Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

Because now it really is a kiss. I mean, neither of us has pulled away.

Something tells me the museum board won’t take a particularly indulgent view of this. I wrench my lips from his, closing my eyes in mortification.

“Er … do we know each other?” he asks faintly. His lips are close to my ear, and something about his voice sends a shiver of awareness through me.

He thinks I flung myself at him. And why shouldn’t he? That’s what it must have looked like.

Now people are watching us, openly curious. I can feel heat creeping across my cheeks and I already know they’re turning a vibrant pink. Not for the first time in my life, I have cause to curse my fair complexion.

“Sorry,” I mutter frantically. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I’m about to explode. Surely, no one can deal with as much embarrassment in one sitting without it being fatal? Even someone as seasoned as me. “Just … sorry. Look, I’ll explain in a moment.”

Without thinking, I grab his hand and tug him across to the nearest window seat. It’s covered in papers, but I’m too shaken to care. I just collapse right on top of them.

“My papers,” he says in a strangled voice.

“Sorry, sorry.” Why can’t I seem to stop saying that? I pull a wad of them out from under me, intending to smooth them out on my lap. But I never get that far. Instead, as I look down at them, I’m gripped by a cold sensation.

There’s something very familiar about these papers. They’re crumpled and stained with dirt, like they’ve been on the ground.

Surely … I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way it could actually be …

I turn another one over, and there’s a bicycle tyre track running diagonally across it.

Oh, no. No way.

Slowly, I drag my eyes up to look at the man sitting next to me.

So much for thinking the worst of it was over. By the looks of things, it hasn’t even started.

Chapter 6

For an age I’m paralysed. I just sit there, staring at him.

How can this be happening?

I am a good person, you know. Not perfect, but pretty damn good. I pay my taxes. I remember birthdays. I’m even an attentive listener, and that’s not a widespread trait these days.

So why, oh, why, is the man from last night now sitting next to me in my place of work?

And why, by all that is good and holy, have I just kissed him?

Why did it have to be him?

I don’t deserve this. Really I don’t. I’ll be having words with the Universe later.

“Are you all right?” he’s asking now, peering at me with something approaching alarm. “You’ve gone rather puce.”

Puce, indeed. Like that’s going to make me feel better.

“I’m fine,” I croak.

I suppose that, now I’m looking at him properly, and with the benefit of proof in the form of those cursed papers, it’s obvious that it’s the same man. The mid-morning sun slanting through the window illuminates those sharp features I only caught a glimpse of beneath his helmet last night, picking out hints of bronze in his black hair. And his voice … Reluctantly, I have to admit that I thought it was familiar, although, to be fair, it has a completely different tone to it today. Last night it was angry, sarcastic; today, it sounds very different. It’s almost … nice, with a deep, cultured thread to it.

I pull myself up sharply at that last thought. Nice? What are you doing, Clara? Now’s not the time to get carried away with how nice his voice sounds.

He’s regarding me thoughtfully. “Are you sure we don’t know one another? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

Hang on … what? Surely he can’t mean …

The realisation, somewhat belated as it is, hits me in a flash.

He doesn’t know who I am.

How can that be the case? I mean, all right, so it was dark. More to the point, he was standing under the streetlamp, whilst I was in the shadows. And he never really looked at me properly throughout our entire ill-fated meeting. So I suppose …

Actually, I’m not sure if I should be affronted or not. Did I really leave so little an impression upon his lofty mind?

Apparently so. For some reason, that piques me.

I’m about to confess everything. Really, I am. But then, when I open my mouth, what I intended to say somehow isn’t there. It’s like someone’s mixed up the words, and instead I can only listen on in horror as what I actually say is …

“What? No! Definitely not. I mean …” I rummage in the pocket of my cardigan, brandishing my lanyard. Really, I’m supposed to be wearing it, but it’s such an outfit killer I can’t bring myself to. I didn’t spend twenty minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe this morning trying to select a cute ensemble only to loop an unflattering black cord around my neck. “Probably around the museum. I work here, you see.”

