Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

by Lottie Lucas

  It’s only when I look over at his chair that I discover why. He’s not there. He must have crept out while Freddie and I were talking. I frown, wondering what he’s up to. It’s very unlike him to disappear when food’s on offer.

  I don’t think I heard the cat flap go, so I make my way upstairs. Sometimes he likes to burrow under the duvet on my bed. He’s not there though, so I go into the spare room, where Freddie has set up camp. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that his overnight bag has exploded. There’s stuff everywhere, and he’s only been here a few days.

  I’m just pondering over how, exactly, a sock has ended up on the window ledge, when something outside makes my breath stop.

  There, under the glow of a streetlamp, is Casper. And he’s slinking across the road.

  Damn that cat. No wonder he’s looking furtive. He knows I don’t like him going out there. Granted, I live on a quiet residential street, far too hemmed in by cars parked on either side for anyone to drive too fast down, but still. That’s not the point. I fling open the window.

  “Casper!”

  At the sound of his name he stops, turning his head to look up. Just as a cyclist suddenly appears from behind the cars, whizzing towards him.

  “Stop!” I yell, but it’s already too late. The cyclist swerves violently, tyres screeching against the tarmac. I can only look on in horror as they overbalance, finishing upside down in a nearby bush, the wheels of the bike spinning uselessly.

  For a split second I’m stunned into immobility. Then I’m running, bursting down the stairs and out into the street.

  “Are you all right?” I gasp, snatching Casper into my arms. Mercifully, he seems more put out than anything, glaring at the bicycle as though it did him a personal injury. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a flash of white tail disappearing into the bushes and immediately the object of his evening wanderings becomes clear. I should have known there’d be a lady involved. There’s not a lot else which he would prioritise over dinner.

  It’s a sad fact when your cat has a better love life than you do, I think glumly. Maybe Heather was right, after all. Maybe I really do need to take some time to just be by myself for a bit. Stop chasing rainbows which don’t exist. After all, it’s not as if suitable men just pop up out of …

  I look at the bike, skewered into the bush, and out of nowhere something begins to fizz beneath my skin, a prickle of excitement.

  Surely not … I mean, it can’t be. That would just be crazy.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” a voice supplies from the depths of the foliage. “It’s the cat we should be concerned about.”

  Despite its somewhat muffled tone, the sarcasm is unmistakable and I feel myself flushing, startled out of my reverie.

  “Of course, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  The cyclist struggles out of the bush, helmet askew across his face, and, despite myself, my breath catches in anticipation. Now he’s standing upright, I see that he’s tall, towering over me by almost half a foot. I’ve always liked tall men.

  I’m doing exactly what I promised I wouldn’t; I’m getting carried away again. I know it. But that doesn’t mean that I can help it. I mean, come on. I’m only human. And it doesn’t get much more romantic than this, does it? It’s like a meet cute in a movie. Any moment now, he’ll push up his helmet and our eyes will meet. Electricity will spark between us. And he’ll say something like … Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like …

  “Just about, no thanks to that bloody animal. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road, anyway?”

  I jolt backwards as though I’ve been slapped, his acerbic tone acting like a sledgehammer on the lovely rose-tinted vision I’d created.

  Okay, definitely not something like that.

  “It was my fault,” I say quickly as Casper bristles in my arms with a growl, obviously aware of the slight. “I called him and he turned to look. It was perfectly natural behaviour on his part.”

  “Yes, well …” He straightens his helmet and I can see the outline of his face in the slanting light from the streetlamp. I can make out a strong aquiline nose, a sculpted jaw and a pair of dark eyes. Despite myself, I find myself wondering what colour they are and I mentally slap myself down. Stop it, Clara. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. Just thank every higher entity that he can’t read your thoughts.

  I’m cringing inside just thinking about it.

  Mercifully, he doesn’t seem to notice me staring. In fact, he’s not looking at me at all. So much for my fantasy that our eyes would lock; he hasn’t even so much as glanced at me once throughout our whole exchange. Instead, his attention is fixed upon the ground around our feet. “That’s all very well for you to say. But just look at what you’ve done!”

  I follow his gaze, and for the first time I notice that there are papers scattered all over the road. A battered folder lies in the midst of it all, its mouth gaping open, more papers spilling out from within. They’re looking decidedly worse for wear, having landed on the rain-dampened tarmac. Most of them are splattered with mud, and one or two even have bicycle tracks across them.

  I know I should be feeling guilty about that. But something about his abrasiveness sets my teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the dull sense of disappointment I still feel which makes my own response somewhat sharper than I’d intended. This man is definitely no romantic hero.

