Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

“Absolutely,” I blurt out. “I’d be glad to. It’s just that …”

He’s looking at me expectantly, one bushy eyebrow raised, and to my dismay, I realise that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this.

“I’ve just spotted someone I urgently need to speak with,” I say, wondering what on earth I’m saying. “I’ve been trying to catch him for ages. In fact, it’s really quite urgent. I’ll just go and …”

“And who, exactly, would this be?”

I blink at the abrupt question. I didn’t expect him to ask that.

“Er … him.” I point randomly to a man standing over by a stone sarcophagus, his head bent over a book.

Jeremy arches an eyebrow. “Really? You know him, do you?”

Heat begins to prickle across the back of my neck. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Why can’t he just accept my lie and leave it at that? It’s what anyone else would do.

“Yes, I do,” I say staunchly. “Very well, in fact. We’re … er … old acquaintances.”

Just in case I thought this couldn’t get any worse. Now I’m embellishing the lie. Am I crazy? Next I’ll be inventing an entire history with a man I’ve never seen before in my life.

“Indeed?” Jeremy’s voice drips with scepticism. “ You’re an old acquaintance of Professor Warwick’s?”

For a brief moment, I wonder who the hell he’s talking about. Then my heart plummets.

He knows, doesn’t he? He knows that I’m making all of this up.

“Yes, indeed,” I stutter. I couldn’t sound less convincing if I tried. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

I brush past him and I’m halfway across the floor of the gallery before my sense of triumph gives way to the first creeping misgivings. Why do I just come out with these things? It was all very well and good in the heat of the moment, but now the prospect of accosting a total stranger seems beyond daunting. Hopefully … I sidle a glance back over my shoulder, but no luck. Jeremy’s still standing there, watching me suspiciously.

Oh, God. There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to do it, aren’t I?

When this is all over, I am going to give myself a serious talking-to about the perils of fabrication and getting myself into these ridiculous situations.

I square my shoulders and walk right up to my quarry.

“I’m so glad I’ve caught you,” I say loudly.

Or at least I think I’ve said it fairly loudly. But the museum’s not exactly living up to its reputation as a tranquil, studious place of enquiry today. A school trip has taken over the far end of the gallery, the children fidgeting and chattering as their beleaguered teacher hands out activity papers. My voice is completely drowned out by the hubbub.

He doesn’t even look up. His dark head is still bowed over what I can now identify as a leather-bound notebook, in which he’s scribbling at a furious pace, apparently totally oblivious to everything around him.

I hover uselessly, wondering if I should try again, when one of the children barges past my legs, pitching me forwards. On reflex, I fling my arms out in front of me and, the next thing I know, I’m hanging off the unfortunate man in a strange approximation of a hug.

But that’s not the worst part. Oh, no.

That would be our lips, which have somehow ended up … Well, they’re not quite on one another. I mean, if we’re being technical about it …

Oh, who am I kidding? They’re on one another. It’s a kiss. An accidental kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

The next few seconds are the strangest I’ve ever experienced. Time seems to grind to a halt. He’s gone as rigid as corrugated iron. I’m pretty much frozen to the spot myself, my brain struggling to compute what’s happening.

Then, just as suddenly, clarity comes rushing back.

Oh, God. What am I doing ? I’m kissing him. I’m kissing a total stranger.

Because now it really is a kiss. I mean, neither of us has pulled away.

Something tells me the museum board won’t take a particularly indulgent view of this. I wrench my lips from his, closing my eyes in mortification.

“Er … do we know each other?” he asks faintly. His lips are close to my ear, and something about his voice sends a shiver of awareness through me.

He thinks I flung myself at him. And why shouldn’t he? That’s what it must have looked like.

Now people are watching us, openly curious. I can feel heat creeping across my cheeks and I already know they’re turning a vibrant pink. Not for the first time in my life, I have cause to curse my fair complexion.

“Sorry,” I mutter frantically. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I’m about to explode. Surely, no one can deal with as much embarrassment in one sitting without it being fatal? Even someone as seasoned as me. “Just … sorry. Look, I’ll explain in a moment.”

Without thinking, I grab his hand and tug him across to the nearest window seat. It’s covered in papers, but I’m too shaken to care. I just collapse right on top of them.

“My papers,” he says in a strangled voice.

“Sorry, sorry.” Why can’t I seem to stop saying that? I pull a wad of them out from under me, intending to smooth them out on my lap. But I never get that far. Instead, as I look down at them, I’m gripped by a cold sensation.

There’s something very familiar about these papers. They’re crumpled and stained with dirt, like they’ve been on the ground.

Surely … I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way it could actually be …

I turn another one over, and there’s a bicycle tyre track running diagonally across it.

Oh, no. No way .

Slowly, I drag my eyes up to look at the man sitting next to me.

So much for thinking the worst of it was over. By the looks of things, it hasn’t even started.