Well, that’s that then. I’ve officially lied right to his face. That’s … that’s just fantastic. My second monstrous fabrication of the day, and it’s not even ten-thirty yet. As if it weren’t enough to dig myself one grave in the course of a morning, I have to go and excavate myself a second.

Perhaps this is what Heather means when she says I’m my own worst enemy.

His cobalt blue eyes scan the card for several seconds, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. At last, though, he shrugs.

“That must be it, then. So tell me,” he begins casually, crossing one leg over the other, “is it museum policy to kiss unsuspecting members of the public?”

My head snaps up. Did he really just say that?

“I did not kiss you,” I say haughtily. “It was an accident. One of those kids pushed me!”

He nods knowingly. “All right, well, we’ll have to take your word for that, I suppose, considering the lack of any firm evidence.”

“It’s true,” I say hotly.

“So you say.”

I look into his dark eyes, trying to work out if he’s playing with me or not. But there’s nothing there to give him away. His expression is totally inscrutable. We could just as easily be discussing the weather.

Annoyed at my own confusion, I turn away, craning my neck to squint around the window casement, which screens us from both sides. To my intense aggravation, Jeremy’s still there, lurking behind a stone pillar in what he clearly imagines to be an unobtrusive manner. Honestly, does he not have something else he could be doing? Since when did spying on me become a legitimate part of his job description? The only small bright spot in the whole thing is the expression on his face. It’s priceless. If everything else weren’t so awful right at this moment, I’d probably be enjoying myself immensely.

“And who, exactly, are we hiding from?” murmurs my new companion.

“No one.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? No one? You’re habitually this furtive, then?”

“No, I …” I flush guiltily. “Look, you don’t understand …”

I see him sidle a dubious glance at the mug still in my hand. It has a picture of Casper on it, surrounded by clouds and rainbows. Hastily, I move my hand so it’s covering the image. The last thing I need is for him to recognise the cat which dented his bike and ruined his precious research papers. That’s a can of worms I really can’t face opening just now.

In fact, I can’t do any of this. I can’t sit here, making pleasant conversation with this man. Well, semi-pleasant, at least. I stand, not caring if Jeremy’s still there. “I’d better go.”

He looks faintly disappointed. “So soon? Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me once more before you do?”

He is laughing at me. I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Who’d have thought he had a sense of humour? Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to share it right now.

“No, thank you,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. “I don’t think you enjoyed it all that much the first time. I wouldn’t wish to put you through it again.”

For a moment, he looks as though he might be about to say something else, but then he simply inclines his head. It’s an old-fashioned gesture, oddly formal, but it seems to suit him, somehow.

“Well, then, until next time, Miss Swift.”

Good God, I think, as I scuttle away as fast as my pride and poise will allow, I hope not. If the insufferable Professor Warwick never crossed my path again, it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.

***

“I’m going to hell,” I moan, flinging myself across the sofa. “It’s official. My fate is sealed.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” Heather tuts, although I notice that she puts down the kettle and reaches into the wine rack instead. “It can’t be that bad. Although why you didn’t just tell the truth, I don’t know.”

“Because that would have been sensible. That’s the sort of thing you would have done. I’m not like you. I panicked.”

“And made an idiot of yourself, as usual,” Heather remarks calmly.

I sit bolt upright. “That’s not very supportive!”

She shrugs, pouring pale pink wine into two expensive-looking glasses. “Sometimes I’m here to be supportive, sometimes just to tell you the truth. And the truth is, you’re an idiot. In this case, at least.”

“You’re right,” I admit mournfully as she settles onto the sofa next to me. I hug my knees to my chest and take a fortifying sip of my wine. Almost immediately, its warming effect helps me to relax, and I sink back into the cushions. Heather has lots of cushions. And they’re always perfectly plumped too. I don’t know how she keeps it up, not with a rambunctious three-year-old charging around the house all day.

“Better?” she asks with a knowing look.

“Yes,” I say in a small voice.

