‘No he doesn’t,’ I smile. ‘He adores you.’
‘Hmm, I’m not so sure. Hang on a minute.’ Tom lifts the kitten up to his ear and pretends to listen to him talking. ‘What’s that, little fella?’ he asks Mr Cheeks before turning back to face me. ‘He says I should kiss you and that will make you take him in.’
‘Oh did he?’ I try not to laugh.
‘Yep.’ Tom places Mr Cheeks down on the rug before lifting my chin and pushing me back on the sofa. But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he lifts my hands up over my head, secures them under a cushion and then tickles me all over until I can bear it no longer.
‘Stooooop. Please,’ I gasp, now desperate to feel his lips on mine. Having his face in such close proximity is divine, but such a massive tease, especially when I can’t move to touch him.
Eventually, I manage to wriggle my arms out from under the cushion and slip them around Tom’s back instead.
‘So you’ll let him live with you then?’ Tom props himself up on one elbow so he’s lying next to me now, and does puppy-dog eyes. ‘I’ll cover all his expenses. Vet bills, vaccines, food, etc.,’ he pleads, and I can’t help thinking how incredible he is. Kind, funny, and he seems to really care about this stray kitten – which, let’s face it, he could have just ignored, as I’m sure lots of men would have done after being woken up in the middle of the night. But not Tom, he was giving the scrawny, bedraggled cat a bath at 4 a.m.! That’s proper tenderness right there …
‘OK, on one condition.’ I shake my head in surrender.
‘Anything. I couldn’t bear to leave him at an animal shelter. Not now. Not after everything he’s been through, and he’s already used to a certain living standard too. It would be too cruel for words. We could share him. And then at least I’d know he was safe when I’m away on business.’ Tom tickles me again.
‘OK. Don’t milk it,’ I say, trying to catch my breath as I push his hand away.
‘Ha! Nice pun. I like it.’ I give him a blank look. ‘Cat. Milk lovers.’ He winks. ‘Oh never mind,’ he adds, smiling cheekily. ‘So, what’s the condition?’
‘That you do everything Mr Cheeks tells you to,’ I say, trying to keep a serious face.
‘Hmmm, OK,’ Tom replies slowly and suggestively, circling his index finger over the back of my hand. I lean towards Mr Cheeks, pretending to listen to him speak.
‘He says the first thing you must do is kiss me.’ And Tom does. My tummy flips over and over as I roll onto my side and melt into his arms, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy. Not ever. And now we have a kitten in common. A bona fide joint responsibility, and everyone knows what that means … I wonder if it’s too soon to say the L word?
Eight shopping weeks until Christmas
It’s Monday evening in Mulberry-On-Sea and, by the size of Sam’s smile, it’s obvious she has some exciting news to share. I close the front door to my flat behind her and she practically skips on into the shoebox-sized lounge, closely followed by a gust of crisp, wintery-cold air. Taking her swingy faux-fur cape, I bundle it onto a radiator to keep warm.
‘It’s blooming perishing out there.’ Sam whips off her gloves and rubs her hands together before pulling an exaggerated freezing face. ‘And with only fifty-four days until Christmas Day – well, I bet it snows. Just imagine, a proper, gloriously glistening white Christmas, now wouldn’t that be magical?’
‘Sure would,’ I say, handing her the latest edition of I Heart TV magazine. Sam loves all those soaps and reality shows. Me too. And there’s a special sneak preview feature inside, of what’s on over Christmas. I was perusing the wine aisle in Tesco when she texted me to get her a copy.
‘Thanks Georgie.’ She grins and takes the magazine. ‘It’ll be like our very own giant snow globe. We could even go ice-skating. Mandy, who works at the town hall, came in the other day for a chocolate orange cupcake with banoffee coffee and said they’re building a rink in the market square in the centre of town. Apparently there’s going to be real reindeers and stalls selling hot chocolate with huge dollops of squirty cream dusted with cinnamon and mini-marshmallows, and, well, she didn’t actually go into that much detail, but you know what I mean … they’re bound to, aren’t they? And roasted chestnuts and all those handcrafted Christmassy gifts that have no use what-so-ever, but we still love them anyway.’ She pauses to catch her breath, her natural blonde corkscrew curls bouncing around her shoulders. ‘In fact, I’m going to see about getting a stall. I could sell mugs of steaming mulled wine and sticky sausage sandwiches, and what about slabs of fruity Christmas cake stacked high with velvety melt-in-the-mouth marzipan icing? Mm-mmm. Yes, everyone loves cake!’
Sam owns Cupcakes At Carrington’s, the café concession on the fifth floor of Carrington’s department store, and is a real foodie. She’s also privy to all kinds of tantalising gossip gleaned from her loyal customers, office workers from the firms around the market square in the centre of town, staff from the hotels down along the seafront, and just about everyone who lives or works within a ten-mile radius. When Felicity Ashbeck-Smyth, one of Carrington’s regular customers and owner of Mulberry-On-Sea’s very own temple of holistic enlightenment, was caught with a cannabis plant in her yoga studio, Sam was the first to know. And Sam’s café really is the best place in Mulberry if you fancy a legendary afternoon tea. Cupcakes and scones piled high with strawberry jam and clotted cream mingled with the cutest little artisan bread rolls crammed with locally sourced ham and delicious homemade chutney. You just can’t beat it after a hard day’s shopping at Carrington’s, the store with more, as our strapline says.
‘Never mind the squirty cream. I want to hear your news.’ I steer her towards the sofa before flopping down on a beanbag nearby.
‘Ohmigod. I can’t believe I’ve been here for a whole five minutes and still not told you, I’m practically bursting. I found out last night, but wanted to say face to face. Georgie, you will die when I tell you.’ Sam leans over to clutch my arm.
‘Come on then.’ I nod, encouragingly.
‘OK, after three, because you know I’ve fantasised about this moment for so long that I’m not even sure I can actually say the words out loud, just in case I’m dreaming.
‘For crying out loud. Will you please tell me?’ I laugh, now absolutely desperate to hear her news.
‘Right, deep breath. One two three … I’m pregnant!’ she screams, clapping her hands together up under her chin. Pure bliss radiates around her like an aura as I take in the news.
‘Oh Sam, that’s fantastic, I’m so happy for you. Come here.’ After hauling myself out of the beanbag, I reach across to give her an enormous hug. Sam has wanted to be part of a big family for as long as I’ve known her, and that must be fifteen years, at least. We used to go to the same boarding school, before I got kicked out after Dad gambled away everything we had. He sold secrets from the trade floor of the bank where he worked and ended up in prison for five and a half years, but that’s a whole other story.
Sam and I shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. She was devastated, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned her for years now, I think she still struggles to understand why