The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady (Cat Ladies Rule The World #3)

Prologue

Baby, It’s Cold Inside

Miranda

The train reeks of sweat and crisps and something vaguely chemical no one wants to identify.

I shift in my seat, but the back of my legs is stuck, and every movement threatens to peel away a layer of skin.

The fan above me rattles pointlessly. It’s too hot to breathe properly, never mind travel halfway up the country.

Happy birthday to me. Somehow, I thought forty-two might feel different. Less sticky.

I wasn’t supposed to be on a train from Cornwall to London.

But then the flowers arrived just after breakfast, hand-delivered to Irene’s front step in a box big enough to qualify as furniture.

White roses, those droopy purple things florists get excited about, and eucalyptus that smelled like the inside of a fancy spa.

The card was tucked in the middle, properly written out in Sim-Sim’s handwriting.

I wish I could be with you today. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.

Happy birthday, my love.

Sim-Sim

I read it twice. We’ve never been the note-writing type. Not the hearts-and-roses couple. There were no speeches about fate or soulmates, no violins tucked into corners. We got married because we had a seven-year-old and his family wouldn’t stop banging on about it.

They’d been at us for years. “Make it official,” “Think of SJ,” “It’s just the right thing to do.” I lost count of how many times Irene said, “It’s not about tradition, it’s about stability for your son.” In the end, we gave in.

The cake was excellent. SJ wore his first proper suit and danced until he passed out on a pile of coats.

But if it had just been up to me, I’m not sure we’d have bothered.

We already lived together, raised a child together.

The vows felt more like confirming what we were already doing, but in front of two hundred and twenty witnesses and a photographer who kept calling me “Mrs G” like I was someone’s deputy headmistress.

Since then, we’ve carried on the way we always have. Sim-Sim working twelve-hour days, me handling everything else. He’s good at what he does. The firm’s doubled in size since the wedding a year and a half ago. But with it came the stress and the lack of family time.

So when he said he couldn’t come to Cornwall for our summer holidays, I didn’t push. He had a case to sort. SJ and I packed up and left him to it.

And then this morning, the flowers arrived. And the note. And Irene, watching me the way only a mother-in-law can, said firmly, “Go.”

So, I did.

I shift again. Nothing helps. The seat’s too hot, the carriage too loud, and my arse feels laminated.

Home’s still a few hours away. Sim-Sim won’t be expecting me. Won’t be expecting much of anything, actually. I can’t even remember when we did anything remotely romantic or had sex.

That stupid red underwear, the one Amelia talked me into buying back in March, is still in the top drawer.

We were supposed to be shopping for a birthday present for Lizzie and somehow ended up in a shop full of silk and straps and lighting designed to make everything look like a good idea.

She handed it to me without saying much.

Just a little nod and a weirdly firm look, as if I was overdue some kind of awakening.

I snorted and said she’d been spending too much time with Ben.

She went pink, obviously. She always does.

None of us expected quiet, cardigan-wearing Amelia, the epitome of a cat lady, to end up in a full-blown pleasure-dom-arrangement, but here we are.

She never talks about it, not really—just stammers and changes the subject which only makes it funnier, if we’re honest. I know she is happy in her relationship, more than happy, and as her friend I couldn’t hope for more.

But secretly I was probably a little jealous, because I don’t think Sim-Sim and I were ever quite where Amelia and Ben are. We are more practical, more pragmatic.

But maybe that needs to change. I’ll be home tonight. With him. Maybe I’ll wear it... the little red thing.

Maybe he’ll remember why he married me.

Or maybe I’ll end up sitting on the sofa in it, eating crisps and waiting for the washing machine to finish.

Could go either way.

The flat’s silent when I get in.

Cold air hits me the second I open the door and I nearly moan out loud.

Air conditioning’s going full tilt, bless it.

We are probably the envy of most British people—a home with a rare air condition.

That’s what Sim-Sim’s success got us. A swanky flat in Battersea with all the amenities your heart could ask for.

After slipping off my shoes, I drop my bag by the bench in the hall, and glance around. Sim-Sim’s keys aren’t in the tray, which means I’ve beaten him home. Perfect.

I head for the bedroom, toes sinking into the thick carpet, breathing easier already.

The door’s ajar. Sunlight’s spilling in making me squint. For one glorious second, I think about a shower, a glass of wine, maybe even shaving my legs.

Then I see it.

Her.

On her knees.

Pigtails. Tartan mini skirt. Shirt tied under her chest like some sort of budget Britney cosplay. She’s bobbing up and down with real enthusiasm, as if she’s auditioning for a scholarship.

Sim-Sim’s got his head tipped back, shirt half-off, tie dangling like he’s just got home from an exhausting day at the office and now this is the reward. He moans.

“You’re such a good baby girl for daddy.”

For a moment I honestly think I’ve walked into someone else’s flat. I look at the rug. It’s ours. The curtains, the painting over the bed—ours. That is, in fact, my husband. Getting sucked off by a woman more than a decade younger than me.

I don't move. I don’t utter a sound. My brain is still rebooting.

Daddy.

What the fuck? Is that what he is into?

I freeze for three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough to really take it in. The way her pleats swing. The way his hand is on her head guiding her until she makes a gagging noise… a noise that seems to really get him going.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

When I step into the room, they both freeze. She’s halfway to standing, mouth slightly open, pigtails and tartan skirt doing her no favours. He’s just standing there, eyes wide, pure panic on his face, trousers around his ankles and a rapidly softening dick—never a great sight if I may say so.

“Miranda—”

“Oh, do shut up,” I stop him. “I’d hate to interrupt whatever GCSE roleplay this is.”

The woman tugs on the hem of her skirt but she won’t meet my eyes. Good.

I stare down Sim-Sim. It feels like this is the only power I have left: confronting this head on.

“I got the flowers,” I say. “Lovely arrangement, really tasteful. Almost made me think you gave a fuck.”

He winces.

“And the note. Very touching. Really. Especially the part about me being the best thing that ever happened to you. I must admit, I didn’t realise you were measuring that against a blowjob from someone who still gets ID’d for paracetamol.”

She mumbles something. I hold up a hand.

“No. Don’t. You don’t need to explain. I’m not here to scold you.

I’m here because it’s my birthday, and I thought my husband would love for me to pop by given that his card said he wished I could be with him.

I thought maybe I can do something nice for him.

My mistake to assume he wouldn’t arrange for someone else to give him that. ”

He takes a breath like he’s about to go for sympathy. I shake my head.

“I left SJ in Cornwall. I sat on a train for five hours next to a man eating egg salad out of Tupperware. I was going to wear that red underwear I bought for a special occasion. My marriage falling apart wasn’t quite the special occasion I had in mind.”

He still says nothing. Nothing.

I let the silence stretch.

“Well,” I say. “You’ve certainly made this birthday one to remember.”

Then I turn on my heel.

“I’m going to shower. When I come back out, I expect her to be gone. And you to decide whether you’re going to come clean or keep lying through your teeth until the bitter end. Either way, this is over.”

I don’t slam the door; he doesn’t deserve my anger.