Page 72 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Miranda
I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at a growing mountain of clothes on the bed while Thor attacks a sleeve like a thousand treats are hidden in it.
Twinklesocks surveys the chaos from a nest of scarves, tail twitching with disapproval.
I hold up a navy wrap dress. Classic. Elegant. Also last worn to a parent-teacher conference where I got told SJ had “too many opinions about the usefulness of Maths.” I toss it aside. The pile grows.
Thor launches himself off the chest of drawers and lands belly-first in a tangle of tights. He wriggles like a ferret, pops his head out of one leg hole, and meows triumphantly.
“No one invited you to this crisis,” I say, kneeling to rescue a silk top from his claws. He immediately bats at my hair. “Saboteur.”
The bedroom floor is a battlefield: shoes with no partners, hangers that have staged a coup, a lone bra flung across the dresser like it surrendered early. I dig out a green blouse. Hold it up. Too shiny. Back in the pile.
I glance at the mirror.
My cheeks are bright red. My hair’s doing its own thing. And somewhere in all of this, I’ve lost my glass of wine.
The date isn’t until tomorrow. It’s just dinner. But my heart’s thudding like I’m due onstage and forgot to memorise my lines.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze, one hand still tangled in the navy wrap dress, the other trying to fend off Thor, who’s decided my bra strap is the enemy. Twinklesocks has climbed into the laundry basket and is kneading a sequin skirt.
The bell goes again. Longer this time.
“Fuck. Sim-Sim.”
I groan, dropping the dress. It slipped my mind that he’s popping by to collect SJ’s Arsenal kit.
Kittens scatter as I step over a jumble of cardigans, still barefoot, a bit sweaty, and looking like I lost a fight with a discount rail.
I unlock the front door and swing it open.
Sim-Sim’s standing there in jeans and a soft-looking jumper, hands in his pockets, hair slightly windswept like he walked here rather than coming by car, but still somehow manages to look effortlessly put together.
“Hey,” he says with a small smile.
“Come in,” I reply, stepping aside. “Before the kittens try to launch themselves into traffic.”
He steps in just as Twinklesocks appears as if she heard the wordescapeand is ready to commit. I nudge her back with my foot as he shuts the door behind him.
His eyes skim over me—oversized jumper, leggings, bun barely holding its shape.
“You look nice,” he says.
I huff a laugh. “I look like I’ve been wrestling a tumble dryer.”
He shrugs. “Still beautiful, though.”
Something twists in my stomach—confusion, maybe. Or indigestion. Definitely not helpful.
“Give me a sec,” I mutter, already halfway down the hall. Since SJ and I moved out here, my interactions with Sim-Sim have improved. I don’t know if it is the distance or that I no longer spend every waking minute plotting his demise, but something has shifted. It reminds me of the time back before we got together.
SJ’s room is a mess of Lego, half-folded clothes, and at least three socks that may or may not be from the same century. I unearth the Arsenal shirt from beneath a suspiciously glittery hoodie, fold it with a half-hearted pat, and head back.
When I return, Sim-Sim’s standing in the middle of the living room, holding Thor like he’s some kind of purring prize. The kitten’s draped across his arm, eyes half-closed, vibrating with smug contentment.
“He jumped into my arms,” Sim-Sim says with a soft smile. “Didn’t have the heart to move him.”
