Книга - Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

Ten Things My Cat Hates About You
Lottie Lucas


This funny, warm-hearted rom com is perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella, Lindsey Kelk and Mhairi McFarlane! ‘The sweetest tale…crammed with joy’ Sunday Times bestseller Milly Johnson Not everyone gets nine lives… So he better be the love of a lifetime! When Clara’s ginger cat Casper chases yet another romantic prospect out the door she’s ready to give up on love altogether. But then the fussy feline causes two meet cutes in the space of a day and suddenly Clara has two gorgeous men driving her to distraction. But who is in control of happy ever after? Clara, fate…or the cat who started it all? Readers are loving this heartwarming romance… ‘I LOVED THIS BOOK…will 100% be purchasing a physical copy’ Emily, Instagram ‘Wow this book is my new favourite romance book…It has been a while since I have found a romance author who can make me laugh’ Louise, Netgalley ‘Sometimes you just need a romantic comedy in book form to make you feel better because life can be so heavy…Casper the cat might be my favorite fictional cat of all time’ Joanna, Netgalley ‘Ideal to get your mind off of things and your heart fluttering’ Sophie, Netgalley ‘Oh my gosh, I just loved this book so much!’ Michelle, Netgalley ‘Highly entertaining…deserves to be on my for-a-rainy-day shelf’ Fleur, Netgalley









Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

LOTTIE LUCAS








One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Lottie Lucas 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Lottie Lucas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008353636

Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008353629

Version: 2019-08-16


Table of Contents

Cover (#u547dc7fb-a76d-5136-9bbb-32075d63859c)

Title Page (#ua5de6298-aa4b-5652-9440-b1b46cca5c80)

Copyright (#u06d2ba6b-40c6-5c28-afa0-1bc938e153a0)

Dedication (#u98913efc-3942-5925-9bcf-d6cd50510088)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher


To my husband Greg—beloved by cats everywhere.




Chapter 1 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


“Well, that’s that then,” I say flatly as the door slams shut with such vigour that it rattles in its frame. “He’s gone. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Outside on the street, I can hear the sound of a car engine starting. Within the kitchen, however, all is silent. I receive no response.

“I don’t see what was so wrong with him.” I shake my head, beginning to pace as I warm to my theme. Unfortunately, the available floor space could be politely described as ‘bijou’, and only allows for about four steps before I have to turn and walk back again. “He was polite, educated, creative. No wives in the attic, as far as I could tell, and he always offered to pay for dinner. What more could you want?”

I leave an expectant pause after that question. Green eyes stare back at me dispassionately.

“I mean, one has to have standards, of course,” I acknowledge, resuming my truncated path across the room. “And I do, believe me. But that’s just the problem. It’s hard enough for a man to meet my standards, let alone having to contend with yours as well. It’s simply impossible. No one’s going to be up to it.” I stop in the middle of the room, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Something’s going to have to change. And, by rights, I really think it should be …”

I trail off as I turn to find the recipient of my lecture licking his paw.

I put my hands on my hips and glare down at him. “Are you even listening to me?”

He blinks up at me for a moment, before returning to his task with renewed dedication.

I sigh deeply, kicking off my berry-coloured patent heels. I won’t be needing those any more tonight. The man they were intended to impress is probably halfway across Cambridge by now. Getting as far away as fast as possible, no doubt.

You know, I really thought it might be different this time. I met James at a pop-up photography exhibition. He was thoughtful, attractive in a winsome, boy-next-door kind of way, perhaps not the kind of guy I’d usually have noticed, but he’d jostled into me by accident and knocked my clutch bag out of my hand, then apologised and asked me out in the same sentence. Immediately, that made my pulse fizz in anticipation; I absolutely love a serendipitous meeting. So romantic, don’t you think? I always imagine what a great story it’ll make, further down the line.

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.

“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.




Chapter 2 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


“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.”

I look into her anxious blue eyes and immediately feel guilty. In her smart black turtleneck, her glossy dark hair pulled back from her face, she looks impossibly put together. But I can see the tense lines around her mouth, the too-tight set of her shoulders. She’s always been like that, from the very first day we met in university halls. What was supposed to be a carefree, spontaneous time— that always proved a challenge for Heather. She could never quite let go, never relax. I suppose that’s why we were drawn to one another. We both needed something the other could give, me a little of her level-headedness, her serenity, and her my sense of wonder, my open-minded optimism.

“Of course you do,” I reply gently. “But I’m fine, Heather. I’m a grown woman; I can deal with my own disasters. You have plenty of other things to worry about. Oscar, for starters.”

“He certainly gives me plenty to worry about.” She begins to daintily cut her avocado wrap into small pieces, presumably so she doesn’t have to pick it up. Heather doesn’t really do finger food. I’ve seen her eat nachos with a knife and fork. “I have absolutely no idea where he gets it from. I was the most shy, retiring child in the playground for my entire school career. And Dominic wasn’t exactly a bad boy himself.”

“No,” I say, trying not to smile as memories of Dominic in a choirboy’s cassock and ruff spring to my mind. Heather showed me that old album when we were both a bit tipsy on raspberry vodka, and I swore I’d never mention it again.

“Neither of us have ever broken a single bone,” Heather continues, sawing into her wrap with increased force. “Oscar’s barely three, and he’s already broken his arm twice. Thank God the second time it happened at nursery; if it had been at home again, I probably would have had social services banging down the door.”

I stifle my mirth with a well-timed cough.

