by Lottie Lucas
He never calls me Clara. My whole body tenses in trepidation. What’s going on? He’s looking exceedingly smug, even more so than usual. This does not bode well.
Professor Warwick doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t appear to deter Jeremy in the slightest.
“She tells me that you’ve known each other for years.” He gives a false-sounding laugh. “But then, she can be very modest about these things. Tell me, professor, where did you two meet?”
I feel nauseous. So, this is it, then. I swear, after this, I will never lie about anything ever again. I’m officially cured. Never again shall an untruth pass my lips. Even if Heather gets her hair cut into another bob and asks me if it makes her look middle-aged. I’ll be honest. I won’t spare her feelings.
I screw my eyes up and wait for the inevitable.
“Oh, it’s been about three years now, I believe. But time goes so quickly, don’t you find?”
My eyes snap open in shock. Jeremy appears to have been stunned into silence, his throat working uselessly. Professor Warwick, on the other hand, looks as impassive as ever. He closes the book in his lap. “Was there anything else? Only I’ve got an evening lecture across town in half an hour.”
“Of course, of course,” Jeremy squeaks, looking stricken. “I’m very sorry to have bothered you, professor. I had no idea that you and Miss Swift here …” he stares at me in something bordering on horror, as if I’m something which has just crawled out of the gutter “… were truly an item.”
“We’re not,” both the professor and I say at the same time.
Now it’s my turn to be horrified. What a thought.
“Just a professional relationship,” I say firmly. Out of the corner of my eye, I detect the hint of a smile cross his lips.
“Indeed. A meeting of minds, one might say.”
“But …” Jeremy looks perturbed. “The … er …” He goes delightfully crimson. Clearly, he can’t bring himself to utter the word.
Oh, yes. The kiss. How are we going to explain that? Even the professor looks momentarily at a loss, although he soon recovers himself.
“A throwback to my Sicilian ancestry,” he says smoothly. “It’s considered good business practice to embrace upon each meeting. It appeases the gods, you see.”
It takes everything I have not to look at him disbelievingly.
“I see,” Jeremy breathes. “I never knew. Well, how fascinating.”
There’s an awkward little quiver of silence, during which we all look at the floor.
“Well,” I burst out at last.
“Yes, quite right, Miss Swift,” Jeremy says eagerly, despite the fact that I hadn’t even posed a statement. “Must be getting on. Can’t waste time. Professor, good to see you, as always.” He goes to hold out his hand, then hesitates. “I’m sorry. Should we … er …?” He steps forward, spreading his arms fumblingly.
“No,” the professor says stonily. “A handshake’s fine.”
Jeremy appears to almost sag with sheer relief, clasping the proffered hand as though it’s a life raft of reserved English respectability.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Professor Warwick warns in an undertone as we watch Jeremy totter away out of sight. “And if you even think about laughing …”
“I would never,” I say solemnly.
“Good. Because this is your fault, you know. And if I now find that my colleagues start coming up to me in the quadrangle and try to kiss me …”
I decide that now’s an excellent time to have a coughing fit.
“I can’t legislate for Jeremy,” I say at last, when I’ve recovered sufficiently to speak. I still can’t believe he actually lied for me. “But I promise it won’t have come from me. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude, Professor …” I break off with a frustrated sigh, sitting down next to him on the seat. “What is your name, anyway?”
He looks at me as though nobody’s ever asked him that before. “My name?”
Lord, but he’s impossible.
“Your given name? Surely you weren’t christened Professor Warwick?”
“Oh, that.” He shuffles his feet. “It’s Adam. But no one really uses …”
“Adam.” I test it out loud. I like it. It’s uncomplicated, not at all what I was expecting. I was anticipating a Matthias or an Ebenezer. Something antiquated and unusual, belonging to another time, a bit like himself.
“Yes, well, like I said, I don’t tend to …”
I cut him off with a quelling look.
“On second thoughts, Adam’s fine,” he mumbles.
“Good. And you can call me Clara.”
He looks pained at the very idea, but at least he doesn’t protest.
“Thank you,” I say haltingly. “You … you didn’t have to do any of that, you know. You don’t owe me anything.”
I still don’t understand why he did it. After all, it’s not even as if he likes me. Why would he put himself in such an awkward position on my behalf?
“I hope you’ll take it as an apology, of sorts.” He looks away, but not fast enough for me to miss the pink tinge which is creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, making a detailed inspection of the ceiling rose above our heads. “For my behaviour yesterday. I’ve been … ah … told in the past that I can be somewhat … shall we say, insensitive?”
“Surely not,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Luckily, my sarcasm seems to bypass him completely.
“I’m not always very good at reading a situation, you see. I’m afraid I can come across more harshly than intended.” He turns his head and I find myself looking deep into his cobalt eyes. From this close, I can see the grey flecks in them, the paler blue halo round the pupils. I don’t think I’ve ever really studied someone’s eyes like this before. It’s strangely fascinating. Also … sort of intense. I half want to look away, but another part of me finds that I can’t.
“Shall we call it even?” I manage.
