Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

I’d like to think that it was a wise choice, to an extent. My life might not exactly be flawless but, as I look around me now, I know without a doubt that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And, at the end of the day, how many people can honestly say that?

My thoughts are interrupted as the imposing facade of the Montague Museum comes into view. My glittery lilac ankle boots make a hollow tapping sound on the smooth stone steps as I ascend between the soaring Corinthian columns. One of a row of stately Georgian townhouses, it’s quite an impressive-looking place of work; I still get a thrill of anticipation every time I walk up to it.

Even so, it’s the inside where it really takes your breath away.

The cold air is still tingling on my cheeks as I push through the revolving door into the opulent marble foyer.

Just bear in mind, if you will, that when I say marble, I don’t just mean a few niches or a bit of panelling here and there. Oh, no. That, someone clearly decided, would be far too pedestrian.

Instead, the entire space, from floor to ceiling, is lined in the purest white marble. It’s quite dazzling to the eye if you’re unused to it. Ancient Greek statues flank the sweeping staircase and priceless Chinese porcelain is scattered across every available surface.

In short, it’s a health and safety nightmare. Not to mention a conservationist’s one. But that’s how Lord Montague, the slightly mad Victorian collector who bequeathed the house, wanted it. He actually stipulated the fact when he left the place in trust to be run as a private museum. What began as a cabinet of curiosities soon overtook his entire home, and he was adamant that it should remain that way.

It isn’t a big museum, not at all, but it holds some breathtaking pieces of art. I haven’t even begun to talk about the paintings – that’s really my area of expertise although, in a little place like this, the role of assistant curator covers all departments, as well as some other jobs which a curator would never dream of undertaking in a larger establishment. I help out with everything: hanging pictures, showing visitors around, doing further research into some of the pieces … Just last year, we discovered that one of the more nondescript sketches which had hung in the corridor by the ladies’ toilets was in fact a previously unknown Renoir.

That’s what this job’s like – from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve discovered it’s best not to dwell upon the sheer responsibility of it all. It only induces mild panic. Which, in turn, can only be alleviated by several biscuits and a mocha made in the largest mug in the staffroom cupboard.

That’s chocolate biscuits, obviously. I mean, what else?

“You’re here!” Ruby bears down upon me in a kaleidoscope of colour. “Thank God, we’ve been absolutely desperate to talk to you.”

Immediately, I feel a shiver of alarm and my hands stop halfway down the velvet-covered buttons of my coat.

“What’s the matter? It’s not one of the paintings, is it?”

I have this recurring nightmare that I’m standing in the main picture gallery, and someone’s drawn all over one of the Gainsboroughs with permanent marker. I’m trying desperately to rub it off, but the paint itself begins to dissolve, running down the wall in rivulets. Then, if I don’t wake up at that point, it only gets worse, because someone else trips over Casper, who’s mysteriously appeared, and I can only watch in mounting horror as they pitch head first into a William Etty, before …

“We can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Eve, who’s been following behind at a more stately pace, ventures excitedly. She claps her hands together, making the stacks of rings she wears jingle against one another.

The sound of her voice catapults me back into the present, visions of irreplaceable artworks biting the dust receding mercifully into the abyss. My relief is short-lived, however, as my heart sinks all over again, this time for an entirely different reason.

Why did I have to tell them about my date? I should know better by now, what with Casper’s track record in that department.

To be honest, after the disastrous events of last night, I’d sort of begun to forget about my equally disastrous date with James. One disaster rather eclipsed the other, if you will. But now it comes rushing back to me, with an attendant sense of acute humiliation. I really can’t face talking about this now. I look down, hoping I can hedge my way around it.

“Oh, it was … uh, fine. You know, nice. Ish. Kind of.”

They’re looking hopelessly confused, not unreasonably. I focus my attention on unbuttoning the rest of my coat, not meeting their eyes. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though.”

