by Lottie Lucas
He walks towards me and, for a disorientating moment, I’m unsure of what’s about to happen, but then he simply reaches past me and takes the neglected soup off the hob. Belatedly, I notice that it’s hissing and spitting like a volcano.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he says softly. “For my part, you’re unlike anyone I’ve met.”
I wish I could be sure that he means that as a good thing.
All of a sudden it seems odd, having him here. Like he doesn’t fit. He belongs in the museum, in the hallowed halls of the university colleges. But definitely not here. Not in my little yellow kitchen, surrounded by my flea market finds and crystal grids. When Josh was here I wasn’t self-conscious about any of that, but with Adam … He’s too observant; I feel his eyes taking it all in, judging me for it, no doubt. I busy myself pouring the soup into bowls, wondering how I can move the conversation onto safer ground.
“So,” I begin, hoping he won’t notice the brittle note in my voice, “I didn’t realise you were with Alexandra College. How long have you been there?”
“Since I was an undergrad.” He accepts the bowl of soup from me and sits at the table. “But it’s been mapped out for me since I was born. It’s sort of a family tradition.”
He utters all of this without the slightest inflection, as though reciting some particularly dull piece of factual text.
I pull out a chair, unsure what to say. Yet again, I sense that there’s so much more going on beneath the surface. But I don’t dare reach out. So instead I keep it light.
“I was at Alexandra for my masters degree, you know.” I pause, my spoon hovering over my soup. “Come to think of it, it’s a wonder we didn’t bump into one another.”
“I might have been on my year abroad,” he offers. He gazes dreamily off into the middle distance. “I spent it in a remote part of Tuscany on an archaeological dig.”
“Tuscany sounds nice,” I venture politely. Archeological dig … Let’s say no more about that part. I prefer to view my art from within the comfortable confines of a plush gallery. Ideally one with a café.
Somehow, though, I get the sense he wouldn’t appreciate that sentiment.
“I was investigating the influence of Etruscan death culture on the Romans.” He looks at me then. “That’s my subject, you see. Death in Roman society. That’s what I’m doing in the museum at the moment; I’m writing a paper on your sarcophagus. It’s shocking how little detailed research has been done on it thus far.”
“Oh.” I try not to look too appalled. I should have guessed that his specialism wouldn’t be something appealing, like decorated pots or marble statues. I’ve never liked that sarcophagus much; it gives me the creeps. I always try and give it a wide berth.
“You know, I could probably use some of your expertise.” He stirs his soup thoughtfully. “My paper would benefit from an art historical angle.”
I start, knocking my bowl with my hand. Hang on, what did he just say?
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He looks vaguely entertained by my reaction. “You are an art historian, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but …”
“Good. Maybe next week at the museum, I can talk you through my thesis. See what you think.”
For a moment I stare at him stupidly, wondering if I’m hallucinating. But he just sits there, calmly eating his soup. Surely, if I were hallucinating, he’d be doing something more exciting than that. Dancing on the table, maybe? Or singing an aria?
Of course, I shouldn’t be so surprised that someone values my professional opinion. After all, I’m an intelligent woman, aren’t I? I have a postgraduate education, and an important role at a prestigious museum.
But the truth is—and this sounds really sad now I’m saying it—I’ve kind of started to get used to being underestimated. It seems that people take one look at my long blonde hair, my vintage tea dresses, my sparkly nail polish, and they think that I can’t possibly have a spare brain cell in my head. In the dry, dusty world of academia, I am not the norm. And over the years I’ve been made to feel it. Acutely.
The worst thing is, when Adam said he wanted to consult me on his thesis, I was half waiting for him to qualify it with, Of course, it’s complicated. I’ll simplify it for you.
But he didn’t. I should feel elated, but instead I’m just confused.
“Is this a truce, then?” I venture.
“Certainly. From what I’ve experienced over the past week or so, I’ve concluded that it’s far safer to be your friend than your enemy.”
Friend. The word is so wholly inadequate for the spiky, uneasy, strange relationship which exists between us.
Obviously my thoughts are showing on my face because he quirks an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think you could ever be friends with me, is that it?”
He doesn’t sound offended, merely curious. I swirl a figure of eight in my soup, trying to work out how to phrase my reply.
“You have to admit we’re pretty different,” I say eventually. “You’re so … so …”
“Charming? Gregarious? Conversant on the subject of classical burial sites?”
“Er …” I wish I’d never started this conversation.
“We were talking earlier about what I think of you, or at least what you believed me to think of you,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Now, what about what you think of me? Let’s see if my guesses are more accurate.”
He’s enjoying this far too much. I have the unnerving sense that I’m not going to like what he’s about to say next.
“Let’s see …” He pretends to consider. “You think I’m cynical …”
I open my mouth to object, then shut it again.
“… sarcastic, abrupt …”
“Stop!” I put my spoon down with a clatter.
“Am I wrong?”
“Well … I mean, perhaps initially …”
“You’re right,” he says simply, cutting my feeble meanderings short. “I am all of those. And I’m not ashamed of it either. Why should I be? At least I call things as I see them.”