“You might well laugh,” she says accusingly. “But this is supposed to be one of your duties, you know, as his godmother. To care and protect his sapling young mind, steer him in a more respectable direction. Make sure he doesn’t grow up into a total hellion.”

“That’s if you die, Heather. Which, hopefully, you’re not planning on doing any time soon. Until then, I get to be the fun adult figure in his life. The one he comes to for advice, or contraband ice cream milkshakes.”

She groans. “Yes, because that’s just what he needs. More fun in his life. He has such a dreary time of it. Nothing nice ever happens to him … or so he’d have everyone believe. That child is a master manipulator.”

“Your mother would probably say that he’s been sent to challenge you.”

‘She says exactly that. Just about every time I see her, in fact. But whenever I ask, “What if I don’t particularly want to be challenged?” she never seems inclined to answer.’

This time I do laugh. “You have a wonderful child, Heather. Slightly boisterous, maybe, but wonderful.”

Oscar was something of a … Well, let’s say he was a glorious surprise. I still remember sitting with Heather on the sofa after she’d found out. It wasn’t a particularly nice sofa, I have to admit. We were still in our last student house, on the outskirts of Cambridge. We were all ready to move out, onwards and upwards into a future which was unknown yet we were certain would be bright. The sofa was pretty much the last thing left in the barren sitting room.

We’d promised each other that nothing would change, that last summer. That adult life, and proper work, could never put an end to nights spent drinking Bellinis in the basement bars around the city, or long, lazy afternoons watching romantic comedies in our pyjamas. Even when Heather got engaged to Dominic, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous fashion, still she’d vowed that nothing would change.

Then it happened. She was just staring into space, not saying anything. For the first time in our friendship, I couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Until suddenly, she’d stood, smoothing down the hem of her cobalt blue summer top.

“Well, then,” she’d said, and I remember that her voice had sounded strange, and yet at the same time not strange at all. It was completely neutral. “I’d better get an appointment at the doctor’s. And I suppose my parents ought to know sooner rather than later.”

And that had been that. It was as though she resigned herself, in that moment, to the fact that life was about to completely, inescapably transform. She just got on with it, no looking back.

Since that day, of course, nothing has been the same. She’s still my closest friend, and we make plenty of time for one another, but our lives have gone in wildly different directions. And sometimes, I look at her, with her husband and her adorable son, and her impeccable nineteen-thirties villa in a quiet, leafy suburb on the edge of town, and I find myself thinking …

Well, look, never mind what I think. It’s not important.

“You’re right. I do,” she’s agreeing now and, although she’s trying not to, I can see a radiant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And you have an equally wonderful, equally boisterous cat.” She sends me a sly look from beneath her lashes. “Who apparently knows better than you do what makes a good boyfriend.”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Are we still talking about this?”

“Yes, we are.” Heather picks up her own watermelon iced tea and takes a tentative sip before pulling a face. “I need to stop letting you bring me to these bohemian cafés. Or, rather, I need to stop following your lead when I order. At least it’s not as bad as the beetroot latte.”

“I like beetroot lattes,” I say defensively. “And anyway, it’s good for you to try something different every now and again.”

She makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “If you can’t get it in Waitrose, then there’s a good reason for it.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” I say ominously. “Beetroot will take over the world. You’ll see.”

She fixes me with a severe look. “We’re digressing here. Don’t think you can distract me with winter vegetables. We were talking about you, remember?”

I shake my head fervently. “I don’t think we were.”

“We most definitely were. Stop avoiding the subject.” She pushes the glass of iced tea away with a tastefully manicured hand. There’s a small pause in the conversation as a waiter swoops in upon our empty plates before she continues. “Look, Clara, be honest with yourself. Out of all of those men Casper chased away, was there anyone you could actually see a future with? Anyone you really got to know, who understood you inside out?”

“No,” I confess in a small voice.

“So perhaps, in his own way, he was doing you a favour?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Really? You’re going to pretend that you believe that?”

“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant. But, ultimately, I think it wouldn’t do you any harm to guard yourself a bit more. What’s the hurry, anyway? You have all the time in the world; you’re only twenty-five.”

“So are you!”

“Yes, but the difference is that I don’t feel it,” she says simply. “And, believe me, one day, before you even know it, you’ll be feeling just as old and haggard as I do now, so enjoy this phase while it lasts.” She raises her glass in mock toast. “Tell you what, here’s a challenge. Find someone who can actually win round that cat of yours; now, that really will be someone worth having. If they can do that, I’ll deem them worthy of your affections.”

“You’re right; of course you are.” To my horror, I can feel heat pricking at the back of my eyes, and I blink hard. “It’s just … well, it’s been …”

“A difficult few years,” Heather finishes quietly, placing a hand over mine. “I know.”

We lapse into silence. I fiddle with the straw in my drink. It’s paper, like they all are nowadays, decorated with a pink candy stripe. I’m staring at it so determinedly that the colours start to blur into one another. I’m pretty sure it’s making my eyes cross, so I look out of the window instead. The students are listening raptly for the most part, their heads bent over notebooks or, in the case of a few more technological types, tablets. I notice there are a couple at the back, however, who aren’t quite so swept away by their professor’s passionate lecture. They’re prodding at their phones, looking bored.

“Can we talk about something else?” I mumble at last.

She exhales slowly. “Yes, of course.” I can tell she feels bad because she pulls her watermelon iced tea back towards her and starts to drink from it stoically. It’s not much, but I know her well enough to recognise an olive branch. “What’s new at work?”