It’s always nice coming to Heather’s. Like visiting your mum’s. Everything’s wonderfully ordered, with a soothingly tasteful colour scheme. You always get offered a drink of some description from their sumptuous new kitchen, with its Carrara marble island unit and built-in wine rack. And when the drink comes, it’s unfailingly from an ever-ready supply of sparklingly clean glasses in the glossy-fronted cupboard. You’ll never find Heather scrabbling around for a halfway decent receptacle before eventually serving up warm wine in a chipped Moomins mug she’s had since she was eight.

In fact, much as I like coming to Heather’s, it always makes me feel a little … I don’t know, flat. Because it just highlights the ever-growing chasm between her life and mine. Heather’s a grown-up, a fully fledged adult member of society with the tasteful arrangement of beeswax pillar candles to prove it. And I’m …

Well, today was a case in point.

I look at those candles now, blazing away on the glazed fire surround. Then, slowly, I look at Heather, in a powder-blue cashmere jumper, her favourite diamond studs glinting in her ears.

“Oh, sorry. Have I interrupted a romantic evening?” Now I feel really guilty. Why didn’t she say something?

She looks nonplussed. “Not at all. Dominic’s just putting Oscar to bed, then he’s got a squash match.”

“You mean, this is your staying at home outfit?” I’m only half teasing.

“One has to make an effort, even if only for oneself.” She cradles her wineglass against her lips, looking mischievous. “So, what I really want to know about is this man. A professor, you say?”

“Heather!” If we were at my house, where the soft furnishings aren’t quite so precious, I would gladly throw a cushion at her. “Don’t even think about it. Believe me, he is definitely not a candidate for romantic interest.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what people always say to begin with? I wasn’t exactly keen on Dominic when I first met him.”

“Yes, but you slept with him anyway,” I point out drily. It’s about the most reckless thing Heather’s ever done. And just like her luck that it should actually turn out well in the end.

I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m happy that it did, really I am. But at the same time it is the tiniest bit vexing when you consider that she never wanted any of this in the first place. Her sights were firmly set on becoming a top psychologist; she already had her place secured on the MA course—she hadn’t even had to apply; they’d offered it to her. She wasn’t interested in anything which could even be loosely defined as a serious relationship, let alone a husband, and children … not on her radar at all. She’d always maintained that watching her parents thrash their way through an acrimonious divorce had been enough to put her off all of that for life.

No, it was always me who wanted those things, not Heather. And yet … look at us.

“Quite, and thank you for announcing that so loudly,” she says in an arch voice. “But what I mean is, feelings often come later. In real life, instant attraction is a very rare thing. In fact, I’m not so certain it exists at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” a voice behind us says. “Although it’s good to know how you really felt about me back then. Don’t spare my feelings, will you?”

Heather twists around to roll her eyes at her husband. “All right, so instant mutual attraction doesn’t exist. And you already knew how I felt about you back then. I made no secret of it.”

“Hello, Dominic,” I chime in.

“Hello, Clara.” He smiles thinly at me, dropping his squash bag onto the floor and heading towards the fridge. “And what brings you here this evening? Something to do with men, I should imagine, from the look on my wife’s face.”

I have a sinking suspicion that Dominic thinks I’m some sort of man-eater. God only knows what Heather tells him. Either way, I don’t think it helps endear me to him.

Dominic and I have an odd, uneasy sort of understanding. We’re pleasant enough to one another but, on the whole, we try to keep our contact time to a minimum. We’ve never really got on, not since those early days at university. I know that he thinks I’m immature, that I create unnecessary drama. And he …

Well, sometimes he looks at me and I’m convinced that he knows. He knows what I thought about him all those years ago, how I tried to persuade Heather to break up with him. How I said that he’d only hold her back.

Obviously, I was wrong. I mean, if they hadn’t stayed together, they would never have had Oscar. And now here they are and … well, clearly, it was the right choice. It should all be water under the bridge. But still, I can’t help but feel that Dominic resents me for it somehow.

“She has a new admirer,” Heather pipes up, eyes shining.

