‘Well, Soph? Looking better already, don’t you think?’ Debbie asked. Her overalls were covered in dust and thick strands of hair had slipped out of her ponytail.
Sophie had headphones in her ears, but nodded in agreement. Debbie pulled a chair up to the table for Sophie, and Jo handed her a plate. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled under her breath, spooning out some rice and a little curry.
‘What do you think of the tiles, Sophie?’ Jo asked her, gesturing proudly to the flagstones.
‘Dunno, could do with a clean, I suppose,’ Sophie answered noncommittally.
Jo pretended to take offence. ‘She’s a chip off the old block, isn’t she?’ she said to Debbie. ‘You work your fingers to the bone, and all she does is complain about the dirt! You’re as bad as your mother, Sophie!’
Sophie looked chastened and regretful. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Don’t worry, Sophie,’ Debbie cut in. ‘She’s just pulling your leg, aren’t you, Jo?’
Jo grinned, and Sophie surreptitiously slipped her headphones out of her ears, placing her phone on the table. ‘Fire’s nice,’ she said, chewing a mouthful of curry.
The three of them looked towards the stove, where I had wasted no time in stretching out to bask in its warm glow. ‘It certainly looks like Molly approves,’ Debbie chuckled.
Debbie and Jo ate ravenously after the day’s exertions and, with Sophie picking at the food as well, I began to despair of there being any leftovers for me. Although I had spent a quiet day indoors, I was unusually hungry. I waited patiently for them all to finish, and eventually Debbie put the foil trays on the floor for me to lick. She cleared away the plates, and when she returned from the kitchen she was clutching a paint chart.
‘Right, ladies, your assistance is required. I need to choose a colour for the walls, and can’t decide between Mouse’s Breath, Smoked Mackerel and Drizzle. What do you think?’
Debbie held up the chart in front of them. Jo wrinkled her nose uncertainly and Sophie looked nonplussed.
‘Mum, they’re all horrible,’ she said. ‘Mousy-grey, fishy-grey or rainy-grey. Urgh!’
Debbie looked downcast, and turned to Jo for backup. ‘I thought they were muted and tasteful. Very Stourton. Don’t you agree, Jo?’
Jo avoided her gaze. ‘Pass it here,’ she said, sidestepping the question. She put her hand out to take the chart from Debbie. ‘They may be very Stourton, but I think Sophie’s right. There must be something here with a bit more colour.’
Jo unfolded the chart, holding it up to the light every now and then. ‘Aha!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely this has to be the one!’ She turned the chart towards the others and pointed at a square of pale pink.
‘I suppose it’s nice,’ Debbie said half-heartedly, still smarting from the unanimous dismissal of her favoured shades.
‘You don’t sound too sure, Debs, but you know what’s going to clinch the deal for you? It’s called Molly’s Blushes.’
At the sound of my name I looked up from the empty foil tray, which I had been licking across the floor.
Debbie took the paint chart for a closer look. ‘I suppose pink might make the place look friendly,’ she said uncertainly. ‘What do you think, Soph?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s all right, I s’pose. Better than grey, at least.’
Debbie frowned at the chart thoughtfully. ‘Yes, okay, why not? Everyone likes pink, right?’ she said decisively, her frown giving way to a smile.
‘That settles it!’ Jo announced, pouring out two glasses of wine. ‘To Molly’s Blushes! Here’s to a fun-packed day of painting tomorrow.’
‘Molly’s Blushes!’ Debbie repeated, clinking her glass against Jo’s. ‘Come on, Soph, join in – it’s a toast,’ she chided.
Sophie rolled her eyes and reluctantly lifted her glass of water. ‘Molly’s Blushes,’ she mumbled self-consciously.
They all looked at me as they sipped their drinks, and I was relieved that none of them could see my actual blushes through my fur.
21
Debbie was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She and Jo had shared a bottle of wine with their takeaway meal and judging by Debbie’s puffy eyes and pallid skin this morning, they had opened a second bottle. I was hungry but, seeing her fragile state, decided to wait until Debbie had a cup of tea in her hand before mewing for my breakfast. She pulled the fridge door open and peered inside, letting out a loud groan.
‘Soph! Did you finish the milk last night?’ she called huskily.
‘Might’ve,’ Sophie replied vaguely from inside the bathroom. ‘I had a bowl of cereal at bedtime.’
Debbie closed the fridge and pressed her forehead against the door with a pained expression. ‘There’s no milk left and I have a half-made cup of tea in front of me. Could you please pop out and get a pint?’
‘What?’ Sophie yelled over the sound of running water.
‘I said’ – Debbie was shouting now – ‘since you finished the milk, could you please go and buy some more?’ She winced in pain at the sound of her own voice.
The water pipes fell silent as Sophie turned off the taps. Debbie emptied her mug of half-made tea into the sink and rubbed her face, catching sight of me at last as I sat patiently in the doorway. ‘All right, Molly, I know. You want feeding, don’t you?’
I stood next to my dish while she squeezed out a cat-food pouch, starting to gag when some of the meaty liquid dribbled over her fingers. ‘Urgh, I feel sick,’ she moaned, rinsing her hand under the kitchen tap, as I tucked happily into my breakfast.
While I was eating, Sophie appeared in the doorway. She had pulled jeans and a hoodie over her pyjamas and was clumsily stuffing bare feet into a pair of trainers.
‘Thanks, love,’ Debbie said, handing her some money.
Sophie grunted and ran downstairs. I followed her out, slipping through the café door behind her.
I rarely ventured further than the alleyway and churchyard on my excursions out of the café, but early on a Sunday morning was a good time to roam further afield. The air smelt sweet and clean, untainted by the fumes of passing traffic, and the narrow streets were peaceful, devoid of shoppers and tourists. Sophie turned left, heading for the market square, but I set off in the other direction. I meandered along the quiet cobbled streets, pausing to watch as a group of Lycra-clad cyclists sped past. In the brilliant sunshine of early spring it was difficult to imagine that vicious alley-cats lurked in hidden passageways, and yet I made sure to give a wide berth to every alley I passed.
As I made my way back along the cobbles towards the cafe I saw a figure standing in front of the bay window. She had one hand pressed against the glass, shading her eyes from the bright reflection as she peered inside. Dropping to my haunches, I crept closer, my hackles rising as soon as I noticed the familiar shopping trolley by her side. When I was a couple of feet away, the old woman noticed my movement at the edge of her vision and spun round to face me. Sensing hostility and alert to possible danger, I stopped mid-step, one paw hovering off the ground, tail twitching as she glared at me across the cobbles.
Without saying a word, the old woman grabbed her shopping trolley and thrust it forward with both hands. Its wheels scraped on the ground as it lunged towards me. I darted effortlessly out of its path and watched the trolley wobble, before falling sideways, landing on the street with a thud.