“Oh,” they chorus, faces falling in mutual disappointment. There’s a brief awkward pause, during which I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. But, to my immense gratitude, they hurriedly start chattering about museum matters, Ruby recounting a story about someone who brought an illicit sandwich into the Egyptian gallery and refused to give it up, resulting in an undignified tussle with one of the room attendants. Eve chimes in every now and again, filling the gaps with amusing observations, and not for the first time, I find myself sending up a little prayer of thanks for my wonderful volunteers.

No one would ever imagine that these two would have become such fast friends. A candyfloss-pink-haired art student barely out of her teens and an elegant, cashmere-clad grandmother of four wouldn’t usually even mix, let alone find so much in common. But they adore one another. They’re usually to be found together, laughing over something or other in a corner. They’re not exactly the most productive of volunteers; they’re far too busy having a good time for that. But they’re easily my favourites. The museum just wouldn’t be the same without them.

Not, of course, that I’d ever tell them that. It wouldn’t do for them to get too complacent.

I have a sneaking suspicion that they know anyway, though.

“But we ought not to detain you, dear,” Eve is saying now. She leans towards me with a meaningful look. “You might want to get straight up to your office, if you catch my meaning. You know who has been looking for you.”

Over her shoulder, Ruby is nodding conspiratorially, her flamingo-shaped earrings dancing against her neck.

I don’t need telling twice. I head for the stairs, mouthing a thank you as I go.

It’s not often that I view my poky little office as a haven. The walls are a depressing sort of magnolia colour which has greyed with age, and the tiny window looks out onto the car park. My desk is wedged into the corner at such an angle that I have to climb into my chair from the side because I can’t pull it back properly. On the whole, I endeavour to spend as little time holed up in here as possible, but today, as I close the door behind me, it presents a welcoming refuge.

In here, I’m safe. No one can get to me.

Even so, it’s with a lurch that my gaze falls upon the ominous-looking pile of grant applications still looming large on the edge of my desk. I really can’t put those off any longer. The odd offhand query as to their state of completion began to be flavoured faintly with vexation a couple of weeks ago. Last Wednesday, it morphed into something more closely resembling a demand. I simply can’t admit to Jeremy that they’re still not finished.

And I can’t carry on avoiding him for much longer either, I concede reluctantly. I’m running out of pillars to jump behind and garbled excuses as to why I can’t stop for a discussion. Sooner or later, the game’s going to be up.

It’s simple enough. I’ll just stay in here all morning, finish these forms, and then I’ll have nothing to worry about. He never needs to know that I hadn’t even started them until yesterday.

Technically, Jeremy and I are supposed to share the paperwork, but somehow that never quite seems to happen. He always finds a reason to foist it all off onto me.

I spend a few enjoyable moments imagining what would happen if I pointed that out to him. He’d probably spontaneously combust.

I shake my head, feeling myself deflate. Alas, whilst that would be undoubtedly a spectacle, I don’t think it’s something I want to instigate just now. There’d be a lot of explaining to do.

Not to mention even more paperwork to fill out.

Pulling the stack of papers towards me, I select the uppermost one and stare at it earnestly. And then I carry on staring at it. To my credit, I stare at it for a full three minutes before slamming it back down on the pile with a sigh.

This is so boring. What kind of malevolent entity invented spreadsheets, anyway?

Sometimes, I wonder about the poor people on the other side of the process. Do they find visitor number projections and diagrams on marketing outreach as tedious as I do? Or are they the kind who love nothing better than a good graph and get a thrill at the prospect of five pages of statistics?

The next thing I know, I’m scrolling through Instagram and when I next look up it’s half an hour later.

Oops. That … wasn’t the plan.

I’m aware that I might not be showing myself in the best light here. I feel I ought to interject and point out in my defence that I’m normally excellent at my job.

Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. Pretty good is probably a better description. But, either way, I’m not a slacker. I work hard. I don’t habitually lounge around my office looking at how to do a plum-coloured smoky eye, or watching videos of high-fiving cats.