“Heather, I work in a museum. New isn’t exactly our speciality.”

I know I’m being flippant, that I’m shutting her out. But I can’t help it. I know what she’ll ask next, and I just can’t cope with anything else right now. I can’t cope with her fussing around me, trying to fix my life.

She emits a gusty sigh, plucking the laminated menu from the centre of the table to peruse the back. “I can tell I’m not going to get anything even remotely sensible out of you today. You’re in one of those moods. Do you have time for pudding?”

Now that’s a topic which is always amenable to me. It’s with no small sense of relief that I take the menu from her outstretched hand. This feels like much safer ground. Pudding, I can deal with.

“I always have time for pudding. What are we having?”




Chapter 3 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


By the time I turn onto my street that evening, the sky has deepened to an inky purple, the air tinged with the promise of frost. The first star is just cresting the horizon, a pinprick of light against an otherwise blank sheet of darkness. There’s no moon, I notice. I always pay attention to the moon: where it is in the sky, how full it is. I track it through its stages, watching it wax and wane, brighten and dim, the craters emerging from and then melding back into the shadows. The steady rhythm of it, ever changing and yet unchanged, is more reassuring to me than any amount of therapy.

Despite the darkness, I have no trouble finding my house. It’s blazing like a beacon, lights shining from every window like a cottage on a Christmas card. One of the joys, I’m fast learning, of living with an ex-student who doesn’t have to pay the bills. I’d be willing to bet anything that the heating will be cranked up to maximum too.

My theory is confirmed soon enough as I open the front door, only to be blasted by a wall of heat as dense and dry as a Saharan wind.

“I’m back,” I announce, rapidly beginning to divest myself of all outerwear before I break out into a sweat. Seriously, how does this not bother him? Feeling the cold is a woman’s prerogative; everyone knows that. Men are usually just supposed to tut and turn the thermostat down when we’re not looking, or look on in disbelief as we pull on fluffy socks and dressing gowns, hot-water bottles clutched to our chests.

“We’re in here.” Freddie’s voice floats through into the hallway.

Still alive, then. I’m amazed he hasn’t boiled in his own skin.

I head into the living room, about to make a comment to that effect, but the words die on my lips. Freddie is lounging on the sofa in his favourite hoodie, a half drunk cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him, flipping through a film magazine. The TV burbles away gently in the background, the screen providing a soothing blur of flickering colour. Casper is lolling blissfully on his chair—or, I should say, the chair which he has long since commandeered as his own. It’s just too exhausting to keep hoovering the cat hair off it every day. When he sees me he rolls onto his back, exposing his furry tummy expectantly.

“Honestly, you’re like a dog,” I murmur, leaning over to give the requisite scratch. “Cats shouldn’t enjoy this.”

He just purrs even more loudly.

“Good day?” Freddie asks vaguely, still absorbed in the article he’s reading.

I look down at my brother’s scruffy head with an inward sigh. It’s hard to be annoyed with him, even if he is racking up the kind of electricity bill which I’d thought only existed in my worst nightmares.

Because … you know, it’s actually kind of nice to have someone to come home to, save a disgruntled-looking Casper or the odd dead rat. It’s nice that the house isn’t cold and dark, and that I don’t have to sit around with my coat on for half an hour while the place warms up. It’s nice that Casper has someone with him during the day. He hates being left on his own. He gets bored, I think, which is probably why he goes out of his way to cause so much mischief.

The truth is, I never planned to live alone. I’ve never been one of those people who dream of their own space, of no one bothering them. I like being bothered. I like having company. If I’m being totally honest, I never planned to be alone full stop. I’d always imagined that I’d be one of those people who falls in love young, then stays with that person for ever. I used to listen to my parents recounting how they met; my dad actually proposed the very first night he saw Mum, but she prudently suggested that they went on a date or two first. Obviously, he won her round, though, because they were engaged within a week.

I used to dream of something like that happening to me. It sounded beyond perfect.

Except, somehow, it’s just never quite happened.

All right, so it’s never even come remotely close to happening. My so-called love life has always been conspicuously devoid of that all-important sentiment. Relationships have started then fizzled out. Even before Casper came on the scene, none of my romantic attachments have ever lasted long.

I mean, look, it’s not like I’m desperate or anything. I don’t want you to get that idea. I’m well aware that I don’t need anyone in my life. I get by just fine, albeit in a singular, chaotic sort of fashion.

But, then again, life’s not about just getting by, is it? And just because I can do everything on my own doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to. The last few years have given me quite enough experience of that. It could easily have knocked all the romance out of me, but instead it’s actually had the opposite effect. These days, the thought of someone sweeping me off into an escapist whirlwind of breakfasts in bed and roses and spontaneous trips to Paris sounds more heavenly than ever.

And while Casper is, of course, a wonderful companion in his way, he’s not much good for any of those things. His idea of breakfast in bed is leaving a desiccated squirrel on the pillow next to me, and the only spontaneous trips we make together are to the vet’s.

I bring my attention back to the present, just in time to see Freddie toss a chocolate high up in the air and catch it in his mouth.

“Freddie!” I admonish. “Those were the chocolates which James brought over.”

He looks up at me, all innocence. “I know; that’s why I’m eating them. Wouldn’t want to leave any unpleasant reminders about the place, would we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Unless you were planning to keep them as a sordid memento of your failed romance.”

