Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

by Lottie Lucas

  In her world it’s easy to walk into a bar or a party, start talking to a nice man and, the next thing you know, you’re buying crockery together and putting down a deposit on a marquee. Sometimes, I wonder if I should break it to her that it’s not the nineties any more.

  “You’ve always been the dreamer of the two of us,” she’s saying now. “You’ve always wanted …” she waves her fork in the air, as though to whisk up the ideal word “… magic. Romance. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it, but the way you just leap into things, with your heart on your sleeve …” She breaks off with a frown, pointing the fork at me. “Don’t pull that face. I’m allowed to worry about you, you know.”

  I look into her anxious blue eyes and immediately feel guilty. In her smart black turtleneck, her glossy dark hair pulled back from her face, she looks impossibly put together. But I can see the tense lines around her mouth, the too-tight set of her shoulders. She’s always been like that, from the very first day we met in university halls. What was supposed to be a carefree, spontaneous time— that always proved a challenge for Heather. She could never quite let go, never relax. I suppose that’s why we were drawn to one another. We both needed something the other could give, me a little of her level-headedness, her serenity, and her my sense of wonder, my open-minded optimism.

  “Of course you do,” I reply gently. “But I’m fine, Heather. I’m a grown woman; I can deal with my own disasters. You have plenty of other things to worry about. Oscar, for starters.”

  “He certainly gives me plenty to worry about.” She begins to daintily cut her avocado wrap into small pieces, presumably so she doesn’t have to pick it up. Heather doesn’t really do finger food. I’ve seen her eat nachos with a knife and fork. “I have absolutely no idea where he gets it from. I was the most shy, retiring child in the playground for my entire school career. And Dominic wasn’t exactly a bad boy himself.”

  “No,” I say, trying not to smile as memories of Dominic in a choirboy’s cassock and ruff spring to my mind. Heather showed me that old album when we were both a bit tipsy on raspberry vodka, and I swore I’d never mention it again.

  “Neither of us have ever broken a single bone,” Heather continues, sawing into her wrap with increased force. “Oscar’s barely three, and he’s already broken his arm twice. Thank God the second time it happened at nursery; if it had been at home again, I probably would have had social services banging down the door.”

  I stifle my mirth with a well-timed cough.

  “You might well laugh,” she says accusingly. “But this is supposed to be one of your duties, you know, as his godmother. To care and protect his sapling young mind, steer him in a more respectable direction. Make sure he doesn’t grow up into a total hellion.”

  “That’s if you die, Heather. Which, hopefully, you’re not planning on doing any time soon. Until then, I get to be the fun adult figure in his life. The one he comes to for advice, or contraband ice cream milkshakes.”

  She groans. “Yes, because that’s just what he needs. More fun in his life. He has such a dreary time of it. Nothing nice ever happens to him … or so he’d have everyone believe. That child is a master manipulator.”

  “Your mother would probably say that he’s been sent to challenge you.”

  ‘She says exactly that. Just about every time I see her, in fact. But whenever I ask, “What if I don’t particularly want to be challenged?” she never seems inclined to answer.’

  This time I do laugh. “You have a wonderful child, Heather. Slightly boisterous, maybe, but wonderful.”

  Oscar was something of a … Well, let’s say he was a glorious surprise. I still remember sitting with Heather on the sofa after she’d found out. It wasn’t a particularly nice sofa, I have to admit. We were still in our last student house, on the outskirts of Cambridge. We were all ready to move out, onwards and upwards into a future which was unknown yet we were certain would be bright. The sofa was pretty much the last thing left in the barren sitting room.

  We’d promised each other that nothing would change, that last summer. That adult life, and proper work, could never put an end to nights spent drinking Bellinis in the basement bars around the city, or long, lazy afternoons watching romantic comedies in our pyjamas. Even when Heather got engaged to Dominic, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous fashion, still she’d vowed that nothing would change.

