Chapter 5 Have Yourself a Merry Little Flat Let
Chapter five
Have Yourself a Merry Little Flat Let
Miranda
The car door creaks like it’s in physical pain as I push it open.
“Alright, Geraldine,” I mutter under my breath, giving the dashboard an encouraging pat.
“You’ve done your best. You may rest.” London to Little Hadlow in a car I bought for the price of a fancy hairdryer.
She rattles, wheezes, and the windscreen wipers have one speed: dramatic panic. But she got us here. Just about.
SJ’s already halfway out, unbuckling himself with purpose. His sadness from a few days ago seems to have been replaced by genuine curiosity. Let’s just hope it stays this way.
I sit for a moment, taking in the house.
It’s... well, it’s stunning. Sort of a fancy modern villa disguised as a countryside retreat—white render, huge windows, sleek lines softened by ivy and those tasteful potted olive trees you only ever see in magazines.
There’s a gravel drive, and the kind of elegant symmetry that says I don’t own IKEA furniture.
SJ leans forward, pressing his face to the glass. “It’s huge.”
“That’s because it’s not all ours,” I say, already texting the girls.
Me
We’ve arrived! Beat the movers. Come and welcome me to country life. I need the moral support
The annexe is on the right side of the main house, but with its own sleek black door and a little path lined with lavender. It looks... solid.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the bell.
I haven’t met Jasper, our new landlord. When I came to see the place, he was apparently off on some business trip in Asia, which sounded either very jet-set or very evasive. His best mate’s girlfriend Stella showed me round and did the whole agreement.
He’s a mystery. And although Ben and Omar assured me that he is a trustworthy guy, I’d rather prefer I could judge for myself.
I take a deep breath and press the bell.
SJ stands beside me, backpack on both shoulders, giving the door a squinty once-over like it might be booby-trapped.
“Do you think he’s nice?” he whispers.
“Ben likes him.” That seems to be enough for SJ. He hero-worships Ben and Coop.
Footsteps.
A pause.
The door opens.
It’s not Jasper.
“Hello!” beams Stella. “Lovely to see you again!”
I blink, regrouping. “Stella—hi. You too.”
She turns her bright smile on SJ.
“And you must be SJ. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
SJ perks up immediately. “From Mum?”
“Of course,” she says. “She told me you’re a Mario Kart champion and take your dinosaur collection very seriously.”
He gives me a satisfied look, like he’s just been correctly identified as royalty.
Stella steps aside and gestures us in. “Come on in. Everything’s ready for you.”
I hesitate. “Is Jasper not back yet?”
“No—still in Singapore. Something about a supplier meeting running over. He is now coming on a later flight, but he asked me to pass on his welcome and to say that he’s very sorry not to be here.”
Of course he is. I nod, keeping my expression polite.
She leads us into the open plan kitchen/living space. Sleek, neutral, much nicer than anything labelled “annexe” usually deserves to be.
“We made a few upgrades,” Stella says, ushering us into the kitchen area. “Bigger fridge. Jasper thought you might need extra freezer space for fish fingers and emergency ice cream.”
I glance around. “Very astute of him.”
“New dishwasher too. The last one sounded like it was processing its feelings.”
SJ trails behind us, quietly impressed. I can see him checking out the cupboards, the shiny tap, the way the floor doesn’t creak. He disappears down the hall.
“All the rooms were repainted,” she adds. “We went neutral. Think calming, with aspirations of taste.”
I raise a brow. “Very Instagram divorce-core.”
She grins. “Exactly.”
SJ calls from the main bedroom. “I want this one! It’s got a bathroom!”
I join him in the master bedroom where he’s standing dead centre like he’s about to plant a flag.
“That’s my room,” I say.
“But it’s got the toilet!”
“And I’m the one who’ll actually clean it. Out you go.”
He groans theatrically but trudges back into the hallway, dragging his feet like I’ve just evicted him from a castle. I guide him into the other room.
“This one’s yours.” I usher him into the second bedroom.
He eyes it like he’s assessing the structural integrity. “It’s alright.”
“You’ll make it brilliant,” I say. “As soon as we get your dinosaurs in formation.”