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t get these insights into how my little brother sees me. Images of myself as some sort of latter day—if decidedly more youthful and less cobwebby—Miss Havisham, with a specimen cupboard full of old chocolate boxes and used tissues stolen from past dates is not something I particularly want to entertain.

“It’s touching that you think so highly of me.” I flop down beside him on the sofa, reaching for the box. “Here, let me have one. It’s been a hard day.” I pick a chocolate at random, not even bothering to look at the descriptions. I’m too tired to care. When I’m in this state, chocolate is just chocolate. Any will do.

Freddie stares at me. “Wow, chocolate roulette. It must have been bad.”

“I finally made a start on those grant applications I’ve been putting off for weeks. They’re an absolute nightmare. No wonder Jeremy landed me with them.” I bite into the chocolate, delighted to discover that it has a caramel centre. I was beginning to worry that it might turn out to be the weird fruit one that always gets left in the box. “What’s for dinner?”

For a moment he looks totally perplexed, then he holds up the chocolate box sheepishly. “Er … these?”

“Freddie!” My legs are curled up beneath me and I give him a sharp kick. “You were supposed to pick something up!”

“Sorry, I forgot.” He whips out his phone and opens up an app. “How do you feel about pizza?”

Another side-effect of living with a twenty-one-year-old. I’m officially returning to a student diet.

“Fine,” I say begrudgingly. “But get a side salad, won’t you? I’m not eighteen any more. I need to eat some vegetables.”

“I’ll get a four seasons pizza. It has olives on it.”

“I don’t think olives count.”

“Mushrooms do, though. There must be two portions on that pizza, surely.”

I shake my head despairingly. “I can’t believe that Jess hasn’t managed to teach you about this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Immediately, I know I’ve said something wrong, although I’m not sure what. Maybe they’ve had a fight.

Freddie stares fixedly at his phone, scrolling so fast that I’m certain he’s not really looking at it. Eventually, he clears his throat. “I’ll order a mixed salad as well, then.”

“I’d, er … better feed Casper,” I say abruptly, rising to my feet.

Mostly, I say it just to break the strange tension which has settled on the room, although, to be fair, it is actually Casper’s dinner time. In fact, come to think of it, I’m surprised he hasn’t already been hassling me. Usually if I’m so much as a minute behind, he lets me know all about it. But it’s already twenty past six and I haven’t heard a peep out of him.

It’s only when I look over at his chair that I discover why. He’s not there. He must have crept out while Freddie and I were talking. I frown, wondering what he’s up to. It’s very unlike him to disappear when food’s on offer.

I don’t think I heard the cat flap go, so I make my way upstairs. Sometimes he likes to burrow under the duvet on my bed. He’s not there though, so I go into the spare room, where Freddie has set up camp. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that his overnight bag has exploded. There’s stuff everywhere, and he’s only been here a few days.

I’m just pondering over how, exactly, a sock has ended up on the window ledge, when something outside makes my breath stop.

There, under the glow of a streetlamp, is Casper. And he’s slinking across the road.

Damn that cat. No wonder he’s looking furtive. He knows I don’t like him going out there. Granted, I live on a quiet residential street, far too hemmed in by cars parked on either side for anyone to drive too fast down, but still. That’s not the point. I fling open the window.

“Casper!”

At the sound of his name he stops, turning his head to look up. Just as a cyclist suddenly appears from behind the cars, whizzing towards him.

“Stop!” I yell, but it’s already too late. The cyclist swerves violently, tyres screeching against the tarmac. I can only look on in horror as they overbalance, finishing upside down in a nearby bush, the wheels of the bike spinning uselessly.

For a split second I’m stunned into immobility. Then I’m running, bursting down the stairs and out into the street.

“Are you all right?” I gasp, snatching Casper into my arms. Mercifully, he seems more put out than anything, glaring at the bicycle as though it did him a personal injury. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a flash of white tail disappearing into the bushes and immediately the object of his evening wanderings becomes clear. I should have known there’d be a lady involved. There’s not a lot else which he would prioritise over dinner.

It’s a sad fact when your cat has a better love life than you do, I think glumly. Maybe Heather was right, after all. Maybe I really do need to take some time to just be by myself for a bit. Stop chasing rainbows which don’t exist. After all, it’s not as if suitable men just pop up out of …

I look at the bike, skewered into the bush, and out of nowhere something begins to fizz beneath my skin, a prickle of excitement.

Surely not … I mean, it can’t be. That would just be crazy.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” a voice supplies from the depths of the foliage. “It’s the cat we should be concerned about.”

Despite its somewhat muffled tone, the sarcasm is unmistakable and I feel myself flushing, startled out of my reverie.

“Of course, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

The cyclist struggles out of the bush, helmet askew across his face, and, despite myself, my breath catches in anticipation. Now he’s standing upright, I see that he’s tall, towering over me by almost half a foot. I’ve always liked tall men.

I’m doing exactly what I promised I wouldn’t; I’m getting carried away again. I know it. But that doesn’t mean that I can help it. I mean, come on. I’m only human. And it doesn’t get much more romantic than this, does it? It’s like a meet cute in a movie. Any moment now, he’ll push up his helmet and our eyes will meet. Electricity will spark between us. And he’ll say something like … Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like …

“Just about, no thanks to that bloody animal. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road, anyway?”

I jolt backwards as though I’ve been slapped, his acerbic tone acting like a sledgehammer on the lovely rose-tinted vision I’d created.

Okay, definitely not something like that.

