“The Holiday No One Expected”
The old flat on the outskirts of Manchester reeked of disaster, thinly veiled by the chaos of celebration. Even on the stairwell, Emily could smell the acrid smoke, and streams of soapy water trickled down the steps as if the entire building had flooded. She kicked off her worn-out heels at the door, tossed the bouquet from the office party onto the side table, and slipped into her slippers—wishing she’d worn Wellington boots instead. The floor was a swamp. From deep inside the flat came the frantic screeching of a cat, mingled with hissing, growling, and the stench of burning.
“James, what in God’s name?!” Emily shouted, her stomach twisting with dread.
James appeared instantly—barefoot, in just his boxers, face smeared with soot and scratches, a livid bruise under one eye. A tea towel was wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban, as if he’d survived a street brawl.
“Em, you’re back already?” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “Thought the office do would keep you late—being the boss and all…”
Emily sank into a chair, arms crossed.
“Out with it, you disaster. What did you do this time?”
“Love, don’t panic—” he began, but his voice cracked.
“I panicked when loan sharks came knocking in the ’90s,” Emily cut in. “I worried when the financial crash nearly tanked the business. After that, nothing fazes me. Spit it out—what’s happened?”
James sighed like a man facing the gallows.
“Wanted to surprise you. Make it special. Took the day off, tidied up, did the washing, got lamb for dinner. Went to the market and everything. Then it all went tits up.”
“Lamb?” she repeated, sensing disaster.
“No, the washing machine,” he admitted. “Loaded it, popped the lamb in the oven, started cleaning. Then the cat…”
“Is he alive?” Emily shot to her feet.
“Alive, alive! Just… damp. Swear down, he wasn’t in there when I turned it on! Then suddenly—bam—he was.”
“How?!” she hissed. “How does a cat get into a closed washing machine?!”
“Dunno,” James shrugged. “Ninja skills?”
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Go on, Sherlock. And show me the cat. Now.”
“Uh… he’s…” James hesitated. “Better if you see for yourself.”
“All limbs intact?” Her voice could’ve frozen hell.
James rubbed his scratched face.
“Yeah. Temporarily… immobilized. For safety.”
Emily exhaled, bracing herself.
“Right. Carry on.”
“So while the cat was… well, spinning, I smelled burning. Rushed to the kitchen—lamb’s ablaze! Grabbed the pan, burnt my fingers, chucked oil on it—big mistake. Flames shot up, singed my hair, smoke everywhere. Then the cat starts howling. Look over—he’s staring at me through the washing machine door. Panicked, turned it off, but the damn thing won’t open. Cat’s screaming, oven’s on fire, face hurts, hair’s smoking. Grabbed a crowbar—machine’s leaking now, but the cat bolts out. While I’m putting out the fire, the little sod tears through the flat like a tornado—smashed vases, clawed the wallpaper, wrecked the curtains, knocked over the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours banged on the ceiling, threatened to call the RSPCA—or castrate me. Not sure which. But it’s under control, promise!”
Emily wiped her eyes—laughter or horror, she wasn’t sure—and stepped further inside. The devastation was biblical: broken glass, waterlogged floors, shredded wallpaper, the stench of smoke. Tied to the radiator by all four paws, Duke the cat hung like a hostage, his face swaddled in an old scarf. Alive, but traumatised. Emily levelled a glare at James.
“Explain.”
“He wouldn’t stay still!” James blurted. “Soaked through, had to dry him fast. Figured the radiator would help. Wrapped his face so he’d stop yowling—neighbours were ready to call an exorcist.”
Emily untied the cat, dried him with James’s tea-towel turban, and freed his face. Duke hissed but burrowed into her arms.
“You’re a right prat, James,” she muttered. “He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washing machine, I reckon he’s as unbreakable as I am.”
She collapsed onto the sofa, clutching the cat, and eyed her husband.
“Well?”
“Well what?” James ducked his head. “Should I hang myself now or give it a minute?”
“Congrats, you idiot,” Emily sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
James brightened, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he announced:
“Emily, love of my life. Thirty years together, and you’re still the most brilliant, patient, gorgeous woman I know. Best wife, mum, nan. Happy Mother’s Day! May you always shine like you do today.”
He presented a small box—a gold ring—and a bouquet of roses, battered but clinging to life.
“Flowers were proper lush,” he admitted sheepishly. “Duke sort of… redecorated them. Don’t be cross, love. Just wanted to surprise you.”
Emily pulled his head into her lap, inhaling the stubborn scent of roses beneath the chaos.
“Oh, you surprised me, alright. No more experiments, yeah? Flowers’ll do. One more ‘celebration’ like this, and the flat’s condemned. Neighbours are halfway to hiring a witch—and I bet her husband’s just as daft.”
With James and Duke in tow, she set about salvaging the flat, appeasing the neighbours, and mopping up the aftermath. Years of running a firm had taught Emily this much: as long as her husband and cat were alive, the rest was just details.