  Then it happened. She was just staring into space, not saying anything. For the first time in our friendship, I couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Until suddenly, she’d stood, smoothing down the hem of her cobalt blue summer top.

  “Well, then,” she’d said, and I remember that her voice had sounded strange, and yet at the same time not strange at all. It was completely neutral. “I’d better get an appointment at the doctor’s. And I suppose my parents ought to know sooner rather than later.”

  And that had been that. It was as though she resigned herself, in that moment, to the fact that life was about to completely, inescapably transform. She just got on with it, no looking back.

  Since that day, of course, nothing has been the same. She’s still my closest friend, and we make plenty of time for one another, but our lives have gone in wildly different directions. And sometimes, I look at her, with her husband and her adorable son, and her impeccable nineteen-thirties villa in a quiet, leafy suburb on the edge of town, and I find myself thinking …

  Well, look, never mind what I think. It’s not important.

  “You’re right. I do,” she’s agreeing now and, although she’s trying not to, I can see a radiant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And you have an equally wonderful, equally boisterous cat.” She sends me a sly look from beneath her lashes. “Who apparently knows better than you do what makes a good boyfriend.”

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Are we still talking about this?”

  “Yes, we are.” Heather picks up her own watermelon iced tea and takes a tentative sip before pulling a face. “I need to stop letting you bring me to these bohemian cafés. Or, rather, I need to stop following your lead when I order. At least it’s not as bad as the beetroot latte.”

  “I like beetroot lattes,” I say defensively. “And anyway, it’s good for you to try something different every now and again.”

  She makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “If you can’t get it in Waitrose, then there’s a good reason for it.”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” I say ominously. “Beetroot will take over the world. You’ll see.”

  She fixes me with a severe look. “We’re digressing here. Don’t think you can distract me with winter vegetables. We were talking about you, remember?”

  I shake my head fervently. “I don’t think we were.”

  “We most definitely were. Stop avoiding the subject.” She pushes the glass of iced tea away with a tastefully manicured hand. There’s a small pause in the conversation as a waiter swoops in upon our empty plates before she continues. “Look, Clara, be honest with yourself. Out of all of those men Casper chased away, was there anyone you could actually see a future with? Anyone you really got to know, who understood you inside out?”

  “No,” I confess in a small voice.

  “So perhaps, in his own way, he was doing you a favour?”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Really? You’re going to pretend that you believe that?”

  “Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant. But, ultimately, I think it wouldn’t do you any harm to guard yourself a bit more. What’s the hurry, anyway? You have all the time in the world; you’re only twenty-five.”

  “So are you!”

  “Yes, but the difference is that I don’t feel it,” she says simply. “And, believe me, one day, before you even know it, you’ll be feeling just as old and haggard as I do now, so enjoy this phase while it lasts.” She raises her glass in mock toast. “Tell you what, here’s a challenge. Find someone who can actually win round that cat of yours; now, that really w
ill be someone worth having. If they can do that, I’ll deem them worthy of your affections.”

  “You’re right; of course you are.” To my horror, I can feel heat pricking at the back of my eyes, and I blink hard. “It’s just … well, it’s been …”

  “A difficult few years,” Heather finishes quietly, placing a hand over mine. “I know.”

  We lapse into silence. I fiddle with the straw in my drink. It’s paper, like they all are nowadays, decorated with a pink candy stripe. I’m staring at it so determinedly that the colours start to blur into one another. I’m pretty sure it’s making my eyes cross, so I look out of the window instead. The students are listening raptly for the most part, their heads bent over notebooks or, in the case of a few more technological types, tablets. I notice there are a couple at the back, however, who aren’t quite so swept away by their professor’s passionate lecture. They’re prodding at their phones, looking bored.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I mumble at last.

  She exhales slowly. “Yes, of course.” I can tell she feels bad because she pulls her watermelon iced tea back towards her and starts to drink from it stoically. It’s not much, but I know her well enough to recognise an olive branch. “What’s new at work?”