“It was my fault,” I say quickly as Casper bristles in my arms with a growl, obviously aware of the slight. “I called him and he turned to look. It was perfectly natural behaviour on his part.”

“Yes, well …” He straightens his helmet and I can see the outline of his face in the slanting light from the streetlamp. I can make out a strong aquiline nose, a sculpted jaw and a pair of dark eyes. Despite myself, I find myself wondering what colour they are and I mentally slap myself down. Stop it, Clara. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. Just thank every higher entity that he can’t read your thoughts.

I’m cringing inside just thinking about it.

Mercifully, he doesn’t seem to notice me staring. In fact, he’s not looking at me at all. So much for my fantasy that our eyes would lock; he hasn’t even so much as glanced at me once throughout our whole exchange. Instead, his attention is fixed upon the ground around our feet. “That’s all very well for you to say. But just look at what you’ve done!”

I follow his gaze, and for the first time I notice that there are papers scattered all over the road. A battered folder lies in the midst of it all, its mouth gaping open, more papers spilling out from within. They’re looking decidedly worse for wear, having landed on the rain-dampened tarmac. Most of them are splattered with mud, and one or two even have bicycle tracks across them.

I know I should be feeling guilty about that. But something about his abrasiveness sets my teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the dull sense of disappointment I still feel which makes my own response somewhat sharper than I’d intended. This man is definitely no romantic hero.

“What I’ve done? Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But this was clearly an accident.”

I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me. He’s scrabbling around after the papers, gathering them into a haphazard pile.

“This is priceless research!” he snaps, although I half wonder if it might be directed more at himself than me. “Utterly irreplaceable.”

Casper obviously takes exception to it anyway, because he lurches forward with a protracted hiss, compelling me to tighten my grip on him.

The man half glances upwards and, although I can’t see his face in the dark, incredulity colours his voice. “Did he really just hiss at me?”

I jut out my chin defensively. “You did almost run him over.”

“He got in my way, I think you’ll find. He’s bloody lucky I managed to swerve in time.”

“Clara?” Freddie’s standing in the open doorway, his arms folded across his body against the cold. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Always the last one to the party, my brother. I almost want to laugh. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well with the indignant man in front of me.

“It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute,” I call softly, relieved when Freddie disappears back inside the house. The last thing we need is to attract even more attention. I can practically feel the curtains twitching as it is. I turn back around, determined to do the decent thing. After all, despite what I said, I am indebted to this ill-mannered cyclist. I dread to think what would have happened if he hadn’t flung himself to the side of the road. And that bush looked pretty spiky. I’m sure we’ve got a first aid box inside somewhere. Or some plasters, at the very least. I can offer to …

My thoughts trail off as I observe that my charge is already pulling his bike out of the bush and climbing on. One of the wheels is bent out of shape, the spokes twisted at an unnatural angle.

“You’re not going to try and ride that home, are you?” I exclaim. “Let me call you a taxi. It’s the least I can do.”

“No, I’m fine,” he says tersely. Then, “Thank you,” he adds in a voice which, if not exactly gracious, is noticeably gentler. He gives an awkward cough. “That’s very kind. But there’s no need.” He tries to push off. The bike wobbles precariously, almost ending up in the bush all over again. Instinctively, I rush forward, although what I’m hoping to do with Casper still in my arms is questionable.

“Really, if you’ll just let me …” He holds up a hand, his eyes closing briefly as though in pain. Then he tries again, and this time it works. After a fashion. I watch as he cycles away from me, the bike lurching alarmingly to one side and then the other, muttering darkly to himself in a language which, for a few seconds, I can’t understand. Then, out of the deep recesses of my brain, something begins to stir.

“Is that …” Freddie has appeared at my shoulder, his voice dripping with incredulity “… Latin?”

“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think it is.”

I don’t even think I’ve heard anyone speak it out loud since school. That’s kind of the point of Latin these days. It’s a dead language. You use it for scholarly research, and the odd plant name or family motto, but that’s about it. No one actually speaks it.

For a few moments we simply stand, staring after the bike as it makes its drunken way over the brow of the hill.

“You know, sis, I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably have cause to say it again,” Freddie says at last, with a shake of his head. “But you really do get some strange people in Cambridge.”




Chapter 4 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


I wind my scarf loosely around my neck as I step out onto the bright, sunlit street. It’s one of those utterly perfect October mornings, all crisp blue skies and leaves swirling through the air in shades of amber, honey and gold. It’s the kind of day which can’t fail to put me in a good mood. Even the residual sense of embarrassment hanging over from last night seems to fizzle into nothing in the dazzling light of a new day. Better still, I’m actually running on time for work for once. Perhaps the gods really are smiling down on me after all.

The streets begin to narrow the closer I get to the centre of town, becoming labyrinthine passageways barely large enough for a single car to squeeze through. I stop briefly to allow a cyclist to pass and he holds up a hand in thanks, his coat billowing out behind him.

Cambridge looks more romantic than ever on a day like this, the sun warming the stone to its richest hue, gleaming like molten bronze in the narrow mullioned windows. Somewhere, amongst the cluster of turrets and spires, bells are ringing, a melodic, undulating rhythm which is as familiar to me now as breathing. Bells are always ringing somewhere in Cambridge; most of the time, I hardly even notice them any more. But today their sound seems to be everywhere, filling the air around me in cascading layers.

