Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

Surreptitiously, I scan the corridor behind him, trying to work out where he emerged from. Not that it matters much now, in any event. He’s here. And glaring at me as though somehow it’s entirely my fault that he hasn’t been able to track me down sooner.

Which it kind of is. I mean, I have spent the morning hiding from him. But he doesn’t know that, does he?

“Are you on your way downstairs?” he asks briskly. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Good. Me too. We can walk together.”

Mutely, I look at the mug in my hand. Blatantly, I wasn’t on my way downstairs. But either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he inclines his head towards the staircase impatiently.

“Come along, then. We haven’t got all day.”

Resigned to my fate, I scuttle after him, amazed to find myself struggling to keep up with his pace. For someone who gives every impression of being about ninety years old, he can certainly move fast when he wants to.

As you might have gathered by now, Jeremy is the head curator of the museum, which, regrettably for us both, means that he’s my immediate boss. We’re not exactly what you’d call compatible; he’s run the place since … Well, since about the dawn of time, as far as I can ascertain. I’ve seen old pictures of him and, believe me, he looks exactly the same. I’m not convinced that he’s ever even been young. I honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised if one day I caught him emerging from the fabric of the building itself.

In any case, temporal being or not, he certainly has his own, very ingrained way of doing things. He worships the status quo, his unerring vision of what a museum of this standing should embody.

I am not a part of that vision. He’s made that quite clear. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t even be here, but apparently the board of trustees decreed that what the museum needed was someone young, fresh and innovative.

All of which, apparently, I am.

Which is … nice , I suppose. I’m not quite sure that I live up to that towering epithet on a daily basis, but still. It’s great that someone has faith in me.

As for Jeremy … Well, what can I say? Jobs in this field are notoriously limited. I’d struggle to get another position this good, even if it does come with certain drawbacks.

Besides, this has never been just a job to me. This place kept me sane when I thought I might drown in grief. The normalcy of it all: the unchanging paintings on the walls, Ruby and Eve’s patter when I came into work each morning, even Jeremy’s pompous lectures … Somehow they made everything seem okay, even though nothing really was. I’ll always be grateful for that.

So, you see, how can I really complain about a few little annoyances here and there? He might not be the easiest of bosses, but I do my best to humour him, even if it’s challenging at times.

And, believe me, it is very challenging at times.

“I’ve been thinking about next summer’s exhibition,” Jeremy says as we power through a room filled with Dutch flower paintings.

I’m aware of a creeping trepidation, mixed with a bubbling sense of excitement. “Yes?” I venture cautiously.

I tell myself that it’s unwise to get my hopes up. After all, we’ve been here before, and it inevitably ends in disappointment. But still, I can’t help it, I’m an eternal optimist. A part of me will always hold out hope that things can turn around at any moment.

Maybe this is it. Maybe, at last, I might get my chance.

Annoyingly, he chooses this moment to fall silent, pausing on the stairs to admire a statue of Venus.

“Your ideas were … interesting ,” he says at last, still inspecting the marble figure.

He utters that word like it carries the bubonic plague, and I feel a plummeting swoop of despondency.

He’s still talking, his hands clasped behind his back as though he’s about to give a lecture. To be honest, I’m only half listening by this point. I know how this next part goes; I could pretty much recite it in my sleep.

“But this is a serious institution, Miss Swift. You must understand that by now. We have a standard to uphold. People have expectations of us, scholarly expectations, which we wouldn’t wish to disappoint. To stray too far from our blueprint, to change …” He raises a fluttering hand to his forehead, his signet ring glinting under the overhead lights.

“Woe betide that anything should ever change,” I mutter bitterly. “How would the world cope?”

He scowls. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” I widen my eyes at him innocently.

His lips form into a thin line. “Could only spell disaster,” he finishes. Or, at least, I sincerely hope he’s finished. Once he starts on a soliloquy, nothing can stop him. The whole building could fall down and he’d probably still be pontificating away amongst the rubble, blithely oblivious.

“Quite … of course.” My voice is overly bright, almost brittle. I’m already backing away, looking for an exit. I’m trying really hard to do what I normally do. I’m reminding myself how lucky I am to be here, how grateful I am. How I shouldn’t feel resentful, shouldn’t expect too much. But, for some reason, today it’s just not working. My throat’s beginning to feel tight, burning with repressed emotion. “Very … er … astute reasoning.”

This is what happens. Every time. I should have known better than to try.

“I’m so glad you agree.” He looks insufferably pleased with himself. “I knew that once I’d explained it to you in simple terms, you would come to appreciate the logic of it.” He sighs solemnly, his gaze travelling up towards the glass ceiling above us. “As the great philosopher Aristotle once said …”

Oh, lord. Not Aristotle. I really can’t handle that particular soliloquy right now. I know from experience that it lasts for a good twenty minutes.

“That’s wonderful,” I say with more than a touch of desperation. “If that’s all, then …”

“Just a minute, if you will.” His brows draw downwards, his tone becoming several degrees colder. “That wasn’t all. We haven’t yet discussed those applications.”

I realise with a quiet sense of doom that I’ve flung myself straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. The Aristotle monologue is beginning to look really good right about now.

“Ah, yes,” I manage, stretching out each word very slowly in an attempt to buy my brain some more time. “The applications.”

I leave a knowing sort of pause. Unfortunately, the desired flash of inspiration fails to materialise, and it lengthens awkwardly before trailing off into more of a dead silence.

“Well?” Jeremy demands, irritation lacing his voice. “Have you completed them? Because if we miss that deadline … rest assured, Miss Swift, I won’t hesitate to lay the blame where it’s due.”

I draw backwards, eyes widening in shock. Was that a threat ?

Surely he can’t actually be threatening me? I mean, I know he has his faults, but …

I look into his steely grey eyes and my conviction wavers.

“Of course they’re finished,” I hear myself responding coolly.

Brilliant, now I’ve just told a bald-faced lie. Great work, Clara. Very professional.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Jeremy says blandly. “We’ll have a look at them now, then, shall we?”

The true extent of the hole I’ve just dug for myself hits me with a nasty jolt. My heart begins to patter in my chest. I cast a glance at his face, but it isn’t giving anything away. Does he know the truth? Is he just trying to catch me out? Because, if so, I’ve walked right into it.

In a quiet frenzy, I cast around for a suitable excuse for a hasty departure. Through the archway, I have a clear view into the classical antiquities gallery. My mind whirs, turning over possibilities. Perhaps I could pretend that I need to check on something in there? Would he believe that?