Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

by Lottie Lucas

  “Thank you,” Adam says softly. They look at each other, and it seems that something passes between them. But I’m already sinking back into the dark, losing myself to sleep.

  I remember nothing more.

  Chapter 24

  Monday morning is one of the most nerve-racking of my entire life. I’ve spent the whole weekend simultaneously nursing a hangover (Adam’s prescription of water didn’t do the trick) and fretting about what was going to happen when I came into work today.

  I wake up with the dawn with what feels like a cannon ball lodged in the pit of my stomach. It’s there while I shower. It’s there while I rifle half-heartedly through my wardrobe (what exactly does one wear to get fired? Why don’t fashion magazines run useful articles like that, rather than showcasing endless arrangements of Perspex shoes and unflatteringly voluminous jeans?) It isn’t there when I have breakfast, but that’s only because I couldn’t face any, which must be a first for me. Instead, I force a cup of tea past my lips, dust a hint of brightening powder across my face in a vain attempt to hide my sallow skin, and head for the door.

  At least getting to the museum early means that I don’t have to see anyone. I wander through the echoing, empty rooms, past statues and paintings which have become as familiar to me as the decor in my own house. To think I might never see them again is too hard to bear, and I have to keep my head down, gaze to the floor. Because, of course, I won’t ever be able to come back here, will I? It’ll be far too painful. This place I love, which has been my sanctuary on so many occasions, will become just somewhere I used to know.

  There’s nothing to be done. I shut myself in my office, pull up some visitor projections on my computer … and wait.

  And carry on waiting. By ten o’clock, the sun has risen outside my window, streaming across my desk. The visitor projections still sit untouched on the screen—I was never really planning to do much with them anyway; I just wanted the reassurance of pretending I was working—and I’m almost beside myself with tension. Everyone’s here; they have been for the past hour. I can hear them moving around in the corridor, the scrape of chairs against floors in the neighbouring offices. But no one’s come in.

  I don’t understand it; I thought they’d be keen to get it over with. What’s the point of suspense?

  Maybe Jeremy’s waiting for me to go to him. And that’s what I should have done, I see now. I should have just walked straight in there first thing and dealt with it. Instead, I’m just sitting in here pathetically, too paralysed to act.

  My eyes travel to the window. I get up and open it, peering down at the ground. How far is that, exactly? There are some shrubs planted against the wall, so if I angled it right …

  Wait … what am I doing? I jerk back from the window, shaking my head in despair at myself. No, Clara. You are not going to escape out of the window. You’re not going to run away at all, not this time. You’re going to go out there and face the music, and you’re going to do it with dignity.

  Before I can back out, I stride across to the door. At least I might be able to convince Jeremy to let me resign; I mean, my career in the museums sector is over, obviously. No one else will hire me after this, not if they have any sense. But in another field, where I’m not known … Well, a resignation will look better on my CV. For a moment my heart sinks and my resolve wobbles.

  Job-hunting. Oh, my God. I hadn’t even thought about that. Just the thought makes me want to reconsider the whole jumping out of the window idea.

  No. I set my shoulders, grasping the door handle and yanking it towards me. I will be strong. I will be powerful. I will …

  The door flies open and Jeremy comes crashing in, nearly sending both of us into a sprawling heap on the carpet. Grabbing onto the door frame, I just about manage to keep my balance.

  “What the—what are you doing?”

  “I was coming in.” He looks puzzled.

  Oh. His hand is still on the outer door handle, so that seems like a reasonable explanation.

  “I was … going out,” I say weakly.

  “Indeed,” he says, blinking at me owlishly from behind his glasses. Belatedly, he seems to realise that they’ve been knocked askew in the scuffle, and reaches up to straighten them. “Might I have a word?”

  “Yes, of course.” Flustered, I retreat to my desk. Definitely not the best start. The chances of resignation are receding into the distance already. “Please, have a seat.”

  He casts an eye over the only other chair in the room, which is covered with papers and files.