Sidling around a cluster of tourists peering at the grasshopper clock, I check the time on my phone, automatically beginning to pick up the pace. It’s easy to dawdle in a city like this, to wander around dreamily at half speed without even realising you’re doing it. Familiarity never seems to dull its beauty, its ancient magic. If I had to pin it down, I’d say that’s ultimately what made me choose to stay here, rather than letting myself be drawn away to the bright lights of London, as so many of my classmates were.

I’d like to think that it was a wise choice, to an extent. My life might not exactly be flawless but, as I look around me now, I know without a doubt that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And, at the end of the day, how many people can honestly say that?

My thoughts are interrupted as the imposing facade of the Montague Museum comes into view. My glittery lilac ankle boots make a hollow tapping sound on the smooth stone steps as I ascend between the soaring Corinthian columns. One of a row of stately Georgian townhouses, it’s quite an impressive-looking place of work; I still get a thrill of anticipation every time I walk up to it.

Even so, it’s the inside where it really takes your breath away.

The cold air is still tingling on my cheeks as I push through the revolving door into the opulent marble foyer.

Just bear in mind, if you will, that when I say marble, I don’t just mean a few niches or a bit of panelling here and there. Oh, no. That, someone clearly decided, would be far too pedestrian.

Instead, the entire space, from floor to ceiling, is lined in the purest white marble. It’s quite dazzling to the eye if you’re unused to it. Ancient Greek statues flank the sweeping staircase and priceless Chinese porcelain is scattered across every available surface.

In short, it’s a health and safety nightmare. Not to mention a conservationist’s one. But that’s how Lord Montague, the slightly mad Victorian collector who bequeathed the house, wanted it. He actually stipulated the fact when he left the place in trust to be run as a private museum. What began as a cabinet of curiosities soon overtook his entire home, and he was adamant that it should remain that way.

It isn’t a big museum, not at all, but it holds some breathtaking pieces of art. I haven’t even begun to talk about the paintings – that’s really my area of expertise although, in a little place like this, the role of assistant curator covers all departments, as well as some other jobs which a curator would never dream of undertaking in a larger establishment. I help out with everything: hanging pictures, showing visitors around, doing further research into some of the pieces … Just last year, we discovered that one of the more nondescript sketches which had hung in the corridor by the ladies’ toilets was in fact a previously unknown Renoir.

That’s what this job’s like – from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve discovered it’s best not to dwell upon the sheer responsibility of it all. It only induces mild panic. Which, in turn, can only be alleviated by several biscuits and a mocha made in the largest mug in the staffroom cupboard.

That’s chocolate biscuits, obviously. I mean, what else?

“You’re here!” Ruby bears down upon me in a kaleidoscope of colour. “Thank God, we’ve been absolutely desperate to talk to you.”

Immediately, I feel a shiver of alarm and my hands stop halfway down the velvet-covered buttons of my coat.

“What’s the matter? It’s not one of the paintings, is it?”

I have this recurring nightmare that I’m standing in the main picture gallery, and someone’s drawn all over one of the Gainsboroughs with permanent marker. I’m trying desperately to rub it off, but the paint itself begins to dissolve, running down the wall in rivulets. Then, if I don’t wake up at that point, it only gets worse, because someone else trips over Casper, who’s mysteriously appeared, and I can only watch in mounting horror as they pitch head first into a William Etty, before …

“We can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Eve, who’s been following behind at a more stately pace, ventures excitedly. She claps her hands together, making the stacks of rings she wears jingle against one another.

The sound of her voice catapults me back into the present, visions of irreplaceable artworks biting the dust receding mercifully into the abyss. My relief is short-lived, however, as my heart sinks all over again, this time for an entirely different reason.

Why did I have to tell them about my date? I should know better by now, what with Casper’s track record in that department.

To be honest, after the disastrous events of last night, I’d sort of begun to forget about my equally disastrous date with James. One disaster rather eclipsed the other, if you will. But now it comes rushing back to me, with an attendant sense of acute humiliation. I really can’t face talking about this now. I look down, hoping I can hedge my way around it.

“Oh, it was … uh, fine. You know, nice. Ish. Kind of.”

They’re looking hopelessly confused, not unreasonably. I focus my attention on unbuttoning the rest of my coat, not meeting their eyes. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though.”

“Oh,” they chorus, faces falling in mutual disappointment. There’s a brief awkward pause, during which I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. But, to my immense gratitude, they hurriedly start chattering about museum matters, Ruby recounting a story about someone who brought an illicit sandwich into the Egyptian gallery and refused to give it up, resulting in an undignified tussle with one of the room attendants. Eve chimes in every now and again, filling the gaps with amusing observations, and not for the first time, I find myself sending up a little prayer of thanks for my wonderful volunteers.

No one would ever imagine that these two would have become such fast friends. A candyfloss-pink-haired art student barely out of her teens and an elegant, cashmere-clad grandmother of four wouldn’t usually even mix, let alone find so much in common. But they adore one another. They’re usually to be found together, laughing over something or other in a corner. They’re not exactly the most productive of volunteers; they’re far too busy having a good time for that. But they’re easily my favourites. The museum just wouldn’t be the same without them.

Not, of course, that I’d ever tell them that. It wouldn’t do for them to get too complacent.

I have a sneaking suspicion that they know anyway, though.

“But we ought not to detain you, dear,” Eve is saying now. She leans towards me with a meaningful look. “You might want to get straight up to your office, if you catch my meaning. You know who has been looking for you.”

