The fire alarm in Emily’s house went off before she even stepped inside. The stairwell reeked of smoke, soapy water trickled down the steps, and the air itself seemed to whisper, *Turn back… Better not go in.* But Emily, a hardened woman—the head of a thriving company—was not one to retreat.
She pushed open the door, dropped the bouquet from the corporate gala onto the hall table, kicked off her heels as if shedding the weight of the day, and slid into her slippers. Though, judging by the flood on the floor, wellingtons might have been wiser. Inside, something roared, spat, and smoked. In the corner, the cat howled like a banshee.
“Albert?! What in God’s name is going on here?” she barked, wading through steam and the stench of burnt fat.
Her husband emerged from the depths of the flat. Barefoot, in nothing but his undergarments, his face smudged with soot and scrapes, a black eye blooming, and his head wrapped in a towel like some desert nomad. He looked less like a man preparing for a celebration and more like a soldier who’d faced down a flamethrower.
“Emmy… thought you’d be later… the gala, you host it. Usually runs till—”
Emily didn’t blink. She sank onto the ottoman, pressed her fingers to her temples, and said flatly, “Report. Everything. Skip the ‘my darling’ and ‘don’t fret.’ I fretted when the creditors came knocking in the nineties. I fretted when the business nearly collapsed. I don’t do panic anymore. Now—out with it. What *have* you done?”
Albert swallowed.
“Wanted a surprise. For the occasion. You deserve it, love. Thought I’d tidy up, do the laundry, roast the beef, scrub the floors—”
“The *beef*?” Emily narrowed her eyes.
“Not the beef—the washing machine. It leaked. Well, not at first. I put the beef in the oven, then ran the bath, then tackled the washing machine. And then—the cat.”
“The cat’s alive?”
“Course!” Albert huffed. “Just a bit damp. And… overwrought. Swear, he wasn’t in the machine when I started it. Must’ve… slipped in after.”
“*Slipped* into a *closed* washing machine?!”
“Maybe… oozed?”
Emily buried her face in her hands.
“Right. Go on. But show me the cat first. Need to be sure *something* survived this circus.”
“Er… He’s in the parlour. Tied up. For his own good. And to dry him off.”
“All limbs intact?”
“All four. Just… immobilised. Temporarily.”
“And then?”
“I went to hang the laundry, caught a whiff of burning. Opened the oven—beef was charcoal. Tossed in more oil—went up in flames. Singed my eyebrows. Then the cat screeched. Ran to the washing machine—wouldn’t open. Cat behind the glass, eyes like a demon’s. Screaming! So there I was—between hell in the oven and hell in the machine. Grabbed a crowbar. Smashed it. Cat shot out… and chaos followed.”
“Dear Lord,” Emily breathed.
“He shattered two vases, ruined the rug, tore down the curtains, clawed the wallpaper, smashed the champagne. The neighbours threatened to call the constable *and* an exorcist. I caught him. Tethered him. Drying him. And—Emmy—I was trying to surprise you.”
Emily stood, strode into the parlour. The sight might’ve felled a faint-hearted woman, but not her. The cat—bound to the radiator, its muzzle wrapped in a scarf, smoke in the air, puddles, broken glass. Like a scene from a war dispatch. Albert fluttered behind her, stammering:
“He wouldn’t stay put! Worried he wouldn’t dry. And to muffle the yowling—covered his mouth. But it’s fine!”
Emily untied the cat, wiped it down with Albert’s towel, cradled it.
“You absolute fool, Bertie. He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washing machine, I doubt much scares him now.”
Perching on the sofa with the cat, she levelled a look at her husband.
“Well?”
“Well *what*?” Albert mumbled. “Shall I hang myself now, or later?”
“Congratulate me, you clot. It’s Mothering Sunday.”
Albert jolted, bolted from the room, and returned a moment later with great ceremony. Dropped to one knee, hands clasped behind his back.
“Emmy, my light. Thirty years with you, and I’m still in awe. You’re strong, beautiful, patient, and loved. Happy Mothering Sunday!”
He held out a ring box and a mangled, half-plucked bouquet.
“Flowers were fine… till the cat… you know.”
Emily sighed, sniffed the roses.
“They even smell. And—miracle of miracles—not of smoke. Bertie, no more experiments. Just flowers. Just a hug. Just *don’t burn the house down*. Understood?”
“Just wanted something special. You get masterpieces at work, and I… wanted it heartfelt. Homely. With a spark.”
“You got your spark,” Emily chuckled. “And then some. Along with fire brigade warnings. Now—let’s salvage what’s left. Apologise to the neighbours. Before they *do* call an exorcist. Though she might have her own Bertie. Just as… *inventive*. Who knows what mess *she’s* wrangling.”
At that, the cat yawned, coiled its tail around Emily’s leg, and—as if in solidarity—gave Albert a pointed *pfft*.
The celebration was a triumph. One for the ages.