  “Thank you, but I’ll stand. I’ll only be a moment.”

  It’ll be quick, then. That’s a relief, at least. I’d have expected him to revel in the process. Then again, for the first time, I notice that he doesn’t look quite as exultant as I’d thought he would. In fact, he almost looks … fidgety.

  Jeremy never fidgets. He says it’s a sign of poor breeding.

  “How are you, my dear?” he asks tentatively.

  I almost wonder if it’s a trick, but no, he appears to be in earnest. He’s peering at me over his now righted spectacles with an expression which I’ve never seen on his face before. If I didn’t know better, I’d venture to say it might even be concern.

  It really must be bad. I can feel the blood draining from my face. Is it even worse than I thought? Perhaps they’re firing us all. Perhaps they think the museum is ineptly run, and they’re bringing in a whole new …

  “Such an unfortunate thing,” he’s saying haltingly. “But you must … Onwards and upwards, and all of that. These things happen to everyone …” He pauses, seeming to reconsider. “Well, perhaps not quite everyone, but …”

  I watch him bumbling on, dumbfounded. Is he giving me a pep talk?

  “Jeremy,” I blurt out, “I understand that you’re firing me, but what about …?”

  “Firing you?” He looks nonplussed. “My dear, what are you talking about?”

  “Well, you know—” I flap my hands around desperately, as though that will elucidate “—the scene on Friday. The speech …”

  “Oh, never mind that. I did the speech in the end; it was thoroughly enjoyed by all.” He pauses in self-congratulation. “You’ll get another opportunity, my dear.”

  “Another …?” I trail off faintly, clasping a hand to my forehead. “But … the embarrassment to the museum …”

  “The only one who should be embarrassed was that young ruffian,” Jeremy says hotly, and I notice that the tips of his ears have gone quite pink. “Luckily, I managed to get rid of him discreetly.”

  He looks so proud and protective that I haven’t the heart to point out that it was actually Ruby who did the getting rid of. And that there was nothing particularly discreet about it either.

  “But … Lord Boland …” I say desperately. I’m aware that I shouldn’t be shoring up a case for my own sacking, and I should probably just shut up now. But this all just feels so unreal.

  Surely, he’s letting me go. I mean, he has to, right? This is Jeremy; he’s all about honour, and reputation, and not causing a stir.

  And that’s before we even mention the fact that I might just have cost us one of the country’s most coveted patrons.

  “I’ll deal with Lord Boland. I’m sure he can be made to understand.” And then, as if in slow motion, he reaches over and awkwardly pats my hand. “We’ve all been crossed in love at some point.”

  For a moment he looks almost wistful. I genuinely consider slapping myself to make sure I’m not hallucinating. But then he coughs and snatches his hand away, his voice returning to its usual strident vibration. “Anyway, that’s enough of that. I wanted to talk to you about those revised visitor projections figures the grant committee have asked for.”

  I realise that I’m still gaping at him, and give myself a mental shake.

  “Yes, I’ve just started doing them now.”

  “You can send them over to me,” he interrupts. “I’ll finish them.”

  He s
ays it so plainly, as though it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I want to thank him, but I know that nothing would horrify him more.

  “I’ll do that,” I say formally.

  “Good.” He straightens his waistcoat, looking embarrassed. “That’s good.”

  I watch him shuffle out, not knowing how to deal with this new information. Jeremy has feelings. Who knew? I’m sort of ashamed to admit that I’d long ago stopped thinking of him as an actual person; he’s just such a part of this institution, as much as any of the paintings on the walls or the plasterwork ceiling.

  Just something else I was wrong about, then. It’s getting to be a long list.

  I sit there dumbly for a few minutes, unsure what to do with myself. I don’t even feel relieved yet; instead I just feel … stunned. I was genuinely convinced that I was going to be fired. I was ready for it. And now … Well, I suppose I’m meant to just get up and carry on with things as usual. But something stops me; it doesn’t feel the same. I feel like an impostor. Like I’m sitting in an office which is no longer mine.

