Page 36 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
It’s just after ten. The flat is quiet, except for the rhythmic whir of the boiler and the occasional sleepy grumble from one of the kittens, who’ve made a nest out of a laundry bag and refuse to be dislodged.
SJ fell asleep quickly despite protesting that he wasn’t tired… at all. And I have a feeling I won’t be far behind because this has been a lot. For now, the thrill of having a job is keeping me up.
I’m still half-stunned Stella even called… or remembered that I said I was looking.
An admin role, of all things. I hadn’t considered admin—not really. My mum will have a fit if she finds out. With my degree, I should apparently be tucked into the archives of some respectable museum, gloved and whispering about pigments. But that version of me hasn’t existed for a long time. And the truth is, I don’t even know if I want to be her anymore.
A job in the village. Five minutes away. Flexible hours. Something I can do and still be here when SJ gets home. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a way in. A wayback. Or sideways, at least. Something to do until I figure out what’s next.
It’s strange, really. I used to feel clear about who I was. I worked my socks off at Uni so I could land my dream job at the British Museum. I worked my way up to senior conservator quickly. I was even discussing publishing a paper with a colleague. Then I ran into Sim-Sim and my life took a different direction.
The lamp throws soft light across the wall—blank, still. The kind of magnolia that estate agents call “warm neutral” but which makes me feel vaguely like I’m living in the waiting room of a very polite dentist.
There’s a stack of boxes in the corner. I’ve unpacked all the useful things—clothes, shoes, bras that don’t dig in like they’ve got something to prove—but the rest remains untouched. Books. Trinkets. That weird clay sculpture SJ made of “the family,” which looks like three potatoes having a standoff.
I’m lying on top of the duvet, book in hand.The Duke of Thornbury’s Sinful Bargain.Old favourite. Tried and tested. One of the filthier titles in my collection—the kind I used to joke about hiding behind the toaster in case my mother-in-law came over unannounced.
Usually it works. Comforting filth. Escapism with a corset.
But tonight… it’s not landing.
I read a line about a heaving bosom and a velvet tongue and immediately picture someone trying to lick upholstery.
I flip the page. Try again.
The heroine gasps. The duke growls something about propriety and punishment and my brain promptly swaps him out for Jasper—cool voice, unreadable expression, gently pulling on my ponytail.
I groan and let the book fall across my chest.
What is wrong with me?
I don’t fancy him. I don’t. I’m just… needy. Tired. A little emotionally dehydrated. And—yes, alright—it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me with anything other than indifference or mild exasperation.
I close my eyes.
He really did sayreindeer sockslike it was a perfectly normal thing to give a woman you’ve never spoken to for longer than six minutes.
And then there was that tiny beat, right after he handed the basket over—like he was waiting for something. A reaction. A thank you. A smile.
I sigh and flop onto my side, shoving the book under the pillow. The kittens stir in their fabric cave and one of them lets out a tiny sneeze, followed by a deeply offended meow.
I should go to sleep.
I’ve got a hundred things to do tomorrow. More boxes. A school form I forgot to scan. Something’s leaking under the sink and I’m ninety percent sure it’s coming from the pipes.
But still I lie there. A little too warm. A little too aware of the shape of my own body under the duvet. Nothing urgent—just that slow, crawling feeling. Restless. Antsy. Horny, if I’m honest with myself.
I roll onto my back again and stare at the ceiling, willing my brain to stop picturing Jasper in a towel, which is ludicrous because why would I ever see him in a towel.
But he’d probably look good. Obviously. That’s half the problem.
I close my eyes and try to focus on literally anything else. Bricks. Tupperware. That time I sneezed in front of SJ’s headteacher and accidentally peed a tiny bit.
Nothing helps.
There’s a pulse in my belly now. Soft. Persistent. As if my body’s decided, without permission, that it’s ready to feel again—and that perhaps reindeer socks were the sign it was waiting for.
I sigh, tug the duvet higher, and slip a hand down, mostly out of irritation. If I get it over with, maybe I’ll sleep. That’s the deal, right? Standard biological maintenance. Like flossing. Just with slightly more enthusiasm.
