Page 55 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Sure enough, both cats are perched at the far end of the open plan like tiny, judgemental spectators. Twinklesocks is sitting on the cat tree, tail flicking, watching Miranda intently as if grading her plumbing technique. Thor is crouched beside the sofa, ears alert, tracking every movement like he’s about to pounce on the leaking pipe.
“They’ve been therethe whole time,” SJ says, a little proud. “They like drama.”
“I know the type,” I mutter, stepping closer with Lucy still clamped in my arms. She’s pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, and zipped up to the neck like a very short, extremely alert burrito.
I set her down and peel off her coat. Mine follows, both hung hastily over the nearest chair. She darts over to the kittens without hesitation.
“Right,” I say, scanning the puddle situation. “SJ, would you mind keeping Lucy and the cats away from the wet area? Your mum and I need to sort this before it escalates into a full aquatic event.”
SJ nods immediately, serious as anything. “Do you want to see my new Lego castle?” he asks Lucy.
“Yes! Does it have traps?”
“Obviously.”
He scoops up both kittens—one under each arm—with practiced efficiency, then leads Lucy off toward the hallway. “We’ll go to my room,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve got a blanket fort and stickers.”
Lucy gasps. “Iloveblanket forts.” And just like that, they’re gone.
I glance at the spreading puddle, then nudge open the side door.
“Back in a sec,” I say, grabbing my coat from the chair. “Just going to shut off the mains.”
Miranda looks up from under the sink, one arm still elbow-deep in catastrophe. “Of course it’soutside. Why wouldn’t it be outside? That makes perfect sense.”
“I didn’t build this place,” I say. “I just wrestle the stopcock.”
She blinks. “That sounds rude.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What are you? Ten?”
She snorts under her breath, but I catch the faint flush rising along her cheekbone. Flustered. Still a bit damp. Still trying to act like she’s got the upper hand when she’s half-stuck under a cupboard with a soaked sleeve and a cat paw print on her back.
I step outside into the cold.
The panel’s half-frozen and stubborn as hell, but eventually gives way with a judder and a metallic creak. I twist the valve hard. Pipes groan in protest, then fall quiet.
When I return, Miranda’s sitting back on her heels, shaking out her wrist. There’s a streak of something unidentifiable across her forehead and her hair’s doing that wispy, static thing from being both wet and annoyed. She looks like she’s survived a mild hurricane and is now trying to style it out.
“Sorted,” I say, peeling off my coat again and chucking it back over the chair. “The flood has been demoted to light damp.”
“Thank fuck,” she mutters, dragging her sleeve across her brow. “I was one dish towel away from declaring maritime law.”
I crouch down beside her and peer into the cupboard. The pipe’s still weeping, but no longer sobbing. A thin trickle pools gently beneath it.
“I think we can patch this,” I say. “Towel, tape, wishful thinking. Should hold until we get someone competent.”
She grabs a roll of duct tape off the counter and passes it over without ceremony. “We’re aiming for functional, not pretty.”
“That’s been my motto since Year Nine.”
She grins, quick and involuntary.
As I reach into the cupboard, her arm brushes mine. Just a moment. But warm. Solid. Enough.
“You know,” she says, voice slightly steadier now, “I’d planned on using tonight to finally put the clean bedding on and watchBake Offin peace.”
“And instead, you got me in your cupboard with a wrench.”