On the whole, I love what I do. It’s hugely rewarding to walk in here every day and be surrounded by incomparable pieces of art. I know I’m insanely lucky to be able to say that there’s very little about my job which I don’t enjoy.

Paperwork, however, is about the one exception. When I first took this position, I had no idea just how much of it there would be; I was filled with romantic notions about educating people on art history. Of conserving important artefacts. Of promoting culture.

And it’s not that I don’t do all of those things. To an extent. But the sad fact is that by far the biggest preoccupation of a small museum such as this is securing funding. Grant applications are a major part of that; we wouldn’t last a year without them. They’re basically our lifeline.

They are also an assault course of graphs, data, and all the things I most hate in life.

It is soul-destroying. Scratch that, it’s soul-obliterating.

What more do I need to say? I’m just really not a paperwork person. I’m a creative. I do big ideas, not tiny printed figures.

Plus, you know. High-fiving cats. I mean, come on. How can anyone say that’s not important?

Struggling out from behind my desk, I poke my head cautiously round the door, scanning the corridor for signs of life.

All quiet. Excellent. I’m absolutely desperate for a cup of tea. I think this qualifies as a two sugars kind of situation.

I should introduce you to my sugar scale. I developed it whilst at university, and it’s served me well ever since. It goes like this: two sugars for a real emergency, one for mild shock (or particularly malignant period cramps), and none for days when all’s reasonably well and I can’t find any excuse to justify it.

Technically, that should mean that I have no sugar in my tea most of the time. But somehow it doesn’t quite seem to work out like that.

Collecting my cup from the top drawer of my desk where it habitually lives, safe from the clutches of office mug thieves, I slip quietly out. I’m not about to take any chances, although the absurdity of creeping around my own place of work is not lost on me.

I can see the doorway to the cramped staff kitchen area, light gleaming around the edges. I’m only about four paces away when a deep voice rings out behind me, making me stop dead.

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Chapter 5

I whirl on my glitter-covered heel to discover Jeremy standing there, hands on hips. He doesn’t look pleased, I note. But then, he rarely does.

Surreptitiously, I scan the corridor behind him, trying to work out where he emerged from. Not that it matters much now, in any event. He’s here. And glaring at me as though somehow it’s entirely my fault that he hasn’t been able to track me down sooner.

Which it kind of is. I mean, I have spent the morning hiding from him. But he doesn’t know that, does he?

“Are you on your way downstairs?” he asks briskly. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Good. Me too. We can walk together.”

Mutely, I look at the mug in my hand. Blatantly, I wasn’t on my way downstairs. But either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he inclines his head towards the staircase impatiently.

“Come along, then. We haven’t got all day.”

Resigned to my fate, I scuttle after him, amazed to find myself struggling to keep up with his pace. For someone who gives every impression of being about ninety years old, he can certainly move fast when he wants to.

As you might have gathered by now, Jeremy is the head curator of the museum, which, regrettably for us both, means that he’s my immediate boss. We’re not exactly what you’d call compatible; he’s run the place since … Well, since about the dawn of time, as far as I can ascertain. I’ve seen old pictures of him and, believe me, he looks exactly the same. I’m not convinced that he’s ever even been young. I honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised if one day I caught him emerging from the fabric of the building itself.

In any case, temporal being or not, he certainly has his own, very ingrained way of doing things. He worships the status quo, his unerring vision of what a museum of this standing should embody.

I am not a part of that vision. He’s made that quite clear. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t even be here, but apparently the board of trustees decreed that what the museum needed was someone young, fresh and innovative.

All of which, apparently, I am.

Which is … nice, I suppose. I’m not quite sure that I live up to that towering epithet on a daily basis, but still. It’s great that someone has faith in me.

As for Jeremy … Well, what can I say? Jobs in this field are notoriously limited. I’d struggle to get another position this good, even if it does come with certain drawbacks.

