it was normal, like it was fine, for his mother to imply I’d let myself go.
If he really liked me, really wanted this to work... shouldn’t he have said something?
But then... I didn’t say anything either, did I?
I just stood there, with my fizz and my frozen smile, and let the moment slide past like it didn’t matter.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe it does.
The scream from downstairs pierces through the floorboards, followed by Irene’s voice, sharp and echoing.
“Miranda!”
I’m already up and halfway to the door before the second shout.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the scene awaiting me could be from a middle-class sitcom with too much white wine. Irene is standing in the middle of the living room, jaw clenched, pointing at a horrified woman whose name I definitely should remember but don’t. Said woman is holding her handbag at arm’s length like it contains radioactive material.
“I told you to keep those cats in your bedroom,” Irene snaps, her eyes narrowing on me like I’ve personally let loose a plague.
“I—sorry—what happened?” I stammer, looking between the handbag, the woman, and the suspiciously smug face of my eight-year-old, who’s doubled over in silent hysterics.
The woman waves the bag. “That cat—that one—peed in it!”
I follow her glare and spot Twinklesocks staring back at me from inside the handbag like it is a litter tray. She blinks at me slowly, entirely unbothered. I mumble another apology and scoop her up, trying not to touch anything damp in the process.
SJ lets out an unhelpful snort-laugh behind me.
And then I see him.
Thor, belly to the floor under the buffet table, delicately nibbling what appears to be a stolen piece of roast chicken.
I close my eyes. Just for a second.
Then I scoop him up too, silently deciding I don’t want to know how he got it.
“Sorry again,” I murmur to the room at large, and make a swift, undignified exit back up the stairs, arms full of furry shame.
Back in the guest room, I shut the door with my foot and exhale.
Bringing the cats may not have been my finest decision.
The moment we’re back in the room, both cats start purring like they’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.
Twinklesocks headbutts my arm, all innocence and fur, while Thor settles onto my feet like he’s claimed the territory. I sigh, drop down onto the bed, and slide back until I’m resting against the pillow.
They climb straight onto my lap and make themselves comfortable. Within thirty seconds, they’re both asleep. Purring. Dead weight. Warm. Unapologetic.
I am officially trapped. Emotionally and now physically.
I reach carefully for my phone, angling my arm around Twinklesocks’ back paw, and open a new message to Jasper.
Me
You’ll never believe what just happened. Twinklesocks peed in some posh woman’s handbag and Thor stole chicken from the buffet. My ex-MIL nearly combusted.
My thumb hovers over send.