“He is not an admirer!” I sit up so hastily that I only narrowly avoid sloshing wine all over my lap. “Believe me, there’s nothing even remotely …”

“She kissed him!” Heather squeals. “And then he bowed to her!”

“That is totally out of context,” I splutter, snatching her empty wineglass from her hand. “How much have you had to drink today?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says defiantly. “I haven’t been anywhere. Except to the half-term lunch, but that doesn’t count.”

Ah, so that explains it. You’d think that a midday gathering with fellow school gate mothers would be a refined affair. Not a bit of it. By the sounds of things, they’d put most illicit teenage house parties to shame in terms of alcohol consumption.

Dominic frowns faintly at her before turning his attention to me. “He actually bowed to you, did he? How … courtly of him.”

The last sentence is uttered with a barely repressed smirk, and I resist the impulse to narrow my eyes at him.

“Haven’t you got a squash game to get to?” I say sweetly.

It has the desired effect because he jumps to attention, grabbing an iced bottle of water from the fridge and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.

“Oh, damn. Yes, and I’m already late.” He swoops down to drop a perfunctory kiss on the top of Heather’s head. “I’ll see you later. Oscar’s fast asleep; he went straight off. I doubt you’ll hear more out of him tonight.”

Heather just flaps a hand in a vague sort of farewell.

“Now we’ve got rid of him,” she says as the sound of the front door closing echoes through the house, “do you want some dinner? Only something simple, I’m afraid, as I thought it was just going to be me.”

“I’d probably better get back to Freddie,” I say reluctantly, getting up and taking our wineglasses over to the dishwasher. “Lord only knows what he and Casper will have got up to in the time I’ve been away. They’re both as bad as each other.”

“If you’re sure,” she begins, pulling items out of the fridge. Fresh pasta. A tub of pesto. Parmesan wrapped in paper from the Italian deli down the street. “Could you look in that cupboard for pine nuts? I think I bought some last week.”

I can only stare, mesmerised, as the ingredients stack up on the island in front of me. Proper food. I think of the congealed cold pizza waiting at home in the fridge and my stomach makes the decision for me.

“On second thoughts, maybe I will stay,” I say casually. I can’t let on to Heather how long it’s been since I last had anything that wasn’t reheated. She’d probably fall into a dead faint. “They can cope for an evening on their own. After all, Freddie’s a grown man.

Supposedly. And Casper …” Here, I find myself tailing off. What do I say about Casper?

Heather’s busily toasting pine nuts in a frying pan, but she turns to me with an amused look. “Is a grown cat? Supposedly?”

“Has had his fair share of trouble for one week,” I say firmly. “Believe me, he won’t go looking for any more. He was quiet this morning. I think last night shook him a little. He’s realised that he’s not as invincible as he thought he was.” A hopeful thought strikes me. “Perhaps he’ll turn over a new leaf.”

“Hmm …” Heather prods the pine nuts with a wooden spoon, not looking wholly convinced by my logic “… I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Chapter 7

I wake with a start, jerking into an upright position in bed. Darkness envelops the room, broken only by a pale lilac light creeping beneath the curtains.

Momentarily disorientated, I fumble for the bedside lamp, relieved when its warm glow chases away the shadows, revealing the familiar outline of my bedroom. Everything looks as it should be, at least. Yesterday’s dress thrown over the back of the pink velvet chair, the cream painted wardrobe hulking in the corner, the door slightly ajar as always. I bought it at an antiques centre several years ago, and it’s never closed properly. My dressing table is littered with various paraphernalia: bottles of nail polish, lipsticks, a piece of amethyst given to me by my mother, its faceted crystals gleaming in the lamplight.

I sit there for a moment, the duvet drawn up under my chin for warmth, wondering what might have woken me. Normally I sleep fairly soundly. Unless I’m having a nightmare, and usually, if I’ve had one of those, I know all about it. I wake up cold, shaking, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of my mind like cobwebs.

No, I’m pretty certain that I was sleeping quite peacefully. So what …?

And then I hear it. A deafening, screeching sound fills the air, followed by yowling. It sounds like it hails from the bowels of the earth itself, but I know better than that.