  “Heather, I work in a museum. New isn’t exactly our speciality.”

  I know I’m being flippant, that I’m shutting her out. But I can’t help it. I know what she’ll ask next, and I just can’t cope with anything else right now. I can’t cope with her fussing around me, trying to fix my life.

  She emits a gusty sigh, plucking the laminated menu from the centre of the table to peruse the back. “I can tell I’m not going to get anything even remotely sensible out of you today. You’re in one of those moods. Do you have time for pudding?”

  Now that’s a topic which is always amenable to me. It’s with no small sense of relief that I take the menu from her outstretched hand. This feels like much safer ground. Pudding, I can deal with.

  “I always have time for pudding. What are we having?”

  Chapter 3

  By the time I turn onto my street that evening, the sky has deepened to an inky purple, the air tinged with the promise of frost. The first star is just cresting the horizon, a pinprick of light against an otherwise blank sheet of darkness. There’s no moon, I notice. I always pay attention to the moon: where it is in the sky, how full it is. I track it through its stages, watching it wax and wane, brighten and dim, the craters emerging from and then melding back into the shadows. The steady rhythm of it, ever changing and yet unchanged, is more reassuring to me than any amount of therapy.

  Despite the darkness, I have no trouble finding my house. It’s blazing like a beacon, lights shining from every window like a cottage on a Christmas card. One of the joys, I’m fast learning, of living with an ex-student who doesn’t have to pay the bills. I’d be willing to bet anything that the heating will be cranked up to maximum too.

  My theory is confirmed soon enough as I open the front door, only to be blasted by a wall of heat as dense and dry as a Saharan wind.

  “I’m back,” I announce, rapidly beginning to divest myself of all outerwear before I break out into a sweat. Seriously, how does this not bother him? Feeling the cold is a woman’s prerogative; everyone knows that. Men are usually just supposed to tut and turn the thermostat down when we’re not looking, or look on in disbelief as we pull on fluffy socks and dressing gowns, hot-water bottles clutched to our chests.

  “We’re in here.” Freddie’s voice floats through into the hallway.

  Still alive, then. I’m amazed he hasn’t boiled in his own skin.

  I head into the living room, about to make a comment to that effect, but the words die on my lips. Freddie is lounging on the sofa in his favourite hoodie, a half drunk cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him, flipping through a film magazine. The TV burbles away gently in the background, the screen providing a soothing blur of flickering colour. Casper is lolling blissfully on his chair—or, I should say, the chair which he has long since commandeered as his own. It’s just too exhausting to keep hoovering the cat hair off it every day. When he sees me he rolls onto his back, exposing his furry tummy expectantly.

  “Honestly, you’re like a dog,” I murmur, leaning over to give the requisite scratch. “Cats shouldn’t enjoy this.”

  He just purrs even more loudly.

  “Good day?” Freddie asks vaguely, still absorbed in the article he’s reading.

  I look down at my brother’s scruffy head with an inward sigh. It’s hard to be annoyed with him, even if he is racking up the kind of electricity bill which I’d thought only existed in my worst nightmares.

  Because … you know, it’s actually kind of nice to have someone to come home to, save a disgruntled-looking Casper or the odd dead rat. It’s nice that the house isn’t cold and dark, and that I don’t have to sit around with my coat on for half an hour while the place warms up. It’s nice that Casper has someone with him during the day. He hates being left on his own. He gets bored, I think, which is probably why he goes out of his way to cause so much mischief.

  The truth is, I never planned to live alone. I’ve never been one of those people who dream of their own space, of no one bothering them. I like being bothered. I like having company. If I’m being totally honest, I never planned to be alone full stop. I’d always imagined that I’d be one of those people who falls in love young, then stays with that person for ever. I used to listen to my parents recounting how they met; my dad actually proposed the very first night he saw Mum, but she prudently suggested that they went on a date or two first. Obviously, he won her round, though, because they were engaged within a week.

  I used to dream of something like that happening to me. It sounded beyond perfect.

