The Bookshop Cat – Part 1: Marmalade

The cat's name was Marmalade, and she hated everyone.

"She bites," said Fraser, from behind the till.

"She's looking at me," said the customer.

"She's deciding."

The shop sat on a steep cobbled lane in Edinburgh's Old Town, three floors of crooked shelves and creaking stairs. Fraser, thirty-two, had inherited it from his great-aunt along with a mountain of debts and one enormous orange cat. He was tall, red-haired, slightly harassed, and had not smiled at a customer since March.

The customer in question was thirty-four, soft-spoken and tall, in a grey wool jumper, with rain on his glasses. He'd come in every Thursday for a month and left with the same battered poetry anthology. Today, Marmalade had climbed down from the radiator, walked straight across the floor and settled in his lap.

"She likes you," said Fraser, aghast.

"I think she's just cold."

"She has never been cold in her life."

The man scratched the cat behind the ears. Marmalade purred like an engine. "Idris," he said. "I teach geology. I don't know why she's chosen me."

"Neither do I." Fraser flushed. "I mean... she has good taste. Sorry. That came out wrong."

Idris smiled slowly. "It came out fine."

He stayed for tea. Then he stayed for a second cup. Rain drummed on the skylight, and the shop smelled of old paper and wet wool. Fraser told him about his great-aunt, the debts, the leaking roof. Idris told him about the rocks he loved, and the long years he'd spent far from home.

"Can I ask you something?" said Idris.

"Yes."

"Do you want to keep it? The shop?"

"More than anything," said Fraser, and was startled to hear it. "I just don't know how."

"Then maybe I could help." Idris glanced down at the cat. "She seems to think so."

"Green?" said Fraser, shyly.

"Green," said Idris, warmly. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Reading Room.