Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

“Better?” she asks with a knowing look.

“Yes,” I say in a small voice.

It’s always nice coming to Heather’s. Like visiting your mum’s. Everything’s wonderfully ordered, with a soothingly tasteful colour scheme. You always get offered a drink of some description from their sumptuous new kitchen, with its Carrara marble island unit and built-in wine rack. And when the drink comes, it’s unfailingly from an ever-ready supply of sparklingly clean glasses in the glossy-fronted cupboard. You’ll never find Heather scrabbling around for a halfway decent receptacle before eventually serving up warm wine in a chipped Moomins mug she’s had since she was eight.

In fact, much as I like coming to Heather’s, it always makes me feel a little … I don’t know, flat . Because it just highlights the ever-growing chasm between her life and mine. Heather’s a grown-up, a fully fledged adult member of society with the tasteful arrangement of beeswax pillar candles to prove it. And I’m …

Well, today was a case in point.

I look at those candles now, blazing away on the glazed fire surround. Then, slowly, I look at Heather, in a powder-blue cashmere jumper, her favourite diamond studs glinting in her ears.

“Oh, sorry. Have I interrupted a romantic evening?” Now I feel really guilty. Why didn’t she say something?

She looks nonplussed. “Not at all. Dominic’s just putting Oscar to bed, then he’s got a squash match.”

“You mean, this is your staying at home outfit?” I’m only half teasing.

“One has to make an effort, even if only for oneself.” She cradles her wineglass against her lips, looking mischievous. “So, what I really want to know about is this man. A professor, you say?”

“Heather!” If we were at my house, where the soft furnishings aren’t quite so precious, I would gladly throw a cushion at her. “Don’t even think about it. Believe me, he is definitely not a candidate for romantic interest.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what people always say to begin with? I wasn’t exactly keen on Dominic when I first met him.”

“Yes, but you slept with him anyway,” I point out drily. It’s about the most reckless thing Heather’s ever done. And just like her luck that it should actually turn out well in the end.

I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m happy that it did, really I am. But at the same time it is the tiniest bit vexing when you consider that she never wanted any of this in the first place. Her sights were firmly set on becoming a top psychologist; she already had her place secured on the MA course—she hadn’t even had to apply; they’d offered it to her. She wasn’t interested in anything which could even be loosely defined as a serious relationship, let alone a husband, and children … not on her radar at all. She’d always maintained that watching her parents thrash their way through an acrimonious divorce had been enough to put her off all of that for life.

No, it was always me who wanted those things, not Heather. And yet … look at us.

“Quite, and thank you for announcing that so loudly,” she says in an arch voice. “But what I mean is, feelings often come later. In real life, instant attraction is a very rare thing. In fact, I’m not so certain it exists at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” a voice behind us says. “Although it’s good to know how you really felt about me back then. Don’t spare my feelings, will you?”

Heather twists around to roll her eyes at her husband. “All right, so instant mutual attraction doesn’t exist. And you already knew how I felt about you back then. I made no secret of it.”

“Hello, Dominic,” I chime in.

“Hello, Clara.” He smiles thinly at me, dropping his squash bag onto the floor and heading towards the fridge. “And what brings you here this evening? Something to do with men, I should imagine, from the look on my wife’s face.”

I have a sinking suspicion that Dominic thinks I’m some sort of man-eater. God only knows what Heather tells him. Either way, I don’t think it helps endear me to him.

Dominic and I have an odd, uneasy sort of understanding. We’re pleasant enough to one another but, on the whole, we try to keep our contact time to a minimum. We’ve never really got on, not since those early days at university. I know that he thinks I’m immature, that I create unnecessary drama. And he …

Well, sometimes he looks at me and I’m convinced that he knows. He knows what I thought about him all those years ago, how I tried to persuade Heather to break up with him. How I said that he’d only hold her back.

Obviously, I was wrong. I mean, if they hadn’t stayed together, they would never have had Oscar. And now here they are and … well, clearly, it was the right choice. It should all be water under the bridge. But still, I can’t help but feel that Dominic resents me for it somehow.

“She has a new admirer,” Heather pipes up, eyes shining.

“He is not an admirer!” I sit up so hastily that I only narrowly avoid sloshing wine all over my lap. “Believe me, there’s nothing even remotely …”

“She kissed him!” Heather squeals. “And then he bowed to her!”

“That is totally out of context,” I splutter, snatching her empty wineglass from her hand. “How much have you had to drink today?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says defiantly. “I haven’t been anywhere. Except to the half-term lunch, but that doesn’t count.”

Ah, so that explains it. You’d think that a midday gathering with fellow school gate mothers would be a refined affair. Not a bit of it. By the sounds of things, they’d put most illicit teenage house parties to shame in terms of alcohol consumption.

Dominic frowns faintly at her before turning his attention to me. “He actually bowed to you, did he? How … courtly of him.”

The last sentence is uttered with a barely repressed smirk, and I resist the impulse to narrow my eyes at him.

“Haven’t you got a squash game to get to?” I say sweetly.

It has the desired effect because he jumps to attention, grabbing an iced bottle of water from the fridge and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.

“Oh, damn. Yes, and I’m already late.” He swoops down to drop a perfunctory kiss on the top of Heather’s head. “I’ll see you later. Oscar’s fast asleep; he went straight off. I doubt you’ll hear more out of him tonight.”

Heather just flaps a hand in a vague sort of farewell.

“Now we’ve got rid of him,” she says as the sound of the front door closing echoes through the house, “do you want some dinner? Only something simple, I’m afraid, as I thought it was just going to be me.”

“I’d probably better get back to Freddie,” I say reluctantly, getting up and taking our wineglasses over to the dishwasher. “Lord only knows what he and Casper will have got up to in the time I’ve been away. They’re both as bad as each other.”

“If you’re sure,” she begins, pulling items out of the fridge. Fresh pasta. A tub of pesto. Parmesan wrapped in paper from the Italian deli down the street. “Could you look in that cupboard for pine nuts? I think I bought some last week.”

I can only stare, mesmerised, as the ingredients stack up on the island in front of me. Proper food. I think of the congealed cold pizza waiting at home in the fridge and my stomach makes the decision for me.

“On second thoughts, maybe I will stay,” I say casually. I can’t let on to Heather how long it’s been since I last had anything that wasn’t reheated. She’d probably fall into a dead faint. “They can cope for an evening on their own. After all, Freddie’s a grown man.