I have no idea how to reply to that but, as it turns out, it doesn’t matter because he’s already rising to his feet, signalling that the conversation is closed.
“Thank you for the clothes. And for the soup. And, of course, for insisting that I stop off here to change,” he adds with a reluctant smile. “I’ll admit that it would have been foolish to attempt to ride home in those wet things.”
I take the bowls over to the dishwasher, trying to adjust to the sudden change of gear. I’m starting to get used to his mercurial nature, but it still catches me out from time to time.
“Is it far?” Now I find myself wondering where he lives.
“Twenty minutes. Usually,” he says ruefully. “It’s longer now that my wheel’s been bent out of shape.”
I freeze, my head buried inside the dishwasher. No way am I going to ask why.
“Some mangy cat ran in front of me into the road the other night,” he continues bitterly. “Bloody thing made me crash.”
It’s a good thing he can’t see my face at this moment. Who’s he calling a mangy cat? My cat is not mangy.
“Fancy that,” I manage through gritted teeth. At once, it hits me what I’ve done. What was I thinking, bringing him back here?
The simple answer is that I wasn’t thinking. I was so preoccupied with us not turning into popsicles that it didn’t even occur to me that I’d essentially brought Adam right back to the scene of the crime. I’m lucky he hasn’t recognised the street.
I need to get him out of here. If he catches sight of Casper …
“You know, it was around here that it happened,” he’s saying, looking out of the window. “I’m not familiar with this part of town, but it might even have been this street.”
Okay, he definitely has to go. Now.
“Well, that’s great,” I say desperately, shoving the bag containing his clothes at him and hustling him towards the do
or. “I’ll see you at the museum next week. We can talk over the … er … tomb thing.”
He looks down at me, a frown creasing his brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, fine,” I gabble, pulling an old coat of Freddie’s down off the hook. At least, I think it’s an old coat. I’m too worked up to care. “Here, take this for the ride home. You can give it back to me next week. No rush.”
He still doesn’t look convinced but, to my immense relief, his hand is on the door handle, already starting to turn it.
“Okay, well, if you’re sure …”
And of course that’s the exact moment that Casper comes bounding down the stairs.
Chapter 14
“Wait—” Adam lets go of the door, uncertainty clouding his features “—I’m sure I recognise that cat.”
Casper promptly arches his back and hisses menacingly.
Adam’s eyes widen in comprehension. “I do recognise that cat! It’s the one that caused me to crash my bike. And you …” He turns to me, and the expression on his face makes me go cold. “You …” He breaks off, shaking his head. Then he yanks open the door and sweeps out.
For a moment I just stand there, dazed. Then the door slams back into its frame, jolting me into action.
“Adam, wait!” I run out after him. It’s rained while we’ve been inside and my slippers are probably getting ruined, but that’s the least of my concerns right now.
Of course, this is totally my fault. And it’s not as though the possibility of him finding out the truth hadn’t crossed my mind. Several times it even seemed fairly inevitable.
But I never realised it would feel as awful as this. And I certainly never realised that I would care so much.
“No, I won’t wait!” He whirls to face me. “I think you’ve had plenty of chances already, don’t you? Why should I give you another?”
Casper has followed us outside, and now he jumps up onto the wall, watching our exchange with interest.
“Look, I know I should have just told you,” I say desperately. “But somehow it was never the right moment.”
“Never the right moment?” He gives a bitter laugh. “Are you serious? There was never going to be the right moment. That’s no excuse.”
He has got a point. But that doesn’t make his caustic tone sting any less.
I can see our new, fragile connection rupturing before my very eyes, and it makes me want to scream in frustration. Why are we even having this stupid argument, anyway? I ball my hands into fists at my sides.
“Why does this matter so much?” I cry.
He stops dead. “Excuse me?”
“I said, why does it matter? So I told a white lie or two. It hardly warrants this kind of reaction.”
Anyone would think he was actually hurt by my deception. But that’s impossible; the man’s practically made of granite. It must be something else, something far more logical and less emotional.
His face is half turned away from me. His next words are so quiet that I almost miss them altogether.
“I don’t like to be made a fool of.”
And then, all at once, it becomes perfectly clear.
“This is about pride, isn’t it?”
By the way he flinches slightly, I can tell that I’ve hit the nail on the head. Oh, I don’t believe this.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I press. “That’s the real issue here. You’re so used to knowing everything, you just can’t bear to be out of the loop.”
“Do not try to turn this around,” he says in a low voice. “You can’t just—”
I cut him off. I’m not finished yet. “You’re not angry with me, not really. You’re angry with yourself for not working it out sooner.”
He sighs deeply. “You’re wrong about one thing, that’s for sure. I am most definitely angry with you.”
The words are damning enough, but there’s no real malice there any more. I take a step closer, relieved when he doesn’t back away.
“You don’t have to be right all of the time, Adam,” I tell him gently. “Can’t you see that?”