  I shake my head, trying to restore a sense of perspective. It’s just a delayed reaction, that’s all. Of course I’m thrilled; it just hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

  Mercifully, I’m saved from any further rumination by my phone starting to ring, vibrating across the polished surface of the desk. I grab it before it can attempt a kamikaze leap off the edge into the wastepaper basket.

  “Clara?” Heather’s voice comes down the line, blurred by static. It cuts out for a second or two, then I hear her say, “Are you there?”

  “Yes, it’s just … terrible reception,” I garble, before wanting to kick myself. Of course she knows that; how many times has she rung me here? Over a hundred, probably.

  How strange it is that one argument can change everything; it’s like it rewinds time. Suddenly years of closeness seem to recede into nothing, and you’re speaking to one another as if you’ve only just met. I go back over to the window and wedge my torso through the gap, contorting myself into the bizarre angle I’ve perfected as the only way to get a decent signal. It’s highly uncomfortable, but it’s either this or having to trek all the way downstairs and stand outside.

  “How’s that?” I ask, when I’m finally in position.

  There’s a pause, a crackle, then her voice comes back on the line.

  “Better. Have you got a second?”

  The knot of nerves is back in my stomach. Just because I can hear her voice better now doesn’t make it any easier to interpret. The only thing I can say with certainty is that this isn’t a gushing making up call.

  We haven’t spoken once since our spat over a week ago. I think it’s the longest I’ve ever gone without hearing from her and, to be honest, it’s felt really weird. My phone is noticeably more silent without her sarcastic texts pinging in throughout the day. I miss being able to call her about anything, even if it’s nothing at all. I miss her dropping in for a glass of wine and a chat. Not being able to tell her about Josh has made it all so much harder; I never realised how much I valued her support, her sensible advice. She’d have made it all seem okay, somehow. Or at least slightly more okay.

  I so wanted to call her over the weekend. It was like an itch; I kept reaching for my phone, scrolling down until I found her name in my favourite contacts. But I never went through with it; I suppose it was all just too raw. I couldn’t face admitting how wrong I’d got it.

  And then there was a part of me—a tiny, hidden part of me—which was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t want to know. Normally, it wouldn’t even be a question; we’ve always been there for one another. But, this time, it feels different. This time, things were said which can’t be forgotten.

  What if we can’t go back from this? The thought terrifies me.

  “Absolutely.” My reply is a half-second late and slightly laboured, like I’m trying too hard to be normal. “Fire away.”

  “The thing is, I need to ask you a favour.” Her neutral tone is beginning to crack; I can hear the strain creeping through. “Mum fell this morning and she thinks she’s broken her collarbone. Dad’s on a golfing holiday in Majorca, Dominic’s away visiting clients up north …” The words are tumbling out faster and faster as the sentence goes on. I know she’ll be pulling her hair back from her scalp at this very moment; that’s what she always does when she’s stressed. “I have no one else I can ask …”

  “Calm down,” I interject before she works herself up into a real state. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  Focusing on the practical seems to mollify her, as I’d anticipated.

  “Oscar needs to be picked up from nursery at twelve. He does a half day on Mondays,” she adds, as though this insight into his social calendar is somehow helpful. “Could you take him home, make him a sandwich … just keep him busy until I get back? You still have the spare key, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I omit the somewhere from my reply. That’ll just send her into a full-blown panic. I look across at my handbag, gaping open on the floor, and send up a little prayer of thanks that I’m not one of those women who changes their bag regularly, decanting things from one into another. My bag gets cleared out twice a year, if it’s lucky, and even then it absorbs all manner of paraphernalia. I tend to operate on the policy that you never know when you might need something. The key will be in there somewhere. “Look, don’t worry. I’ll sort it out. He won’t even notice you’ve gone.”

