Page 39 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“That’s me,” I say, offering a hand. He takes it briefly and then steps back.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says to Stella. “You’ve got the better interview technique anyway.”
He starts to move past, but not before turning back and, with absolute casual confidence, drops a kiss on Stella’s lips. An actual kiss. On the mouth. Not long. Not dramatic. But definitely... intimate.
Stella swats him on the arm. “Go away. Let me do the serious part.”
He grins—that grin you only get from someone deeply in love—and disappears from the office.
Stella shuts the door and turns back to me, a faint flush on her cheeks. “We do normally try to keep it professional.” Her smile is wry, almost apologetic, before she gestures to the chair. “Right, shall we?”
I nod, still not quite sure what dimension I’ve stepped into, but quietly grateful that no one’s asked me to define my five-year plan yet.
The walk home is shorter than I remember, mostly because I’m floating.
I got the job.
Well, Stella’s exact words were, “We’d love to have you, if you’re happy with the hours and pay,” which I’m choosing to interpret as a job offer and not a polite hallucination brought on by the smell of Stella’s fancy fig-scented diffuser.
The whole thing felt oddly easy. Like slipping on a jacket you thought you’d outgrown, only to realise it still fits. Stella and I went on like a house on fire. I can see us become friends, not just colleagues.
Yes, it’s admin. And yes, it’s not what I trained for. But it’s something. It’smine. And it makes me feel in control of my life.
I’m halfway up the path when I catch myself grinning. Not just smiling: a proper toothpaste advert grin.
Maybe I’ve got this. Maybe things are turning.
I open the front door and both kittens shoot out like they’ve been fired from a cannon.
“Oi!”
Thor bolts left, a blur of grey stripes running towards the bushes. Twinklesocks rockets right, tail high and ginger fur bristling with delight.
I don’t even hesitate—I yank the door shut again and dash after Thor, my coat flapping, boots thudding against the path.
I catch him under a bush three doors down, where he’s attempting to fight a damp leaf. I scoop him up and tuck him against my chest, huffing. “You are going to be the death of me.”
He meows like I’ve insulted his honour.
I march back, unlock the door one-handed and shove him inside. He promptly flops down and begins cleaning his shoulder like he’s the injured party.
“Drama queen,” I mutter, then spin around.
Twinklesocks is nowhere in sight.
My stomach drops.
Please not Jasper’s house. Please not Jasper’s house again!
I head off in the direction she ran, scanning the hedges, trying not to think about the last time she invited herself into his kitchen like a feline home invader.
And of course, because the universe enjoys a bit of comedy timing, that’s exactly when the sky decides to open.
Fat drops. Cold. Immediate.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, pulling my coat tighter and picking up the pace.
I scour the verges, poke around bushes, even peer into the bin area behind the corner shop like a woman on the verge of a very specific type of breakdown. No sign of her. I whisper her name, then hiss it, then mutter increasingly desperate threats under my breath.