  Except, somehow, it’s just never quite happened.

  All right, so it’s never even come remotely close to happening. My so-called love life has always been conspicuously devoid of that all-important sentiment. Relationships have started then fizzled out. Even before Casper came on the scene, none of my romantic attachments have ever lasted long.

  I mean, look, it’s not like I’m desperate or anything. I don’t want you to get that idea. I’m well aware that I don’t need anyone in my life. I get by just fine, albeit in a singular, chaotic sort of fashion.

  But, then again, life’s not about just getting by, is it? And just because I can do everything on my own doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to. The last few years have given me quite enough experience of that. It could easily have knocked all the romance out of me, but instead it’s actually had the opposite effect. These days, the thought of someone sweeping me off into an escapist whirlwind of breakfasts in bed and roses and spontaneous trips to Paris sounds more heavenly than ever.

  And while Casper is, of course, a wonderful companion in his way, he’s not much good for any of those things. His idea of breakfast in bed is leaving a desiccated squirrel on the pillow next to me, and the only spontaneous trips we make together are to the vet’s.

  I bring my attention back to the present, just in time to see Freddie toss a chocolate high up in the air and catch it in his mouth.

  “Freddie!” I admonish. “Those were the chocolates which James brought over.”

  He looks up at me, all innocence. “I know; that’s why I’m eating them. Wouldn’t want to leave any unpleasant reminders about the place, would we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Unless you were planning to keep them as a sordid memento of your failed romance.”

  Sometimes, I wish I didn’t get these insights into how my little brother sees me. Images of myself as some sort of latter day—if decidedly more youthful and less cobwebby—Miss Havisham, with a specimen cupboard full of old chocolate boxes and used tissues stolen from past dates is not something I particularly want to entertain.

  “It’s touching that you think so highly of me.” I flop down beside him on the sofa, reaching for the box. “Here, l
et me have one. It’s been a hard day.” I pick a chocolate at random, not even bothering to look at the descriptions. I’m too tired to care. When I’m in this state, chocolate is just chocolate. Any will do.

  Freddie stares at me. “Wow, chocolate roulette. It must have been bad.”

  “I finally made a start on those grant applications I’ve been putting off for weeks. They’re an absolute nightmare. No wonder Jeremy landed me with them.” I bite into the chocolate, delighted to discover that it has a caramel centre. I was beginning to worry that it might turn out to be the weird fruit one that always gets left in the box. “What’s for dinner?”

  For a moment he looks totally perplexed, then he holds up the chocolate box sheepishly. “Er … these?”

  “Freddie!” My legs are curled up beneath me and I give him a sharp kick. “You were supposed to pick something up!”

  “Sorry, I forgot.” He whips out his phone and opens up an app. “How do you feel about pizza?”

  Another side-effect of living with a twenty-one-year-old. I’m officially returning to a student diet.

  “Fine,” I say begrudgingly. “But get a side salad, won’t you? I’m not eighteen any more. I need to eat some vegetables.”

  “I’ll get a four seasons pizza. It has olives on it.”

  “I don’t think olives count.”

  “Mushrooms do, though. There must be two portions on that pizza, surely.”

  I shake my head despairingly. “I can’t believe that Jess hasn’t managed to teach you about this.”

  There’s a beat of silence. Immediately, I know I’ve said something wrong, although I’m not sure what. Maybe they’ve had a fight.

  Freddie stares fixedly at his phone, scrolling so fast that I’m certain he’s not really looking at it. Eventually, he clears his throat. “I’ll order a mixed salad as well, then.”

  “I’d, er … better feed Casper,” I say abruptly, rising to my feet.

  Mostly, I say it just to break the strange tension which has settled on the room, although, to be fair, it is actually Casper’s dinner time. In fact, come to think of it, I’m surprised he hasn’t already been hassling me. Usually if I’m so much as a minute behind, he lets me know all about it. But it’s already twenty past six and I haven’t heard a peep out of him.