Over her shoulder, Ruby is nodding conspiratorially, her flamingo-shaped earrings dancing against her neck.

I don’t need telling twice. I head for the stairs, mouthing a thank you as I go.

It’s not often that I view my poky little office as a haven. The walls are a depressing sort of magnolia colour which has greyed with age, and the tiny window looks out onto the car park. My desk is wedged into the corner at such an angle that I have to climb into my chair from the side because I can’t pull it back properly. On the whole, I endeavour to spend as little time holed up in here as possible, but today, as I close the door behind me, it presents a welcoming refuge.

In here, I’m safe. No one can get to me.

Even so, it’s with a lurch that my gaze falls upon the ominous-looking pile of grant applications still looming large on the edge of my desk. I really can’t put those off any longer. The odd offhand query as to their state of completion began to be flavoured faintly with vexation a couple of weeks ago. Last Wednesday, it morphed into something more closely resembling a demand. I simply can’t admit to Jeremy that they’re still not finished.

And I can’t carry on avoiding him for much longer either, I concede reluctantly. I’m running out of pillars to jump behind and garbled excuses as to why I can’t stop for a discussion. Sooner or later, the game’s going to be up.

It’s simple enough. I’ll just stay in here all morning, finish these forms, and then I’ll have nothing to worry about. He never needs to know that I hadn’t even started them until yesterday.

Technically, Jeremy and I are supposed to share the paperwork, but somehow that never quite seems to happen. He always finds a reason to foist it all off onto me.

I spend a few enjoyable moments imagining what would happen if I pointed that out to him. He’d probably spontaneously combust.

I shake my head, feeling myself deflate. Alas, whilst that would be undoubtedly a spectacle, I don’t think it’s something I want to instigate just now. There’d be a lot of explaining to do.

Not to mention even more paperwork to fill out.

Pulling the stack of papers towards me, I select the uppermost one and stare at it earnestly. And then I carry on staring at it. To my credit, I stare at it for a full three minutes before slamming it back down on the pile with a sigh.

This is so boring. What kind of malevolent entity invented spreadsheets, anyway?

Sometimes, I wonder about the poor people on the other side of the process. Do they find visitor number projections and diagrams on marketing outreach as tedious as I do? Or are they the kind who love nothing better than a good graph and get a thrill at the prospect of five pages of statistics?

The next thing I know, I’m scrolling through Instagram and when I next look up it’s half an hour later.

Oops. That … wasn’t the plan.

I’m aware that I might not be showing myself in the best light here. I feel I ought to interject and point out in my defence that I’m normally excellent at my job.

Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. Pretty good is probably a better description. But, either way, I’m not a slacker. I work hard. I don’t habitually lounge around my office looking at how to do a plum-coloured smoky eye, or watching videos of high-fiving cats.

On the whole, I love what I do. It’s hugely rewarding to walk in here every day and be surrounded by incomparable pieces of art. I know I’m insanely lucky to be able to say that there’s very little about my job which I don’t enjoy.

Paperwork, however, is about the one exception. When I first took this position, I had no idea just how much of it there would be; I was filled with romantic notions about educating people on art history. Of conserving important artefacts. Of promoting culture.

And it’s not that I don’t do all of those things. To an extent. But the sad fact is that by far the biggest preoccupation of a small museum such as this is securing funding. Grant applications are a major part of that; we wouldn’t last a year without them. They’re basically our lifeline.

They are also an assault course of graphs, data, and all the things I most hate in life.

It is soul-destroying. Scratch that, it’s soul-obliterating.

What more do I need to say? I’m just really not a paperwork person. I’m a creative. I do big ideas, not tiny printed figures.

Plus, you know. High-fiving cats. I mean, come on. How can anyone say that’s not important?

Struggling out from behind my desk, I poke my head cautiously round the door, scanning the corridor for signs of life.

All quiet. Excellent. I’m absolutely desperate for a cup of tea. I think this qualifies as a two sugars kind of situation.

I should introduce you to my sugar scale. I developed it whilst at university, and it’s served me well ever since. It goes like this: two sugars for a real emergency, one for mild shock (or particularly malignant period cramps), and none for days when all’s reasonably well and I can’t find any excuse to justify it.

Technically, that should mean that I have no sugar in my tea most of the time. But somehow it doesn’t quite seem to work out like that.

Collecting my cup from the top drawer of my desk where it habitually lives, safe from the clutches of office mug thieves, I slip quietly out. I’m not about to take any chances, although the absurdity of creeping around my own place of work is not lost on me.

I can see the doorway to the cramped staff kitchen area, light gleaming around the edges. I’m only about four paces away when a deep voice rings out behind me, making me stop dead.

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you all morning.”




Chapter 5 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


I whirl on my glitter-covered heel to discover Jeremy standing there, hands on hips. He doesn’t look pleased, I note. But then, he rarely does.

Surreptitiously, I scan the corridor behind him, trying to work out where he emerged from. Not that it matters much now, in any event. He’s here. And glaring at me as though somehow it’s entirely my fault that he hasn’t been able to track me down sooner.

Which it kind of is. I mean, I have spent the morning hiding from him. But he doesn’t know that, does he?

“Are you on your way downstairs?” he asks briskly. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Good. Me too. We can walk together.”

Mutely, I look at the mug in my hand. Blatantly, I wasn’t on my way downstairs. But either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he inclines his head towards the staircase impatiently.

“Come along, then. We haven’t got all day.”