Besides, this has never been just a job to me. This place kept me sane when I thought I might drown in grief. The normalcy of it all: the unchanging paintings on the walls, Ruby and Eve’s patter when I came into work each morning, even Jeremy’s pompous lectures … Somehow they made everything seem okay, even though nothing really was. I’ll always be grateful for that.

So, you see, how can I really complain about a few little annoyances here and there? He might not be the easiest of bosses, but I do my best to humour him, even if it’s challenging at times.

And, believe me, it is very challenging at times.

“I’ve been thinking about next summer’s exhibition,” Jeremy says as we power through a room filled with Dutch flower paintings.

I’m aware of a creeping trepidation, mixed with a bubbling sense of excitement. “Yes?” I venture cautiously.

I tell myself that it’s unwise to get my hopes up. After all, we’ve been here before, and it inevitably ends in disappointment. But still, I can’t help it, I’m an eternal optimist. A part of me will always hold out hope that things can turn around at any moment.

Maybe this is it. Maybe, at last, I might get my chance.

Annoyingly, he chooses this moment to fall silent, pausing on the stairs to admire a statue of Venus.

“Your ideas were … interesting,” he says at last, still inspecting the marble figure.

He utters that word like it carries the bubonic plague, and I feel a plummeting swoop of despondency.

He’s still talking, his hands clasped behind his back as though he’s about to give a lecture. To be honest, I’m only half listening by this point. I know how this next part goes; I could pretty much recite it in my sleep.

“But this is a serious institution, Miss Swift. You must understand that by now. We have a standard to uphold. People have expectations of us, scholarly expectations, which we wouldn’t wish to disappoint. To stray too far from our blueprint, to change …” He raises a fluttering hand to his forehead, his signet ring glinting under the overhead lights.

“Woe betide that anything should ever change,” I mutter bitterly. “How would the world cope?”

He scowls. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” I widen my eyes at him innocently.

His lips form into a thin line. “Could only spell disaster,” he finishes. Or, at least, I sincerely hope he’s finished. Once he starts on a soliloquy, nothing can stop him. The whole building could fall down and he’d probably still be pontificating away amongst the rubble, blithely oblivious.

“Quite … of course.” My voice is overly bright, almost brittle. I’m already backing away, looking for an exit. I’m trying really hard to do what I normally do. I’m reminding myself how lucky I am to be here, how grateful I am. How I shouldn’t feel resentful, shouldn’t expect too much. But, for some reason, today it’s just not working. My throat’s beginning to feel tight, burning with repressed emotion. “Very … er … astute reasoning.”

This is what happens. Every time. I should have known better than to try.

“I’m so glad you agree.” He looks insufferably pleased with himself. “I knew that once I’d explained it to you in simple terms, you would come to appreciate the logic of it.” He sighs solemnly, his gaze travelling up towards the glass ceiling above us. “As the great philosopher Aristotle once said …”

Oh, lord. Not Aristotle. I really can’t handle that particular soliloquy right now. I know from experience that it lasts for a good twenty minutes.

“That’s wonderful,” I say with more than a touch of desperation. “If that’s all, then …”

“Just a minute, if you will.” His brows draw downwards, his tone becoming several degrees colder. “That wasn’t all. We haven’t yet discussed those applications.”

I realise with a quiet sense of doom that I’ve flung myself straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. The Aristotle monologue is beginning to look really good right about now.

“Ah, yes,” I manage, stretching out each word very slowly in an attempt to buy my brain some more time. “The applications.”

I leave a knowing sort of pause. Unfortunately, the desired flash of inspiration fails to materialise, and it lengthens awkwardly before trailing off into more of a dead silence.

“Well?” Jeremy demands, irritation lacing his voice. “Have you completed them? Because if we miss that deadline … rest assured, Miss Swift, I won’t hesitate to lay the blame where it’s due.”

I draw backwards, eyes widening in shock. Was that a threat?

Surely he can’t actually be threatening me? I mean, I know he has his faults, but …

I look into his steely grey eyes and my conviction wavers.

“Of course they’re finished,” I hear myself responding coolly.

