Page 10 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
And realise I’m the only one who hasn’t agreed to this plan yet.
Chapter three
Guy Fox Is Coming to Town
Jasper
The fireworks have just started. Big, slow blooms of light against the deep black sky, the kind of night where your breath hangs in the air and the smell of smoke clings to everything.
Lucy’s perched on my hip, her arms around my neck and one of her boots thudding rhythmically against my thigh. She’s still got her gloves on, miraculously, and is clutching a sparkler that fizzled out two minutes ago but she refuses to let go of.
Beside me, Theo’s got Ivy tucked into his side. Geoff’s nudging Christa again, winding her up— she’s quieter than usual tonight, but Geoff’s been on a mission to crack her since we arrived.
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs theatrically, “Bonfire Night moping is punishable by public shaming and enforced marshmallow consumption.”
“I’m not moping,” Christa replies, clearly moping.
“Then why do you look like a Jane Austen heroine left out in the frost?”
Despite herself, she laughs. One-nil to my brother.
Ivy throws Geoff a look. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Charming,” he corrects.
Theo snorts. “More like persistent.”
Another firework goes up, golden this time, fizzing and falling like a shower of sparks. Lucy gasps dramatically, holding tighter around my neck.
“They’re so loud!” she shouts in my ear.
“They’re meant to be,” I say, adjusting my hold on her. “That’s the whole point.”
From the loudspeakers near the clubhouse, the village volunteer starts reading the classic lines, voice warbling slightly over the mic:
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot...”
Lucy immediately jumps in, shouting along:
“Rememba,rememba, the fifth ofNovemba, Gunpowder,teasin’, and plot!”
I glance up at her. “Treason, Lu.”
She frowns. “That’s what I said.”
Theo turns to grin at us. “Honestly, I like her version better.”
Geoff nods. “Less political.”
Another firework bursts—silver this time, cracking loud across the sky.
Lucy squeals, delighted, kicking her boots and bouncing slightly in my arms.
“Alright, Ladybug,” I say, shifting her weight. “Shall we get that toffee apple before the mob hits the food stalls?”
“Yes please!”
I start weaving us through the edge of the crowd, careful not to elbow anyone still enjoying the last of the fireworks. The smell of fried onions and smoke thickens as we near the stalls, that unmistakable Bonfire Night blend of charred meat, sugar, and cider.