“Fair enough. Although I imagine the balance will tilt again before long. You seem to be a magnet for trouble.”
I draw back with an accusing glare. “I thought you were going to be nicer to me!”
A smile touches the edges of his mouth. “I never actually said that. Not in so many words.”
“Clara—” Ruby materialises breathlessly in front of us “—your brother’s been on the phone for you. He couldn’t get through on your mobile, so he rang the front desk instead. He’s heard from the vet.”
With a lurch of guilt, I picture my phone sitting upstairs on my desk. Here I am, sitting around with Professor … sorry, Adam, and all the while my poor beloved Casper has been undergoing surgery. I sit bolt upright.
“Is everything okay? What happened?”
“What?” Ruby looks confused. Then her face clears. “Oh, no, it all went fine. In fact, they’ve said he can go home this afternoon. That’s what Freddie was calling about. He was asking if you wanted him to go.” Her gaze slides across to Adam, who’s following the conversation with a detached air. “Shall I tell him you’re busy?”
Something about her assessing tone of voice pricks at me. Suddenly, I’m all too aware of how close together we are, squeezed into the window seat. It didn’t seem at all strange whilst we were talking, but now … Feeling uncomfortable, I scramble to my feet, forcing myself not to look at Adam.
“No, it’s all right. I’ll do it myself.”
Chapter 10
“Home sweet home,” I say merrily to Casper, as at long last our house comes into view. And not a moment too soon either. Is it just me, or has this cat got heavier in the past eight hours? If it weren’t for the neat row of stitches across his side, I would begin to wonder if he hadn’t had an operation at all, but instead spent the day flirting with the nurses and being fed cat treats.
A disgruntled snuffling sound is the only response I get.
“Are you seriously still sulking?” I hoik the basket up so I can look him in the face. “I came to get you
, didn’t I? What more do you want?”
Two green eyes glower at me from the shadows.
“I mean, I could have sent Freddie, but no—” I’m on a roll now “—no, I, loving owner that I am, made a twenty-minute detour across town to come and fetch you myself. But are you grateful? Not a bit of it.”
He cocks his head to one side and gives me a hard stare.
“Okay, so perhaps it wasn’t entirely for your benefit,” I admit reluctantly. “The very attractive vet was something of an incentive. But it was mostly about you.”
He flops down at the bottom of the basket with a sceptical huff.
He’s so dramatic sometimes. I roll my eyes as I flick the catch on the wrought iron gate which leads to our house.
I still love coming home, even after all these years. My house might be little, but it’s one of my favourite places in the world. It’s a narrow Victorian structure, wedged in between two others in a space which, frankly, wasn’t really big enough for a house at all. These days, they’d never get planning permission. Only one room wide across the front, with three storeys and a steeply pitched roof, the whole thing looks like it’s been squeezed into shape. Its odd proportions give it a slightly unreal look, like a doll’s house, or something a child might draw, but that’s sort of what I like about it.
My landlady is a lovely old woman who’s owned the place for decades. Every year, she hikes the rent by about ten pounds a year. I half wonder why she bothers, but it suits me so I keep quiet about it. I’d never be able to afford a place like this by myself otherwise.
When the front of the house needed repainting a couple of years ago, I offered to do it myself, on the proviso that I could choose the colour, and now it’s a pale sugar mouse pink, with a white door and window frames. We’ve continued the arrangement inside, enabling me to have a sunshine yellow kitchen with sky blue cabinets, a lilac bedroom and an apple green bathroom. God knows what she’ll think when I finally move out and she sees what she’s let herself in for.
I squeeze through the gate, taking care to stick to the garden path. I’ve planted the front lawn with a mass of bulbs and, although it doesn’t look like much at this time of year, it’s a riot of colour in the spring and summer. There’s no method to my planting scheme, only madness. I just chose everything I liked and put it all in together. I like to think it has a certain whimsical vibe, like an enchanted meadow.
I’m halfway to the front door when a voice stops me in my tracks.
“Miss Swift. Just who I was on my way to see.”
I look longingly at the door, some two feet ahead of me. So near, yet so far. What else can anyone possibly want from me today?
Apprehensively, I turn my head to see the head of the local fire department advancing along the pavement towards me, a determined look on his face. Automatically, I plonk Casper down unceremoniously behind a rosebush, earning me a faint hiss of complaint. Luckily, though, he’s still too groggy from the anaesthetic to protest more volubly.
“Hello—” I plaster a smile across my face, edging sideways so I’m half obscuring the rosebush “—Captain … er … Officer …” I’ve never known how to address him. What titles do firefighters have, anyway? “Mr Trueman. What a surprise. To what do I owe this honour?”
“Thought you’d be wanting this back.” He produces a red cat collar from his pocket. Casper’s collar: I recognise the frayed edges where he chewed the bells off. I bought it in the hope that maybe it would stem the death toll of small, furry rodents which found their way onto the kitchen floor of a morning. Within half an hour of me putting it round his neck, the bells had mysteriously disappeared and three mangled shrews lay mockingly upon the doormat.
Since then, I’ve never tried to interfere with his hunting habits again.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” I take the collar from Trueman’s hand, hoping that now he’s run his errand he’ll be on his way. But he doesn’t move.