Brilliant, now I’ve just told a bald-faced lie. Great work, Clara. Very professional.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Jeremy says blandly. “We’ll have a look at them now, then, shall we?”

The true extent of the hole I’ve just dug for myself hits me with a nasty jolt. My heart begins to patter in my chest. I cast a glance at his face, but it isn’t giving anything away. Does he know the truth? Is he just trying to catch me out? Because, if so, I’ve walked right into it.

In a quiet frenzy, I cast around for a suitable excuse for a hasty departure. Through the archway, I have a clear view into the classical antiquities gallery. My mind whirs, turning over possibilities. Perhaps I could pretend that I need to check on something in there? Would he believe that?

“Absolutely,” I blurt out. “I’d be glad to. It’s just that …”

He’s looking at me expectantly, one bushy eyebrow raised, and to my dismay, I realise that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this.

“I’ve just spotted someone I urgently need to speak with,” I say, wondering what on earth I’m saying. “I’ve been trying to catch him for ages. In fact, it’s really quite urgent. I’ll just go and …”

“And who, exactly, would this be?”

I blink at the abrupt question. I didn’t expect him to ask that.

“Er … him.” I point randomly to a man standing over by a stone sarcophagus, his head bent over a book.

Jeremy arches an eyebrow. “Really? You know him, do you?”

Heat begins to prickle across the back of my neck. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Why can’t he just accept my lie and leave it at that? It’s what anyone else would do.

“Yes, I do,” I say staunchly. “Very well, in fact. We’re … er … old acquaintances.”

Just in case I thought this couldn’t get any worse. Now I’m embellishing the lie. Am I crazy? Next I’ll be inventing an entire history with a man I’ve never seen before in my life.

“Indeed?” Jeremy’s voice drips with scepticism. “You’re an old acquaintance of Professor Warwick’s?”

For a brief moment, I wonder who the hell he’s talking about. Then my heart plummets.

He knows, doesn’t he? He knows that I’m making all of this up.

“Yes, indeed,” I stutter. I couldn’t sound less convincing if I tried. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

I brush past him and I’m halfway across the floor of the gallery before my sense of triumph gives way to the first creeping misgivings. Why do I just come out with these things? It was all very well and good in the heat of the moment, but now the prospect of accosting a total stranger seems beyond daunting. Hopefully … I sidle a glance back over my shoulder, but no luck. Jeremy’s still standing there, watching me suspiciously.

Oh, God. There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to do it, aren’t I?

When this is all over, I am going to give myself a serious talking-to about the perils of fabrication and getting myself into these ridiculous situations.

I square my shoulders and walk right up to my quarry.

“I’m so glad I’ve caught you,” I say loudly.

Or at least I think I’ve said it fairly loudly. But the museum’s not exactly living up to its reputation as a tranquil, studious place of enquiry today. A school trip has taken over the far end of the gallery, the children fidgeting and chattering as their beleaguered teacher hands out activity papers. My voice is completely drowned out by the hubbub.

He doesn’t even look up. His dark head is still bowed over what I can now identify as a leather-bound notebook, in which he’s scribbling at a furious pace, apparently totally oblivious to everything around him.

I hover uselessly, wondering if I should try again, when one of the children barges past my legs, pitching me forwards. On reflex, I fling my arms out in front of me and, the next thing I know, I’m hanging off the unfortunate man in a strange approximation of a hug.

But that’s not the worst part. Oh, no.

That would be our lips, which have somehow ended up … Well, they’re not quite on one another. I mean, if we’re being technical about it …

Oh, who am I kidding? They’re on one another. It’s a kiss. An accidental kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

The next few seconds are the strangest I’ve ever experienced. Time seems to grind to a halt. He’s gone as rigid as corrugated iron. I’m pretty much frozen to the spot myself, my brain struggling to compute what’s happening.

Then, just as suddenly, clarity comes rushing back.

Oh, God. What am I doing? I’m kissing him. I’m kissing a total stranger.