He drops his bag with a thud and gives a resigned nod, clearly filing this injustice away for future therapy.
Then the doorbell rings.
I know it’s probably the movers. Or the girls. But still—I hesitate.
It doesn’t quite feel like my flat yet. I haven’t earned the muscle memory of it. The familiarity. The right to swing the door open like I belong here.
I glance at Stella.
She gives me an encouraging smile. “It’s all yours now.”
So I square my shoulders, walk to the door, and open it.
Omar is front and centre, one arm balancing a giant shopping bag, the other clutching a toolbox that has seen better days. Before I can say anything, he leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Alright, Miranda,” he says warmly. “Point me to wherever things need assembling, and I shall build you a new life, one Allen key at a time.”
“My flatpack hero,” I say, genuinely tempted to cry on him but holding it together.
Bri appears just behind him, carrying something awkward and lumpy under a blanket, looking far too pleased with herself. She greets me with a one-armed hug and a waft of expensive perfume and sarcasm.
“Hello, darling,” she says. “Nice door. Solid hinges. Very ‘divorced but dignified’.”
I narrow my eyes at the blanket. “What is that?”
“Nothing.”
“Bri—”
Before she can dig herself any deeper into whatever nonsense she’s hiding under that blanket, Stella and SJ appear behind us, joining the fray in the open-plan living space that currently contains nothing but an echo, some keys, and Omar’s very organised chaos.
I gesture between them. “Right, quick intros. Stella, this is Bri and Omar. Bri and Omar, this is Stella—she’s been my saviour on all things logistical and was the one who showed me round.”
Omar straightens slightly, giving Stella a warm smile. “Oh. You’re Callum’s partner, aren’t you?”
“Partner, secretary, occasional conscience,” she replies, breezy. “He couldn’t run his life without me.”
“Sounds familiar,” Bri laughs before poking Omar in his side.
He pulls her in his arms before returning his attention to Stella. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure,” she replies.
And then Bri clears her throat loudly—the sort of theatrical preamble that usually ends in something wildly unnecessary.
“Right,” she says, shifting her grip on the mystery bundle. “Now that we’re all here, I’d like to present a little something.”
Omar smirks knowing.
“A housewarming gift,” she goes on, undeterred. “For Miranda and SJ.”
SJ perks up immediately. “Is it biscuits?”
“No,” Bri says, beaming. “Better.”
SJ’s eyes go wide. “Is it a Nintendo?”
“Different kind of responsibility,” she says.
Then, with a grand flourish, she whips the blanket off—revealing a cat carrier. Inside, two wide-eyed kittens blink up at us, pressed together in a huddle of tiny paws and confusion.
One’s a smoky grey tabby, the other a ridiculous marmalade ginger with too-big ears and the expression of someone startled by fireworks.
SJ gasps so loudly it’s almost a squeak. “KITTENS?!”
I stare. “Bri.”
She shrugs, entirely unapologetic. “You said you might take two.”
“MIGHT!” I repeat. “As in, a theoretical discussion over wine. Not a binding kitten acquisition contract. I haven’t even asked the landlord yet.
” When Bri told us that Zucca couldn’t keep it in his metaphorical pants and managed to get Bella knocked up before Bri could get them both spayed, we all felt sorry for her.
But I never really entertained the idea of adding two kittens to my chaos.
Behind me, Stella laughs. It’s a low, knowing sort of laugh with a glint in her eye that says Oh, you sweet summer tenant.
“It’ll be fine,” she replies breezily.
I squint at her. “Shouldn’t I check with Jasper?”
She waves a hand like I’ve just suggested I get permission to own a kettle. “Honestly, if he were that concerned, he should’ve made the effort to be here.”
Omar coughs into his coffee. “Are you saying you’re staging a kitten coup?”
“It’s not a coup,” Bri says primly. “It’s a gentle, purring act of kindness.”
“Tell that to the furniture,” I mutter, peering back into the carrier where the ginger one is now gnawing enthusiastically on the bars like it’s in training for a prison break.
SJ crouches beside it, eyes wide. “What are their names?”
Bri crouches too, peering in with the air of a benevolent animal smuggler. “The tabby’s a boy. The ginger’s a girl. I figured you and your mum should each name one.”