  “Thank you.” She exhales gustily, and I can practically hear the tension leaving her. “That’s such a … But wait, I don’t know what you’ll feed him. I’ve had to cancel the Waitrose order.” She sounds stressed all over again. “I think I’ve got some smoked salmon in the freezer …”

  Smoked salmon? What kind of lunches is this three-year-old used to getting?

  “Heather, we will be fine,” I tell her firmly. “I won’t let him starve. Now, go to the hospital. Oscar and I will see you later.”

  Sometimes, even Heather just needs telling what to do.

  “You’re right, of course you’re right,” she says, sounding much calmer. “I’ll ring you when I’m on my way back. And Clara …” She hesitates. “You know that you and I … I mean, it doesn’t matter. You’re still …”

  “We’ll talk later,” I say gently.

  And when I put down the phone I find that the knot of nerves has eased slightly.

  Maybe we might just be okay, after all.

  Chapter 25

  “Come on, Oscar,” I say coaxingly, tugging on his sticky little hand. “Let’s get home, and then we can have some lunch.”

  At the mention of lunch, his blue eyes light up. “Is it houmous? Mummy promised me houmous.”

  “Er … I don’t know.” I’d been thinking more along the lines of a cheese sandwich, but I don’t dare tell him that. I’ll never lure him onwards with so pedestrian an offering. “Tell you what, let’s see how fast we can get home. Then we can find out!”

  It’s not a particularly subtle trick, but I’m growing desperate. God, but kids are slow. What should have been a ten-minute walk back from nursery is constantly punctuated by random stopping. Sometimes it’s to look at clouds, then at bits of moss growing in the cracks in the pavement … and then, of course, there are the puddles.

  “Look, Auntie Clara!” He bumbles off towards a particularly splendid example, glistening in a dip between two paving stones. If bumbling is an accurate word for such a fast pace; I only just manage to snatch at the back of his hood before we both get a soaking. No wonder all kids’ coats have them; never mind keeping the rain off, they’re really just a lead in disguise. And I can see the similarities between Oscar and a puppy. The minute he sees anything of interest, he’s off, without the slightest fear or hesitation. No wonder he’s broken so many bones.

  “Can you see the rainbow?” I point up at the sky, where a watery arc shimmers against the bruised clouds. It’s been a day of contrasts, showers then sunshine the
n showers again. I think there might be another one brewing now, in fact. There’s a definite feeling of rain in the air. Just another reason to drag Oscar home quickly. “Isn’t it pretty? Do you know all of the colours?”

  The rainbow proves suitably distracting, although my last question does prompt a chorus of some dreadfully inane tune about the colours of the rainbow which lasts all the way home. By the time we get back to Heather’s house, I’m about ready to blow my brains out. Now I know why parents look so glazed over all of the time; this song would be enough to lobotomise anyone after a while.

  I sit Oscar down at the kitchen table with some crayons and a colouring book, and head to the fridge to see what the situation is.

  As it turns out, Heather’s idea of ‘nothing in the fridge’ is markedly different to mine. I take the phrase somewhat more literally. I can picture the contents of my fridge right now; it’s not difficult, when it consists of half a bar of chocolate, some wine and a tub of coconut yoghurt which is so old that I’m actually torn between fascination and apprehension at the prospect of opening the lid.

  Heather’s fridge, on the other hand, looks like she’s just been shopping. I stare at the stuffed shelves, feeling daunted. There are only three of them, for heaven’s sake; how do they get through all of this? More to the point, how do they ever choose what to eat?

  After some deliberation, I take out ham, lettuce and organic butter. The bread bin proffers an expensively rustic-looking sourdough loaf, which I saw at inexpertly with a serrated knife.

  I place the finished sandwich in front of Oscar, who inspects it like a judge at an international art competition.

  “It’s wonky,” he says, in that matter-of-fact way which children have.

  “It’s unique,” I say airily. “Do you want some crisps with it?”

  I start opening and closing cupboard doors, trying to work out where Heather would keep them in her complex organisational system, but all I’m confronted with are rows upon rows of flavoured oil and tins of olives. Honestly, it’s like a delicatessen in here.