Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

by Lottie Lucas

  Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

  LOTTIE LUCAS

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Copyright © Lottie Lucas 2019

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Lottie Lucas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008353636

  Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008353629

  Version: 2019-08-16

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To my husband Greg—beloved by cats everywhere.

  Chapter 1

  “Well, that’s that then,” I say flatly as the door slams shut with such vigour that it rattles in its frame. “He’s gone. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

  Outside on the street, I can hear the sound of a car engine starting. Within the kitchen, however, all is silent. I receive no response.

  “I don’t see what was so wrong with him.” I shake my head, beginning to pace as I warm to my theme. Unfortunately, the available floor space could be politely described as ‘bijou’, and only allows for about four steps before I have to turn and walk back again. “He was polite, educated, creative. No wives in the attic, as far as I could tell, and he always offered to pay for dinner. What more could you want?”

  I leave an expectant pause after that question. Green eyes stare back at me dispassionately.

  “I mean, one has to have standards, of course,” I acknowledge, resuming my truncated path across the room. “And I do, believe me. But that’s just the problem. It’s hard enough for a man to meet my standards, let alone having to contend with yours as well. It’s simply impossible. No one’s going to be up to it.” I stop in the middle of the room, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Something’s going to have to change. And, by rights, I really think it should be …”

  I trail off as I turn to find the recipient of my lecture licking his paw.

  I put my hands on my hips and glare down at him. “Are you even listening to me?”

  He blinks up at me for a moment, before returning to his task with renewed dedication.

  I sigh deeply, kicking off my berry-coloured patent heels. I won’t be needing those any more tonight. The man they were intended to impress is probably halfway across Cambridge by now. Getting as far away as fast as possible, no doubt.

  You know, I really thought it might be different this time. I met James at a pop-up photography exhibition. He was thoughtful, attractive in a winsome, boy-next-door kind of way, perhaps not the kind of guy I’d usually have noticed, but he’d jostled into me by accident and knocked my clutch bag out of my hand, then apologised and asked me out in the same sentence. Immediately, that made my pulse fizz in anticipation; I absolutely love a serendipitous meeting. So romantic, don’t you think? I always imagine what a great story it’ll make, further down the line.

  Anyway, things seemed to be going well between us and, after four successful dates, I judged that it was time to initiate the final test of bringing him home to meet Casper.

  Alas, Casper thought differently. Casper always thinks differently. He’s found something to dislike in every single man I’ve brought home in the past two years. And when Casper doesn’t like someone, he shows it. I mean, really shows it. He doesn’t hold back.

  Little did I realise, that night two years ago, that the bedraggled cat I found on the doorstep in the middle of a violent storm would have the potential to turn my entire life upside down. Nothing has been the same since. Sometimes, I’ll admit, for the better.

  Sometimes decidedly for the worse.

  The truth is, Casper is a singular sort of cat. I like to think of him as endearingly idiosyncratic, but others might less charitably call him something more along the lines of … Well, I suppose they might call him a bit wild. Headstrong, perhaps. Maybe the more melodramatic sorts might even accuse him of being out of control.

  All right, so I guess there’s no point lying about it, is there? You’ll find out soon enough. The truth is that he’s been called all of those things, and more, usually in the form of a parting shot delivered by someone in the process of beating a swift retreat.

  I look down again at my beloved feline. He’s moved on to washing his ears, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. There’s no trace whatsoever of the crazed animal who chased a perfectly nice man out of the door not five minutes ago.

  In moments such as these, I have to remind myself that he’s just being protective. And that it’s sweet, really, that he’s prepared to go into battle on behalf of my honour. It would just be nice if he picked the right battles, that’s all. And if just once I could get as far as opening the bottle of wine before he sinks his claws into their leg, or puts a decapitated mouse in their shoe.

  With a sinking sense of déjà vu, I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, reaching for my favourite heart-patterned mug. Ten o’clock at night, all dressed up, and yet again my only company is a large, bad-tempered ginger cat. Not quite the evening I’d planned.

  “You’re back.”

  A figure looms in the doorway and I jump, scattering tea bags all over the counter.

  Ah, yes, except Freddie. I keep forgetting about Freddie. I’m still unused to having someone else in the house, you see.

  Apparently, fate has a predilection towards burly males turning up on my doorstep without warning, because three days ago Freddie did just that, clutching only a hastily packed bag and no explanation, save that he’s planning to stay for ‘
a while’. Whatever that means.