Fully awake now, I throw the covers aside, heart already in my mouth. As I clatter down the stairs, knotting my kimono at my waist, I keep telling myself that I’m overreacting. That of course it’s not Casper. That I’ll open the kitchen door and he’ll be safely there, all curled up in his …

All right, so he’s not in his basket. He’s not on the windowsill either. Or on the chair. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Really, who was I trying to kid? If there’s a fight going on, he’s bound to be involved. I’ve never known him to miss one yet.

The hideous screaming sound has stopped and I waver in the middle of the room, trying to decide what to do next. Then, with a huff of resignation, I pull on my flowery wellington boots, which now live permanently next to the back door. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to take a nightly sojourn into the garden in pursuit of my errant pet. Far from it. But I know I’ll never get back to sleep until I’ve reassured myself that he’s all right.

“Casper?” I call softly, even as I do so wondering why I’m bothering. As if that cacophony hasn’t woken the whole street anyway. He certainly has a way of making me unpopular with the neighbours.

Tentatively, I venture out onto the lawn, my boots sinking into the damp grass. The first light of dawn is bleeding into the sky, washing the garden in an ethereal pink glow. Dewdrops have transformed the lawn into a shimmering carpet and the air is bitingly cold, invigorating in its sharpness. It would be stunningly beautiful, I suppose, if I weren’t too preoccupied with worry to pay it much attention.

I check half-heartedly under a few bushes, already knowing that he won’t be there. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready, and not a moment sooner. I don’t come across his assailant either. Or – and I have to allow for this possibility – his victim. I’m not so blinded by love that I don’t know what he’s like. He’s just as likely to start a fight as he is to get drawn into one.

Giving up the search, I trudge back into the kitchen to find a tousled-looking Freddie standing there, yawning extravagantly.

“What’s going on? I got up for a glass of water and saw that the lights were on downstairs.”

And yet, somehow, the screeching and caterwauling completely passed him by. My brother would make a fascinating case for medical science. His tendency towards complete obliviousness never fails to astonish me. I swear he could sleep through the apocalypse with no trouble at all.

“I can’t find Casper,” I explain, stamping my boots on the mat to knock the excess mud off them. “He’s not in the garden.”

Freddie stares at me like I’m utterly insane. “Clara, he’s a cat. What do you expect? That he’s going to just stay in one place?”

“I know, but …” How can I explain it to him? How can I tell him how much Casper means to me? Of course, to him, it seems ridiculous. Even to my own ears it sounds it.

At that moment the cat flap rattles and Casper slinks into the kitchen, drawing up short to look askance at us both. For a cat, he has a surprisingly expressive face, and I can tell that he’s wondering what the humans are doing up at this hour.

“There you are.” Instinctively, I move towards him, the relief in my voice audible.

Certainly, he’s been in a tussle of sorts; his fur is all standing on end, his eyes bright and feverish. But he looks okay, at least. To be honest, I feel a bit foolish now, having got into such a state about it all.

“See, he’s fine.” Freddie’s already halfway through the doorway, stifling another gargantuan yawn. “Nothing to worry about. Now can we go back to bed?”

“Freddie …” I’ve drawn my hand away from Casper’s side to find it stained red. For a moment, I can only stare at it, frozen.

“What?” He turns, then blanches. “Oh, God. Is that …? What do we do?”

Casper’s leaning into me now, obviously weakening. I shake the fog from my brain, willing myself to stay focused. This is no time to panic.

“Get the cat basket out of the cupboard under the stairs, will you? We’re going to have to make a dash across town.”

***

“What were you even thinking?” I pant as we cross the market square. Rearranging my grip on the basket, which was digging painfully into my fingers, I continue. “Why must you get yourself into every fight going?”

Casper looks up at me balefully from where he’s nestled on his favourite blue blanket. I know he must be feeling bad because Freddie and I managed to get him into the basket with surprisingly little fuss. Usually, the very sight of it is enough to send him into histrionics.