We just stand there for a moment, looking at each other and not speaking. For the briefest of moments, I think I see his eyes soften.
Then Casper flicks out a paw and knocks a potted succulent off the edge of the wall. It lands squarely on Adam’s foot.
For half a second nothing happens. Then all hell breaks loose.
“Bloody hell!” Adam hops up and down amongst the broken shards of terracotta. He points at Casper, his face white with pain. “He did that on purpose! You saw him. That cat should be locked up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say dismissively, although I rush forward to grab Casper before he can do any more damage. “He’s a cat, Adam, not a criminal mastermind. Clearly, that was just an accident.”
From within my arms, Casper emits a self-satisfied growl. Adam gives him a savage look.
Any hopes I was entertaining that we could go back to where we were a minute ago are dashed by one glance at his face. It’s pale, with an angry dent between his brows. He wrenches open the garden gate, not looking at me.
“I’ll return the clothes next week.” He makes to stalk off down the street, then winces and settles into a laboured limp.
“Casper,” I mutter reproachfully when Adam’s finally out of earshot. “We both know that was deliberate.”
He nuzzles me lovingly under the chin.
“Stop trying to charm your way out of it,” I command, holding him at arm’s length. “I think you might have really done it this time. That must have been the shortest truce in modern history.”
He twitches one ear and then the other, looking at me intently. I almost begin to wonder if he’s actually listening for once. But then he leaps out of my arms onto the wall, where he starts swatting at a troupe of ladybirds trying to make their way across the brickwork. Clearly, for him, the whole episode is already forgotten.
But then, life is so much simpler when you’re a cat.
***
“Okay, Clara, enough,” Ruby demands. “It’s time to spill the beans.”
I look up from behind the glass cabinet, where we’re rearranging the display of portrait miniatures. I like to move them around every now and again, give different ones their chance in the limelight. Just another sign that I’m turning into a crazy museum lady with a tendency to anthropomorphize the artworks. Next I’ll be giving them all names, and making up conversations between them.
Ruby offered to help. With hindsight, perhaps I should have been more suspicious of her motives. After all, who really wants to spend an afternoon dusting the frames of over three hundred tiny paintings? Even the most ardent of art lovers would struggle to summon up much enthusiasm.
Now, with a sinking heart, I realise that it was just an excuse to get me alone for an interrogation. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Eve have been plotting this all week.
“Nothing to report,” I lie, shoving a portrait of a lady in a spectacular hat into her hands. “Don’t drop that, by the way. It’s early eighteenth century.”
She pouts, dangling it from her fingertips. “Maybe I will if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Ruby!” I try to snatch it from her grasp, but she whips it behind her back.
“Oh, calm down, it’s perfectly safe.” She places it carefully back in the case. “There, everything as usual. You, on the other hand, have been acting weird for the past fortnight and you won’t tell us why. It’s no fun at all.”
“We’re not supposed to be having fun, Ruby. We’re at work.”
She stares at me, her purple-lipsticked mouth hanging open. “Now you sound like Jeremy! What are you hiding?”
Jeremy squints at us from across the room, where he’s regaling a couple of tourists on post-revolutionary French portraiture.
“Stop it, or you’ll bring him over here,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. For someone who pretends to be half deaf most of the time, he has
a bat-like ear for the sound of his own name. “All right, fine, I’ll tell you. I had no idea you were so tenacious.”
“One of my finest qualities.” She preens, admiring her reflection in the side of the display cabinet.
Honestly. If only we could all have just a little bit of her confidence.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was something to do with that gorgeous vet,” Ruby says slyly, slanting a look out of the corner of her eye. “Am I right?”
I almost drop the miniature I’m holding. “How did you know about that?”
“I have eyes,” she says simply. “And I have sources. Your brother’s such a darling, by the way. We had a lovely chat when he stopped by on Tuesday afternoon.”
I groan inwardly. Poor Freddie. I bet he didn’t know what had hit him.
“So …” She puts her hands on her hips, showing off her sequinned mini dress to full advantage. How does she get away with wearing these things in broad daylight? “Now we’ve got the formalities out of the way, the most important question is … why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Well …” Actually, that’s not a completely unreasonable thing to ask. Why didn’t I tell her? There’s no doubt that she and Eve would have been overflowing with support. They would have wanted to know everything.
But, then again, maybe that’s just it. Things with Josh are so good. And it’s just been so … easy, I suppose is the only word. I never imagined that it would be so easy. Somehow, our relationship has developed naturally, without us even having to think about it. I’ve seen him almost every night for over two weeks now, and I still think about him all day long. We’ve spoken for hours, and still I feel like we’ll never run out of things to talk about. I’ve told him all kinds of things which I’ve never admitted to anyone before; I explained to him how Casper turned up on the doorstep that night, when I was having one of the worst days of my life. I’d had to sign the exchange of contracts on my parents’ house –my childhood home, the last real link I had with them. There was no way we could have held onto it; believe me, I tried, but the death duties were impossible. The weather outside seemed to match my mood; it was blowing a violent storm, the rain lashing against the windows.