“How is that cat of yours, anyway? Keeping out of mischief, I hope.”
“Oh, yes.” I nod vigorously, mentally pleading with Casper to stay quiet. “He’s a reformed character these days.”
Perhaps that was a step too far. Trueman’s heavy brow thuds down over his eyes. “Somehow, I doubt it. There’s no reforming a wild animal like that, Miss Swift, none at all.”
A growl emerges from the depths of the rosebush and, for once, I agree with the sentiment. Wild animal, indeed. I feel rather affronted on Casper’s behalf.
“You’d be best off giving him to one of those shelters,” Trueman’s saying now, clasping his hands behind his back. “They’d know what to do with him. Then you could get yourself something nicer to have around. A guinea pig, maybe.” He gives me a pointed look. “Something which doesn’t cause my finest men to be scrambling about in trees. Jennings’ ankle is almost recovered, by the way.”
Ah, so now we’ve got to the point. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
Casper and the Cambridge fire department do not get along. Much like Casper and the vet. And Casper and the postman. And Casper and the neighbours. And Casper and … Oh, look, you get where I’m going with this. It’s a good thing that I’m on his side, because he’s made enemies out of pretty much everyone else in the city.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I say tightly.
Of course, I am sorry about what happened. I can still hear the crunch that ankle made as it hit the ground. But, at the same time, it was his own fault that he fell out of the tree. He didn’t hold onto Casper tightly enough; what did he expect to happen? You’d think one of the things they’d train firefighters to do is hold a cat properly, at the very least.
I did try and suggest that to Trueman afterwards, but one look at his face told me that it wasn’t the time. Maybe I’ll try again at a later date. When it isn’t all quite so recent.
There’s a pause in the conversation, and I allow myself to feel hopeful that he might take his cue and leave, but then he says, with a sort of forced casualness, “Just out of interest, where is he at the moment?”
I feign innocence. “Who?”
“Your cat,” he says, more sharply. “Where is he?”
Ah, now it all makes sense. This was never about simply bringing back a collar. He’s checking up on us.
“Inside, I should expect,” I reply tartly. “As I said, he’s been lying low recently.”
Should I be worried at how easily lies seem to slip off my tongue these days? Before Casper came into my life, I scarcely even knew how to lie. I’d always give myself away, or trip up somehow. Now look at me. I could go into politics.
The rosebush rustles. Trueman glances at it; for an awful moment I think he’s about to go over and look, but instead he steps back with a resigned shake of the head.
“Let’s just hope it stays that way, then.” He purses his lips ominously. “But if I find that he’s been causing any more mayhem …”
“He won’t,” I say quickly, as the bush begins to vibrate with more intensity. Casper’s obviously grown bored of his confinement, and is trying to break his way out of the basket. “I promise.”
“Did you hear that?” I say to Casper as I yank him out from behind the foliage. Now I’m making promises for you. Promises which we both know I’m in no position to keep. You’re a law unto yourself.”
He butts the roof of the basket with his head.
“Yes, fine, I get the message. I’ll let you out.” I forage in my coat pocket for my house keys. “But not until we’re inside. I’ve had enough drama for the time being. For once, you are going to have a quiet night in. No arguments,” I say sternly, as he opens his mouth to yowl in dissent. “That’s my final word.”
He glares at me venomously, before burying his head beneath the blanket.
I sigh as I turn the key in the lock. It’s going to be a very long evening.
***
“Do you think he looks peaky?” I ask, peering around the side of the kitchen table. Casper’s dozing in his baske
t, one paw over his eyes. He looks so adorable that I can almost be lulled into forgetting about the vengeful offering which was waiting in my slipper this morning when I got out of bed.
“He’s fine,” Heather says shortly, without even turning around to look. “He was running up and down the curtains half an hour ago. Hardly the sign of a cat who’s at death’s door.”
With a small frown, I pick up the cafetière. “More coffee?”
“Please.” She sits back in her chair, looking around the room approvingly. “It looks nice in here. Have you tidied up?”
She makes it sound as though I usually live in squalor. Although, by her standards, I probably do. While I’ve tried to explain to her that the mismatched china and faded old velvet sofa are all things I actually chose, I’m not sure that she really believes me. To her mind, everyone should want nothing more than to live in a haze of minimalist neutrals. She probably thinks I’ve dragged half of my stuff out of a skip. In fact, I know she does. I once caught her sterilising my cutlery with boiling water from the kettle before using it.
“I might have rearranged a few things.” I busy myself spooning sugar into my cup.
All right, so maybe I have tidied up just a little. Something about seeing Heather’s house the other day shamed me into making more of an effort. I even got Freddie to reach right to the back of the cupboard for the cafetière. That hadn’t seen the light of day in years. It was a moving in present, I think, although who from, I can’t even begin—
“And you’ve got the cafetière out which we gave you,” Heather says, turning it around to admire it. “I’ve never seen you use it before. I’d begun to think you didn’t like it.”
I take an overly large gulp of coffee. “I just … save it for special occasions, that’s all.”