Zoe May - As Luck Would Have It

‘What do you mean, ironic?’

‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.

My mum giggles.

‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’

I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.

‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.

Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.

‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’

Martha takes the cup, looking a little taken aback, before dutifully refilling it. A boozy mum in weird cat clothes with a baby sitting in a carrier at her feet probably isn’t the best look, but I’m beyond caring. Martha doesn’t bother with the fruit garnish this time and simply hands me the glass. I thank her and sip hungrily at it, before wandering over to the buffet. The buffet table, with its striped plastic cups and matching paper plates laden with party food is exactly as I remember it from back when the fundraiser first began so many years ago. Even the hall is the same, with the exact same rainbow bunting and streamers.

A few of the older men who I vaguely recognise regard me as I approach. They’re local busybodies that have been active in neighbourhood affairs for years. I think a few of them sit on the board of Chiddingfold Parish Council. They’re always finding something to complain about, from the frequency of the bin collection to the meandering bus routes. One guy, a retired naval officer called Clive who always wears a flat cap even when indoors and has been poking his nose into other people’s business for years, watches me closely as I reach for a bread roll. I pretend to be fascinated by the roll, taking a bite before inspecting the fluffy dough as though it’s the most interesting and engaging thing ever; I really don’t want Clive to speak to me. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I last saw him at a Christmas party at the local pub nearly two decades ago and the memory’s still disturbingly fresh. He was wearing the same grey flat cap and bent my 12-year-old ears off about unreasonable parking regulations near my school and blah blah blah. I can feel Clive zoning in on me, so I spear a few olives from a bowl with a toothpick and try to busy myself with the buffet, when I suddenly hear a different male voice over my shoulder.

‘Sorry Natalie, you don’t look like a cat lady,’ Will says, reaching for a cheese and grape stick from a plate on the buffet. He pops the chunks of cheese and grape speared onto the stick into his mouth in one bite.

I ignore him and turn back to the buffet to spear another olive. Will’s hand follows mine to the bowl. His fingers are long and surprisingly well-groomed, his nails and cuticles are incredibly neat and tidy, and his hands look soft and moisturised. Not like the hands of the rough-around-the-edges Will I remember.

‘Okay, maybe you do look a bit like a cat lady, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’ Will ventures.

‘What?’ I snap, before popping an olive into my mouth and shooting him a look.

‘Well, cat ladies … If you think about it, they’re just animal lovers, aren’t they? And what’s wrong with looking like an animal lover? Cats are lovely animals.’

I turn to look at Will, giving him a deadpan stare as he makes his case for why it’s okay to go around saying how someone you haven’t seen for over a decade looks like a ‘cat lady’. Even though he’s just as annoying as ever, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s still handsome. His young self and his current self are like the difference between a picture with a filter and the original. He’s got a few lines now, his face isn’t quite as smooth and blemish-free as it used to be and his hairline is beginning to recede, but he’s still good-looking. His eyes are as striking as ever and they have a depth to them now that they never had before, even if he’s still chatting total rubbish like he used to back at school. As well as his ability to chat to anyone about anything, he has the same dimples he had all those years ago and the same trademark playful smile.

He smiles at me, waiting for a response, but as usual, Will baffles me. His habit of talking complete crap is strangely beguiling, because even though you know what he’s saying is rubbish, you find yourself engaging with it nonetheless. I consider his statement.

‘Well, while there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with being a cat lady, it’s not exactly style goals, is it?’ I comment.

Will smirks. ‘I suppose not. I forgot you were a fashionista these days,’ he remarks.

‘ Fashionista?!’ I echo, smirking. ‘Who even says that?’ I reach for another olive. Will copies me, diving his stick back into the bowl. I have to yank my hand out of the way to avoid being impaled.

‘Do you mind? My hand is not buffet food!’ I huff, reaching back towards the bowl and spearing an olive. Before quickly pulling my hand away.

‘Sorry, just a bit hungry,’ Will says as he takes an olive and pops it in his mouth. ‘Mmmm, delicious.’ I ignore him but he keeps talking. ‘Anyway, you are a fashionista. I’ve seen you online, talking about your outfit or the day – hashtag O-O-T-D. And you say things like “style goals.”’

‘Well, fashion is kind of my job, Will,’ I point out, rolling my eyes indulgently, even though I do feel a little embarrassed about how regularly I used to hashtag my outfits of the day. It wasn’t exactly all relevant to work.

‘Even your baby is a fashionista,’ Will remarks, peering closer at Hera, who’s wearing the cutest red patterned dress that I got on sale at Gap Kids the other day. I managed to find a headband in exactly the same red shade from Accessorize to coordinate with it. Red is kind of her colour. Although she also looks great in pink, and yellow, and blue. And green, for that matter. She basically just suits everything. She certainly looks a hell of a lot more stylish than me right now. Upstaged by a one year old!

‘Doesn’t she look cute, though?’ I say.

‘Yeah, she does.’ Will peers at Hera with a soppy, charmed look. ‘She’s very cute.’

I smile proudly at her. She’s starting to fall asleep now, but I can tell she’s trying to stay alert so she doesn’t miss anything. She’s dropping off, blinking a few times, trying not to fall asleep and then dropping off again.

‘She’s sleepy. She’s my little angel,’ I say with a sincerity that surprises me. But it’s true. Hera is my angel. Even though it wasn’t easy having her while being heartbroken over Leroy cheating and then learning how to be a single mum while trying to let go of all the bitterness I felt towards him, I got there in the end. Hera saved me with her lovely cuddles, her cute little smile and her unbridled enthusiasm over the little things, from eating her favourite food (chocolate yoghurt) to playing with Mr Bear.

‘Aww!’ Will reaches for Hera’s cheek and gives it an awkward little stroke. It’s abundantly clear that he doesn’t interact with children very often.