SJ turns to me, solemn. “Can I pick the boy?”
“Sure.” There is no way I can now say he can’t have these kittens and Bri very much knew this. She bloody owes me big time!
SJ beams when Bri opens the carrier carefully and lifts out the grey tabby—who immediately starts squirming like a furry eel—and gently hands him over. SJ cradles the kitten awkwardly but reverently, like it’s both sacred and possibly explosive.
“I’m naming him Thor,” he announces.
“Big name for a small cat,” Omar murmurs.
“He’ll grow into it,” SJ says, deadly serious. “He’s already mighty.”
Thor chirps and then tries to climb up SJ’s hoodie using only claws and ambition.
“And what about her?” Bri asks, lifting the ginger kitten from the carrier and handing her to me.
She’s so light it’s almost shocking—all fluff and curiosity, her whiskers twitching as she blinks up at me. Each of her paws ends in neat white spots, like she’s wearing tiny socks. Ridiculously pink toe beans peek out as she stretches against my hand.
I sigh, already gone.
“Twinklesocks,” I say.
Omar blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Twinklesocks,” I repeat, deadpan. “Don’t question it. It came to me.”
Bri looks like Christmas just came early. “I love it.”
Thor chirps again and headbutts SJ’s chin. Twinklesocks yawns in my arms like she’s politely pretending she didn’t just try to bite my thumb.
Bri folds her arms, looking smugger than someone who’s just won a national award for emotional manipulation. “Welcome to the cat lady club.”
I narrow my eyes. “What did you do with the other three?”
She doesn’t even flinch. “Fi took one. Lizzie and Coop adopted the other two—technically Lizzie did, but Coop’s already started referring to himself as a ‘cat dad’ unironically.”
Omar groans into his coffee. “This is an infestation disguised as a lifestyle.”
Bri beams. “We are now officially five cat ladies. Resistance is futile.”
“Five!” I echo. “Is this a friend group or an organised cult?”
“Why not both?” she says brightly. “We’ve got matching lint rollers and everything.”
Thor attempts to climb SJ’s hoodie again, back legs flailing as he clings to the zip like he’s scaling Everest.
Bri claps her hands. “And! As another housewarming gift, I brought supplies.”
Omar sighs, already turning for the door. “I’ll get them.”
“Love you,” Bri calls after him.
I eye her warily. “What kind of supplies?”
“Kitten stuff,” she says cheerfully. “Litter trays, food, toys, the works. You think I’d turn up with live animals and no infrastructure? Please.”
I blink. “That... actually feels responsible.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve grown.”
Omar reappears a moment later, arms full: three litter trays stacked inside each other like some sort of plastic nesting doll, a massive bag of litter, tins of food, and a small bin full of crinkly, jingly, probably-already-annoying toys.
I stare. “Three trays?”
Bri nods. “Cats are territorial. You need one per cat plus one to avoid civil unrest.”
SJ looks impressed. “That’s cool.”
“It’s cat math,” Bri says, handing him a packet of tiny, feathered mice. “Very serious.”
Stella, still lingering with mild amusement, glances down the hall. “There’s a utility room with the washing machine. Might be good to put two in there?”
“Brilliant,” Bri says. “And maybe one in the family bathroom, for... overflow?”
“Perfect,” Stella replies, with the ease of someone who has never, and will never, clean a litter tray.
“Come on, SJ,” Bri says, grabbing a tray. “Let’s set up the royal thrones.”
He turns to me, glowing with purpose. “Can you hold Thor?”
“Sure,” I say, taking the wiggly kitten out of SJ’s arms. “But don’t get used to this much excitement about cat toilets. The novelty wears off.”
“I’ll always help,” SJ promises, bouncing off after Bri, arms full of feline sanitation gear.
“He’ll forget he said that within three days,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on Thor, who is now gnawing enthusiastically on a strand of my hair.
Stella laughs. “Of course he will. That’s the parenting deal.”
“And who ends up scooping the clumps?” I ask the room, to no one in particular.
Twinklesocks meows sleepily from her spot against my chest and flicks her tail like she knows exactly who.