Chapter 30 Feline Navidad
Chapter thirty
Feline Navidad
Miranda
The fairy lights are blinking wildly, making me wonder if I should warn people of seizure risk, the stereo is stuck on its third loop of Michael Bublé, and I’ve been handed no fewer than four different canapés I didn’t ask for… three of which involved stilton.
The Christmas Eve party at my ex-mother-in-law’s is in full swing.
All day, I’ve been chopping, stirring, fetching, folding, fluffing, plating. I’ve ironed napkins. Napkins. And while I was doing all that, Sim-Sim’s mum talked non-stop about how happy she is to have “the family” together again. How lovely it is. How much Sim-Sim regrets his “little wobble.”
Meanwhile, the men—SJ included—buggered off to do the “last-minute shop,” which apparently involved an hour in John Lewis and then a three-hour pub lunch.
Now it’s nearly eight, the heating is set to tropical rainforest, I’m in a party dress that’s more ambitious than my mood, and I’m standing next to the buffet table trying to remember how to breathe whilst wearing Spanx.
“Miranda.”
I glance up. Sim-Sim appears beside me, holding two glasses of Prosecco.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, offering me one of the glasses. There is definitely longing in his voice. He is not just saying it.
“Thank you,” I say, a bit too quickly, taking the glass from him. The fizz tickles my nose as I raise it, mostly for something to do with my hands. “I, um… can’t decide what to eat. It’s all a bit—” I gesture vaguely at the mountain of sausage rolls, cold salmon, and festive quiche, “—much.”
Before he can reply, his mum swoops in like she’s been waiting for a cue.
“Oh, salad’s probably the safest,” Irene says, plucking an olive off the buffet and popping it into her mouth. “You know how heavy Christmas Day can be, all that roast and pudding.”
I nod, offering a polite smile. I already had some salad, actually.
“And now that things are looking up with Sim-Sim,” she continues, voice low and conspiratorial, “you’ll want to shift that little bit of Kummerspeck, hmm?”
She says it like it’s an endearment. A cheerful pat on the arm follows. “Emotional eating weight,” she adds, like I might not know what the word means. “Very common after a breakup. I read it in Grazia.” Then she stalks off.
My mouth opens, then shuts.
Sim-Sim gives an awkward chuckle. “Oh, you know how she is.”
Do I? Because she just called me emotionally bloated with a smile and a sprig of holly.
He turns to me, softening. “Anyway... thanks again for coming. Really. I’m glad you’re here.”
I offer him a tight smile. “Of course.”
But something prickles—under my skin, under the party dress, under the carefully balanced good behaviour. Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the subtle way everyone keeps treating me like I’ve already come back, full circle, no questions asked.
I excuse myself before I say something regrettable. “I just need a moment. Back in a bit.”
He nods, distracted by a cousin calling his name across the room.
Upstairs, the house is quieter. Still smells like potpourri and that expensive hand soap his mum keeps in ceramic dispensers shaped like geese.
I let myself into the guest room—the one she offered with great reluctance after I made it extremely clear I wouldn’t be sharing with Sim-Sim.
The bedding is crisp. There’s a Christmas-themed cushion that says Let it Snow in gold sequins. I sit down on the edge of the bed and exhale, finally, my fingers digging into the edge of the mattress.
I sit there for a while, smoothing down the front of my dress like that might somehow make it feel less tight, less deliberate.
Alright, yes. I’ve put on a little weight since the divorce. Wine and toast and occasional rage-baking will do that. But I’m still a size twelve, not that it should matter either way.
And yet.
The moment Irene said Kummerspeck, it was like a switch flipped. Like everything I’ve been holding together with politeness and seasonal cheer suddenly felt a bit flimsy.
I frown at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Still me. Still standing. Slightly shinier version, tonight. Lipstick, party dress, shoes I regret. But not unrecognisable.
Irene’s comment shouldn’t have got under my skin.
But maybe it wasn’t just what she said.
Maybe it was the fact that Sim-Sim didn’t say anything at all.
He just stood there. Sipped his drink. Carried on like it was normal, like it was fine, for his mother to imply I’d let myself go.
If he really liked me, really wanted this to work... shouldn’t he have said something?
But then... I didn’t say anything either, did I?
I just stood there, with my fizz and my frozen smile, and let the moment slide past like it didn’t matter.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe it does.
The scream from downstairs pierces through the floorboards, followed by Irene’s voice, sharp and echoing.
“Miranda!”
I’m already up and halfway to the door before the second shout.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the scene awaiting me could be from a middle-class sitcom with too much white wine.
Irene is standing in the middle of the living room, jaw clenched, pointing at a horrified woman whose name I definitely should remember but don’t.
Said woman is holding her handbag at arm’s length like it contains radioactive material.
“I told you to keep those cats in your bedroom,” Irene snaps, her eyes narrowing on me like I’ve personally let loose a plague.
“I—sorry—what happened?” I stammer, looking between the handbag, the woman, and the suspiciously smug face of my eight-year-old, who’s doubled over in silent hysterics.
The woman waves the bag. “That cat—that one—peed in it!”
I follow her glare and spot Twinklesocks staring back at me from inside the handbag like it is a litter tray. She blinks at me slowly, entirely unbothered. I mumble another apology and scoop her up, trying not to touch anything damp in the process.
SJ lets out an unhelpful snort-laugh behind me.
And then I see him.
Thor, belly to the floor under the buffet table, delicately nibbling what appears to be a stolen piece of roast chicken.
I close my eyes. Just for a second.
Then I scoop him up too, silently deciding I don’t want to know how he got it.
“Sorry again,” I murmur to the room at large, and make a swift, undignified exit back up the stairs, arms full of furry shame.
Back in the guest room, I shut the door with my foot and exhale.
Bringing the cats may not have been my finest decision.
The moment we’re back in the room, both cats start purring like they’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.
Twinklesocks headbutts my arm, all innocence and fur, while Thor settles onto my feet like he’s claimed the territory. I sigh, drop down onto the bed, and slide back until I’m resting against the pillow.
They climb straight onto my lap and make themselves comfortable. Within thirty seconds, they’re both asleep. Purring. Dead weight. Warm. Unapologetic.
I am officially trapped. Emotionally and now physically.
I reach carefully for my phone, angling my arm around Twinklesocks’ back paw, and open a new message to Jasper.
Me
You’ll never believe what just happened. Twinklesocks peed in some posh woman’s handbag and Thor stole chicken from the buffet. My ex-MIL nearly combusted.
My thumb hovers over send.
It would be so easy. Just a small message. A funny one. No drama. No pressure. Just... a little connection.
But as I stare at the screen, the bubble of comfort starts to fade. No, I can’t do this to him. I delete the message.
The screen goes blank. Quiet.
I set the phone down and lean my head back, listening to the rhythm of two sleeping cats and the muffled chaos still unfolding downstairs.
Still not my finest plan.
But at least they didn’t knock over the tree. Yet.