  At least, I’m assuming the bag was hastily packed, but then again, he’s twenty-one years old. His whole life looks like that. As for the explanation … Well, my brother’s always been somewhat tricky to pin down. He’s notoriously evasive. One look at his face and I realised I wasn’t going to get any reasonable answers, for the time being at least. So I’m adopting the well-worn tactics of an experienced elder sister, and not asking any questions.

  Patience is key in these matters. I’ll find out soon enough.

  Freddie scoops up Casper, who begins to purr in ecstasy. Some men he’s more than happy to tolerate. Just so long as they pose no romantic risk, it seems.

  “Where’s your date? Did it not go well?”

  I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. “It was going absolutely fine, until Casper caught sight of him. Then it all went to hell in a handcart. As usual,” I’m unable to resist adding, with a dark look at Casper, who pointedly ignores me.

  Freddie’s dark blond eyebrows shoot up, almost disappearing into his unruly hairline. “What did he do this time?”

  “Let’s just say I owe James a new pair of trousers and leave it at that.” I begin stuffing tea bags back into the box.

  Freddie lets out a yelp of laughter, before catching my eye and promptly smothering it. “Sorry. That’s not funny. Casper—” he directs a stern look at the cat still purring contentedly in his arms “—that was incredibly ill-mannered of you.”

  Casper gazes up at him adoringly.

  “Not exactly the look of contrition I was hoping for,” Freddie remarks drily.

  “There’s no point in telling him off. He doesn’t care.” I begin to pull the pins out of my hair, letting it tumble around my shoulders in a caramel-coloured mass. I have to say, it’s a relief; it was really beginning to pinch, and if I’d left it up all evening I would probably have ended up with a headache.

  One point in Casper’s favour at least, I concede grudgingly. He’s saved my scalp, even if he has ruined my love life.

  Freddie gently deposits Casper on the floor, brushing orange fur off the front of his jumper. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sis. He obviously just wasn’t the one.”

  “How would I know?” I say bitterly, watching as Freddie picks up the kettle. “I never got the chance to find out.”

  Freddie dumps a spoonful of sugar into his cup and stirs it vigorously. “You know, Clara, maybe Casper just thinks he knows better than you. Have you ever thought of that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Very amusing.”

  “I know, I’m a brilliant mind.” He tosses the teaspoon in the sink with a modest smile. I try not to wince as it makes a horrible clattering sound. At least he got his aim right.

  “Were you planning to make one of those for me too?” I ask mildly.

  He looks blankly down at the mug in his hand. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  “So, what have you been up to today?” I try to keep my voice casual as he turns and begins the tea-making process all over again. It’s a well-known fact that men can really only concentrate on one thing at a time. To be honest, sometimes Freddie even struggles with that. If I’m going to winkle even the slightest bit of information out of him, the ideal time is when he’s distracted.

  He shrugs. “You know, this and that.”

  Softly, Clara, softly, I chant to myself.

  “Is work still okay with you taking time off to be here?”

  “Yeah, they’re not bothered. So long as they’ve got cover.”

  Well, that I can believe, at least. Freddie works in a bar up in Manchester and, while they’re not exactly the most diligent of employers, the casual nature of it suits his purposes while he’s saving up to go travelling with his girlfriend, Jess.

  They have all of these grand plans, to trek across Australia, camp under the stars in New Zealand. A part of me doesn’t really want him to go, but I know that he has to. If these past few years have taught us both anything, it’s that life is too short to fritter away.

  Besides, Jess will look after him. She’s been doing a sterling job of it for the last three years; I won’t worry about him half as much knowing that she’s there.

  “Here.” He thrusts a cup of tea at me, almost sloshing it over the rim in the process. “As requested.”

  “So graciously served,” I mutter, peering into its milky depths. I’d forgotten what terrible tea Freddie makes.

  He stretches lazily, drawing his already tall frame to a ridiculous height. I like to think I’m reasonably tall for a woman, but Freddie definitely got our dad’s rangy genes. In fact, he seems to look more and more like Dad every time I see him these days.

  The thought makes a lump rise in my throat and I cough, turning away to take a sip of my tea. Freddie doesn’t seem to notice, retrieving his own mug from where he left it on the side and making towards the door. But not before stopping to pat me on the head. I scowl, not that it will do me much good. He already knows I hate it when he does that.

