Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

For an age I’m paralysed. I just sit there, staring at him.

How can this be happening?

I am a good person, you know. Not perfect, but pretty damn good. I pay my taxes. I remember birthdays. I’m even an attentive listener, and that’s not a widespread trait these days.

So why, oh, why , is the man from last night now sitting next to me in my place of work?

And why, by all that is good and holy, have I just kissed him?

Why did it have to be him?

I don’t deserve this. Really I don’t. I’ll be having words with the Universe later.

“Are you all right?” he’s asking now, peering at me with something approaching alarm. “You’ve gone rather puce.”

Puce, indeed. Like that’s going to make me feel better.

“I’m fine,” I croak.

I suppose that, now I’m looking at him properly, and with the benefit of proof in the form of those cursed papers, it’s obvious that it’s the same man. The mid-morning sun slanting through the window illuminates those sharp features I only caught a glimpse of beneath his helmet last night, picking out hints of bronze in his black hair. And his voice … Reluctantly, I have to admit that I thought it was familiar, although, to be fair, it has a completely different tone to it today. Last night it was angry, sarcastic; today, it sounds very different. It’s almost … nice, with a deep, cultured thread to it.

I pull myself up sharply at that last thought. Nice? What are you doing, Clara? Now’s not the time to get carried away with how nice his voice sounds.

He’s regarding me thoughtfully. “Are you sure we don’t know one another? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

Hang on … what ? Surely he can’t mean …

The realisation, somewhat belated as it is, hits me in a flash.

He doesn’t know who I am .

How can that be the case? I mean, all right, so it was dark. More to the point, he was standing under the streetlamp, whilst I was in the shadows. And he never really looked at me properly throughout our entire ill-fated meeting. So I suppose …

Actually, I’m not sure if I should be affronted or not. Did I really leave so little an impression upon his lofty mind?

Apparently so. For some reason, that piques me.

I’m about to confess everything. Really, I am. But then, when I open my mouth, what I intended to say somehow isn’t there. It’s like someone’s mixed up the words, and instead I can only listen on in horror as what I actually say is …

“What? No! Definitely not. I mean …” I rummage in the pocket of my cardigan, brandishing my lanyard. Really, I’m supposed to be wearing it, but it’s such an outfit killer I can’t bring myself to. I didn’t spend twenty minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe this morning trying to select a cute ensemble only to loop an unflattering black cord around my neck. “Probably around the museum. I work here, you see.”

Well, that’s that then. I’ve officially lied right to his face. That’s … that’s just fantastic . My second monstrous fabrication of the day, and it’s not even ten-thirty yet. As if it weren’t enough to dig myself one grave in the course of a morning, I have to go and excavate myself a second.

Perhaps this is what Heather means when she says I’m my own worst enemy.

His cobalt blue eyes scan the card for several seconds, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. At last, though, he shrugs.

“That must be it, then. So tell me,” he begins casually, crossing one leg over the other, “is it museum policy to kiss unsuspecting members of the public?”

My head snaps up. Did he really just say that?

“I did not kiss you,” I say haughtily. “It was an accident. One of those kids pushed me!”

He nods knowingly. “All right, well, we’ll have to take your word for that, I suppose, considering the lack of any firm evidence.”

“It’s true ,” I say hotly.

“So you say.”

I look into his dark eyes, trying to work out if he’s playing with me or not. But there’s nothing there to give him away. His expression is totally inscrutable. We could just as easily be discussing the weather.

Annoyed at my own confusion, I turn away, craning my neck to squint around the window casement, which screens us from both sides. To my intense aggravation, Jeremy’s still there, lurking behind a stone pillar in what he clearly imagines to be an unobtrusive manner. Honestly, does he not have something else he could be doing? Since when did spying on me become a legitimate part of his job description? The only small bright spot in the whole thing is the expression on his face. It’s priceless. If everything else weren’t so awful right at this moment, I’d probably be enjoying myself immensely.

“And who, exactly, are we hiding from?” murmurs my new companion.

“No one.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? No one? You’re habitually this furtive, then?”

“No, I …” I flush guiltily. “Look, you don’t understand …”

I see him sidle a dubious glance at the mug still in my hand. It has a picture of Casper on it, surrounded by clouds and rainbows. Hastily, I move my hand so it’s covering the image. The last thing I need is for him to recognise the cat which dented his bike and ruined his precious research papers. That’s a can of worms I really can’t face opening just now.

In fact, I can’t do any of this. I can’t sit here, making pleasant conversation with this man. Well, semi-pleasant, at least. I stand, not caring if Jeremy’s still there. “I’d better go.”

He looks faintly disappointed. “So soon? Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me once more before you do?”

He is laughing at me. I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Who’d have thought he had a sense of humour? Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to share it right now.

“No, thank you,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. “I don’t think you enjoyed it all that much the first time. I wouldn’t wish to put you through it again.”

For a moment, he looks as though he might be about to say something else, but then he simply inclines his head. It’s an old-fashioned gesture, oddly formal, but it seems to suit him, somehow.

“Well, then, until next time, Miss Swift.”

Good God, I think, as I scuttle away as fast as my pride and poise will allow, I hope not. If the insufferable Professor Warwick never crossed my path again, it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.

***

“I’m going to hell,” I moan, flinging myself across the sofa. “It’s official. My fate is sealed.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” Heather tuts, although I notice that she puts down the kettle and reaches into the wine rack instead. “It can’t be that bad. Although why you didn’t just tell the truth, I don’t know.”

“Because that would have been sensible. That’s the sort of thing you would have done. I’m not like you. I panicked.”

“And made an idiot of yourself, as usual,” Heather remarks calmly.

I sit bolt upright. “That’s not very supportive!”

She shrugs, pouring pale pink wine into two expensive-looking glasses. “Sometimes I’m here to be supportive, sometimes just to tell you the truth. And the truth is, you’re an idiot. In this case, at least.”

“You’re right,” I admit mournfully as she settles onto the sofa next to me. I hug my knees to my chest and take a fortifying sip of my wine. Almost immediately, its warming effect helps me to relax, and I sink back into the cushions. Heather has lots of cushions. And they’re always perfectly plumped too. I don’t know how she keeps it up, not with a rambunctious three-year-old charging around the house all day.