Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

Anyway, things seemed to be going well between us and, after four successful dates, I judged that it was time to initiate the final test of bringing him home to meet Casper.

Alas, Casper thought differently. Casper always thinks differently. He’s found something to dislike in every single man I’ve brought home in the past two years. And when Casper doesn’t like someone, he shows it. I mean, really shows it. He doesn’t hold back.

Little did I realise, that night two years ago, that the bedraggled cat I found on the doorstep in the middle of a violent storm would have the potential to turn my entire life upside down. Nothing has been the same since. Sometimes, I’ll admit, for the better.

Sometimes decidedly for the worse.

The truth is, Casper is a singular sort of cat. I like to think of him as endearingly idiosyncratic, but others might less charitably call him something more along the lines of … Well, I suppose they might call him a bit wild. Headstrong, perhaps. Maybe the more melodramatic sorts might even accuse him of being out of control.

All right, so I guess there’s no point lying about it, is there? You’ll find out soon enough. The truth is that he’s been called all of those things, and more, usually in the form of a parting shot delivered by someone in the process of beating a swift retreat.

I look down again at my beloved feline. He’s moved on to washing his ears, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. There’s no trace whatsoever of the crazed animal who chased a perfectly nice man out of the door not five minutes ago.

In moments such as these, I have to remind myself that he’s just being protective. And that it’s sweet, really, that he’s prepared to go into battle on behalf of my honour. It would just be nice if he picked the right battles, that’s all. And if just once I could get as far as opening the bottle of wine before he sinks his claws into their leg, or puts a decapitated mouse in their shoe.

With a sinking sense of déjà vu, I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, reaching for my favourite heart-patterned mug. Ten o’clock at night, all dressed up, and yet again my only company is a large, bad-tempered ginger cat. Not quite the evening I’d planned.

“You’re back.”

A figure looms in the doorway and I jump, scattering tea bags all over the counter.

Ah, yes, except Freddie. I keep forgetting about Freddie. I’m still unused to having someone else in the house, you see.

Apparently, fate has a predilection towards burly males turning up on my doorstep without warning, because three days ago Freddie did just that, clutching only a hastily packed bag and no explanation, save that he’s planning to stay for ‘a while’. Whatever that means.

At least, I’m assuming the bag was hastily packed, but then again, he’s twenty-one years old. His whole life looks like that. As for the explanation … Well, my brother’s always been somewhat tricky to pin down. He’s notoriously evasive. One look at his face and I realised I wasn’t going to get any reasonable answers, for the time being at least. So I’m adopting the well-worn tactics of an experienced elder sister, and not asking any questions.

Patience is key in these matters. I’ll find out soon enough.

Freddie scoops up Casper, who begins to purr in ecstasy. Some men he’s more than happy to tolerate. Just so long as they pose no romantic risk, it seems.

“Where’s your date? Did it not go well?”

I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. “It was going absolutely fine, until Casper caught sight of him. Then it all went to hell in a handcart. As usual,” I’m unable to resist adding, with a dark look at Casper, who pointedly ignores me.

Freddie’s dark blond eyebrows shoot up, almost disappearing into his unruly hairline. “What did he do this time?”

“Let’s just say I owe James a new pair of trousers and leave it at that.” I begin stuffing tea bags back into the box.

Freddie lets out a yelp of laughter, before catching my eye and promptly smothering it. “Sorry. That’s not funny. Casper —” he directs a stern look at the cat still purring contentedly in his arms “—that was incredibly ill-mannered of you.”

Casper gazes up at him adoringly.

“Not exactly the look of contrition I was hoping for,” Freddie remarks drily.

“There’s no point in telling him off. He doesn’t care.” I begin to pull the pins out of my hair, letting it tumble around my shoulders in a caramel-coloured mass. I have to say, it’s a relief; it was really beginning to pinch, and if I’d left it up all evening I would probably have ended up with a headache.

One point in Casper’s favour at least, I concede grudgingly. He’s saved my scalp, even if he has ruined my love life.

Freddie gently deposits Casper on the floor, brushing orange fur off the front of his jumper. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sis. He obviously just wasn’t the one.”

“How would I know?” I say bitterly, watching as Freddie picks up the kettle. “I never got the chance to find out.”

Freddie dumps a spoonful of sugar into his cup and stirs it vigorously. “You know, Clara, maybe Casper just thinks he knows better than you. Have you ever thought of that?”

I roll my eyes. “Very amusing.”

“I know, I’m a brilliant mind.” He tosses the teaspoon in the sink with a modest smile. I try not to wince as it makes a horrible clattering sound. At least he got his aim right.

“Were you planning to make one of those for me too?” I ask mildly.

He looks blankly down at the mug in his hand. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“So, what have you been up to today?” I try to keep my voice casual as he turns and begins the tea-making process all over again. It’s a well-known fact that men can really only concentrate on one thing at a time. To be honest, sometimes Freddie even struggles with that. If I’m going to winkle even the slightest bit of information out of him, the ideal time is when he’s distracted.

He shrugs. “You know, this and that.”

Softly, Clara, softly , I chant to myself.

“Is work still okay with you taking time off to be here?”

“Yeah, they’re not bothered. So long as they’ve got cover.”

Well, that I can believe, at least. Freddie works in a bar up in Manchester and, while they’re not exactly the most diligent of employers, the casual nature of it suits his purposes while he’s saving up to go travelling with his girlfriend, Jess.

They have all of these grand plans, to trek across Australia, camp under the stars in New Zealand. A part of me doesn’t really want him to go, but I know that he has to. If these past few years have taught us both anything, it’s that life is too short to fritter away.

Besides, Jess will look after him. She’s been doing a sterling job of it for the last three years; I won’t worry about him half as much knowing that she’s there.

“Here.” He thrusts a cup of tea at me, almost sloshing it over the rim in the process. “As requested.”

“So graciously served,” I mutter, peering into its milky depths. I’d forgotten what terrible tea Freddie makes.

He stretches lazily, drawing his already tall frame to a ridiculous height. I like to think I’m reasonably tall for a woman, but Freddie definitely got our dad’s rangy genes. In fact, he seems to look more and more like Dad every time I see him these days.

The thought makes a lump rise in my throat and I cough, turning away to take a sip of my tea. Freddie doesn’t seem to notice, retrieving his own mug from where he left it on the side and making towards the door. But not before stopping to pat me on the head. I scowl, not that it will do me much good. He already knows I hate it when he does that.