  “I’m going back to my podcast. See you in the morning.”

  “Night,” I murmur at his retreating back.

  Casper’s head pops up but, to my surprise, he doesn’t follow Freddie upstairs. Instead, he watches me with curious eyes.

  “I mean it this time,” I tell him firmly, tipping the rest of my revolting cup of tea down the sink. “We can’t go on like this. Much as I love you, I’ve no desire to end up a mad old cat lady. I’d like a man in my life who isn’t covered in fur.” I kneel down in front of him. “Can you get on board with that? Maybe help me out just a little?”

  He tilts his head to one side, his eyes two unblinking green orbs, luminous in his face. I reach over to scratch his head and he nuzzles my hand lovingly. I sigh, already feeling my heart softening. I can never fight with him for long.

  “Do you really think you can do better than me?” I whisper. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  He puts his paws on my knees and I pull him into my arms, holding him close, as I have so many times. He doesn’t reply, of course. He’s just a cat.

  But I can’t help but wonder all the same.

  Chapter 2

  “So hang on …” Heather holds up a hand, disbelief written across her face. “Give me a moment to get my head around this. Freddie actually suggested that Casper might be a better judge of character than you are?”

  I busy myself picking coriander leaves out of my salad. “That’s about right, yes. And then he made me a terrible cup of tea.”

  “And all of this after Casper had chased James out of the house with a chunk missing out of his trousers?”

  We’re sitting in one of our favourite cafés on King’s Parade, right in the heart of town. Heather even managed to get here early and grab the last table in the window, so we can watch the world go by. Even in the middle of the day the streets outside are packed. I’m pretty used to the bustle of Cambridge these days, but sometimes even I find myself surprised by the sheer crush that the centre turns into in the summer months. By now, in early October, the tourists have alleviated somewhat, and the students are back, giving the whole place a different feel. Less febrile, more focused. One of them hurries past the window now, laptop bag clutched in his arms, chin tucked into a red checked scarf. Probably late for a seminar, I think vaguely. Goodness knows, I’ve been there myself plenty of times.

  “Well—” Heather sits back in her chair, her lunch still untouched on her plate “—something of an eventful evening, then.” She says it with a straight face, but I can see the corners of her lips twitching.

  “Don’t you dare laugh,” I say warningly, but my voice trembles traitorously as I do so, somewhat ruining the effect. “It’s not funny.”

  She shakes her head gravely. “Of course not. Nothing humorous about it whatsoever.”

  Outside, the student with the scarf has joined a gaggle standing outside King’s College, listening to their professor wax lyrical about the architecture.
He’s gesturing enthusiastically up at the building, and for a moment I’m so busy watching that I almost miss Heather’s next words altogether.

  “You know, I wonder if Freddie might be right. In part, at least.”

  I almost choke on my watermelon iced tea. She waits primly while I recover my equilibrium.

  “Excuse me?” I finally manage to rasp.

  It’s not often that my measured, ultra-practical best friend can surprise me. But when she does it’s always in style. Like the time she whipped her bra off at the tarts and vicars theme night in our second year at university. I think I might still be getting over that now.

  She nods sagely, unrolling her cutlery from the napkin. “I think it makes a lot of sense. In fact, I can’t believe you didn’t think of it before. Could you pass the pepper, by the way?”

  I hand it over in a daze. “You really think I have terrible judgement when it comes to men?”

  She sprinkles a fine dusting of pepper onto her plate. “No, but I do think that you move too fast sometimes.”

  “Too fast?” I echo disbelievingly, putting my knife and fork down with a clatter. “This coming from the person who had a baby at twenty-two!”

  “That’s different and you know it.” She leans forward, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, be honest. How much did you really know about James?”

  “Well …” I hedge, before one look at her face tells me not to bother lying. She knows me far too well. “Not a lot, I suppose. We’d only been out a few times.”

  “Exactly!” She looks triumphant. “And yet here you are, talking as though it’s a major breakup. So he was a nice, interesting man—so what? There are plenty more of those out there.”

  If we weren’t in public, I’d put my head on the table.

  This is the thing about talking to Heather; much as she might try, she just doesn’t understand what a minefield modern dating is. She met her husband during freshers’ week at university. She’s never had to navigate the rocky waters of dating apps, or exclusivity, or the commitment-phobia which seems to be rife amongst anyone under the age of thirty. If I asked her about ghosting, she’d probably guess it was something to do with Halloween.