  “What I’ve done? Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But this was clearly an accident.”

  I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me. He’s scrabbling around after the papers, gathering them into a haphazard pile.

  “This is priceless research!” he snaps, although I half wonder if it might be directed more at himself than me. “Utterly irreplaceable.”

  Casper obviously takes exception to it anyway, because he lurches forward with a protracted hiss, compelling me to tighten my grip on him.

  The man half glances upwards and, although I can’t see his face in the dark, incredulity colours his voice. “Did he really just hiss at me?”

  I jut out my chin defensively. “You did almost run him over.”

  “He got in my way, I think you’ll find. He’s bloody lucky I managed to swerve in time.”

  “Clara?” Freddie’s standing in the open doorway, his arms folded across his body against the cold. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  Always the last one to the party, my brother. I almost want to laugh. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well with the indignant man in front of me.

  “It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute,” I call softly, relieved when Freddie disappears back inside the house. The last thing we need is to attract even more attention. I can practically feel the curtains twitching as it is. I turn back around, determined to do the decent thing. After all, despite what I said, I am indebted to this ill-mannered cyclist. I dread to think what would have happened if he hadn’t flung himself to the side of the road. And that bush looked pretty spiky. I’m sure we’ve got a first aid box inside somewhere. Or some plasters, at the very least. I can offer to …

  My thoughts trail off as I observe that my charge is already pulling his bike out of the bush and climbing on. One of the wheels is bent out of shape, the spokes twisted at an unnatural angle.

  “You’re not going to try and ride that home, are you?” I exclaim. “Let me call you a taxi. It’s the least I can do.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he says tersely. Then, “Thank you,” he adds in a voice which, if not exactly gracious, is noticeably gentler. He gives an awkward cough. “That’s very kind. But there’s no need.” He tries to push off. The bike wobbles precariously, almost ending up in the bush all over again. Instinctively, I rush forward, although what I’m hoping to do with Casper still in my arms is questionable.

  “Really, if you’ll just let me …” He holds up a hand, his eyes closing briefly as though in pain. Then he tries again, and this time it works. After a fashion. I watch as he
cycles away from me, the bike lurching alarmingly to one side and then the other, muttering darkly to himself in a language which, for a few seconds, I can’t understand. Then, out of the deep recesses of my brain, something begins to stir.

  “Is that …” Freddie has appeared at my shoulder, his voice dripping with incredulity “… Latin?”

  “Yes,” I say weakly. “I think it is.”

  I don’t even think I’ve heard anyone speak it out loud since school. That’s kind of the point of Latin these days. It’s a dead language. You use it for scholarly research, and the odd plant name or family motto, but that’s about it. No one actually speaks it.

  For a few moments we simply stand, staring after the bike as it makes its drunken way over the brow of the hill.

  “You know, sis, I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably have cause to say it again,” Freddie says at last, with a shake of his head. “But you really do get some strange people in Cambridge.”

  Chapter 4

  I wind my scarf loosely around my neck as I step out onto the bright, sunlit street. It’s one of those utterly perfect October mornings, all crisp blue skies and leaves swirling through the air in shades of amber, honey and gold. It’s the kind of day which can’t fail to put me in a good mood. Even the residual sense of embarrassment hanging over from last night seems to fizzle into nothing in the dazzling light of a new day. Better still, I’m actually running on time for work for once. Perhaps the gods really are smiling down on me after all.

  The streets begin to narrow the closer I get to the centre of town, becoming labyrinthine passageways barely large enough for a single car to squeeze through. I stop briefly to allow a cyclist to pass and he holds up a hand in thanks, his coat billowing out behind him.

  Cambridge looks more romantic than ever on a day like this, the sun warming the stone to its richest hue, gleaming like molten bronze in the narrow mullioned windows. Somewhere, amongst the cluster of turrets and spires, bells are ringing, a melodic, undulating rhythm which is as familiar to me now as breathing. Bells are always ringing somewhere in Cambridge; most of the time, I hardly even notice them any more. But today their sound seems to be everywhere, filling the air around me in cascading layers.

  Sidling around a cluster of tourists peering at the grasshopper clock, I check the time on my phone, automatically beginning to pick up the pace. It’s easy to dawdle in a city like this, to wander around dreamily at half speed without even realising you’re doing it. Familiarity never seems to dull its beauty, its ancient magic. If I had to pin it down, I’d say that’s ultimately what made me choose to stay here, rather than letting myself be drawn away to the bright lights of London, as so many of my classmates were.

  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.