Lottie Lucas - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

“I’m going back to my podcast. See you in the morning.”

“Night,” I murmur at his retreating back.

Casper’s head pops up but, to my surprise, he doesn’t follow Freddie upstairs. Instead, he watches me with curious eyes.

“I mean it this time,” I tell him firmly, tipping the rest of my revolting cup of tea down the sink. “We can’t go on like this. Much as I love you, I’ve no desire to end up a mad old cat lady. I’d like a man in my life who isn’t covered in fur.” I kneel down in front of him. “Can you get on board with that? Maybe help me out just a little?”

He tilts his head to one side, his eyes two unblinking green orbs, luminous in his face. I reach over to scratch his head and he nuzzles my hand lovingly. I sigh, already feeling my heart softening. I can never fight with him for long.

“Do you really think you can do better than me?” I whisper. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He puts his paws on my knees and I pull him into my arms, holding him close, as I have so many times. He doesn’t reply, of course. He’s just a cat.

But I can’t help but wonder all the same.

“So hang on …” Heather holds up a hand, disbelief written across her face. “Give me a moment to get my head around this. Freddie actually suggested that Casper might be a better judge of character than you are?”

I busy myself picking coriander leaves out of my salad. “That’s about right, yes. And then he made me a terrible cup of tea.”

“And all of this after Casper had chased James out of the house with a chunk missing out of his trousers?”

We’re sitting in one of our favourite cafés on King’s Parade, right in the heart of town. Heather even managed to get here early and grab the last table in the window, so we can watch the world go by. Even in the middle of the day the streets outside are packed. I’m pretty used to the bustle of Cambridge these days, but sometimes even I find myself surprised by the sheer crush that the centre turns into in the summer months. By now, in early October, the tourists have alleviated somewhat, and the students are back, giving the whole place a different feel. Less febrile, more focused. One of them hurries past the window now, laptop bag clutched in his arms, chin tucked into a red checked scarf. Probably late for a seminar, I think vaguely. Goodness knows, I’ve been there myself plenty of times.

“Well—” Heather sits back in her chair, her lunch still untouched on her plate “—something of an eventful evening, then.” She says it with a straight face, but I can see the corners of her lips twitching.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” I say warningly, but my voice trembles traitorously as I do so, somewhat ruining the effect. “It’s not funny.”

She shakes her head gravely. “Of course not. Nothing humorous about it whatsoever.”

Outside, the student with the scarf has joined a gaggle standing outside King’s College, listening to their professor wax lyrical about the architecture. He’s gesturing enthusiastically up at the building, and for a moment I’m so busy watching that I almost miss Heather’s next words altogether.

“You know, I wonder if Freddie might be right. In part, at least.”

I almost choke on my watermelon iced tea. She waits primly while I recover my equilibrium.

“Excuse me?” I finally manage to rasp.

It’s not often that my measured, ultra-practical best friend can surprise me. But when she does it’s always in style. Like the time she whipped her bra off at the tarts and vicars theme night in our second year at university. I think I might still be getting over that now.

She nods sagely, unrolling her cutlery from the napkin. “I think it makes a lot of sense. In fact, I can’t believe you didn’t think of it before. Could you pass the pepper, by the way?”

I hand it over in a daze. “You really think I have terrible judgement when it comes to men?”

She sprinkles a fine dusting of pepper onto her plate. “No, but I do think that you move too fast sometimes.”

“Too fast?” I echo disbelievingly, putting my knife and fork down with a clatter. “This coming from the person who had a baby at twenty-two!”

“That’s different and you know it.” She leans forward, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, be honest. How much did you really know about James?”

“Well …” I hedge, before one look at her face tells me not to bother lying. She knows me far too well. “Not a lot, I suppose. We’d only been out a few times.”

“Exactly!” She looks triumphant. “And yet here you are, talking as though it’s a major breakup. So he was a nice, interesting man—so what? There are plenty more of those out there.”

If we weren’t in public, I’d put my head on the table.

This is the thing about talking to Heather; much as she might try, she just doesn’t understand what a minefield modern dating is. She met her husband during freshers’ week at university. She’s never had to navigate the rocky waters of dating apps, or exclusivity, or the commitment-phobia which seems to be rife amongst anyone under the age of thirty. If I asked her about ghosting, she’d probably guess it was something to do with Halloween.

In her world it’s easy to walk into a bar or a party, start talking to a nice man and, the next thing you know, you’re buying crockery together and putting down a deposit on a marquee. Sometimes, I wonder if I should break it to her that it’s not the nineties any more.

“You’ve always been the dreamer of the two of us,” she’s saying now. “You’ve always wanted …” she waves her fork in the air, as though to whisk up the ideal word “… magic. Romance. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it, but the way you just leap into things, with your heart on your sleeve …” She breaks off with a frown, pointing the fork at me. “ Don’t pull that face. I’m allowed to worry about you, you know.”