Resigned to my fate, I scuttle after him, amazed to find myself struggling to keep up with his pace. For someone who gives every impression of being about ninety years old, he can certainly move fast when he wants to.

As you might have gathered by now, Jeremy is the head curator of the museum, which, regrettably for us both, means that he’s my immediate boss. We’re not exactly what you’d call compatible; he’s run the place since … Well, since about the dawn of time, as far as I can ascertain. I’ve seen old pictures of him and, believe me, he looks exactly the same. I’m not convinced that he’s ever even been young. I honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised if one day I caught him emerging from the fabric of the building itself.

In any case, temporal being or not, he certainly has his own, very ingrained way of doing things. He worships the status quo, his unerring vision of what a museum of this standing should embody.

I am not a part of that vision. He’s made that quite clear. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t even be here, but apparently the board of trustees decreed that what the museum needed was someone young, fresh and innovative.

All of which, apparently, I am.

Which is … nice, I suppose. I’m not quite sure that I live up to that towering epithet on a daily basis, but still. It’s great that someone has faith in me.

As for Jeremy … Well, what can I say? Jobs in this field are notoriously limited. I’d struggle to get another position this good, even if it does come with certain drawbacks.

Besides, this has never been just a job to me. This place kept me sane when I thought I might drown in grief. The normalcy of it all: the unchanging paintings on the walls, Ruby and Eve’s patter when I came into work each morning, even Jeremy’s pompous lectures … Somehow they made everything seem okay, even though nothing really was. I’ll always be grateful for that.

So, you see, how can I really complain about a few little annoyances here and there? He might not be the easiest of bosses, but I do my best to humour him, even if it’s challenging at times.

And, believe me, it is very challenging at times.

“I’ve been thinking about next summer’s exhibition,” Jeremy says as we power through a room filled with Dutch flower paintings.

I’m aware of a creeping trepidation, mixed with a bubbling sense of excitement. “Yes?” I venture cautiously.

I tell myself that it’s unwise to get my hopes up. After all, we’ve been here before, and it inevitably ends in disappointment. But still, I can’t help it, I’m an eternal optimist. A part of me will always hold out hope that things can turn around at any moment.

Maybe this is it. Maybe, at last, I might get my chance.

Annoyingly, he chooses this moment to fall silent, pausing on the stairs to admire a statue of Venus.

“Your ideas were … interesting,” he says at last, still inspecting the marble figure.

He utters that word like it carries the bubonic plague, and I feel a plummeting swoop of despondency.

He’s still talking, his hands clasped behind his back as though he’s about to give a lecture. To be honest, I’m only half listening by this point. I know how this next part goes; I could pretty much recite it in my sleep.

“But this is a serious institution, Miss Swift. You must understand that by now. We have a standard to uphold. People have expectations of us, scholarly expectations, which we wouldn’t wish to disappoint. To stray too far from our blueprint, to change …” He raises a fluttering hand to his forehead, his signet ring glinting under the overhead lights.

“Woe betide that anything should ever change,” I mutter bitterly. “How would the world cope?”

He scowls. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” I widen my eyes at him innocently.

His lips form into a thin line. “Could only spell disaster,” he finishes. Or, at least, I sincerely hope he’s finished. Once he starts on a soliloquy, nothing can stop him. The whole building could fall down and he’d probably still be pontificating away amongst the rubble, blithely oblivious.

“Quite … of course.” My voice is overly bright, almost brittle. I’m already backing away, looking for an exit. I’m trying really hard to do what I normally do. I’m reminding myself how lucky I am to be here, how grateful I am. How I shouldn’t feel resentful, shouldn’t expect too much. But, for some reason, today it’s just not working. My throat’s beginning to feel tight, burning with repressed emotion. “Very … er … astute reasoning.”

This is what happens. Every time. I should have known better than to try.

“I’m so glad you agree.” He looks insufferably pleased with himself. “I knew that once I’d explained it to you in simple terms, you would come to appreciate the logic of it.” He sighs solemnly, his gaze travelling up towards the glass ceiling above us. “As the great philosopher Aristotle once said …”

Oh, lord. Not Aristotle. I really can’t handle that particular soliloquy right now. I know from experience that it lasts for a good twenty minutes.

“That’s wonderful,” I say with more than a touch of desperation. “If that’s all, then …”

“Just a minute, if you will.” His brows draw downwards, his tone becoming several degrees colder. “That wasn’t all. We haven’t yet discussed those applications.”

I realise with a quiet sense of doom that I’ve flung myself straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. The Aristotle monologue is beginning to look really good right about now.

“Ah, yes,” I manage, stretching out each word very slowly in an attempt to buy my brain some more time. “The applications.”

I leave a knowing sort of pause. Unfortunately, the desired flash of inspiration fails to materialise, and it lengthens awkwardly before trailing off into more of a dead silence.

“Well?” Jeremy demands, irritation lacing his voice. “Have you completed them? Because if we miss that deadline … rest assured, Miss Swift, I won’t hesitate to lay the blame where it’s due.”

I draw backwards, eyes widening in shock. Was that a threat?

Surely he can’t actually be threatening me? I mean, I know he has his faults, but …

I look into his steely grey eyes and my conviction wavers.

“Of course they’re finished,” I hear myself responding coolly.

Brilliant, now I’ve just told a bald-faced lie. Great work, Clara. Very professional.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Jeremy says blandly. “We’ll have a look at them now, then, shall we?”

The true extent of the hole I’ve just dug for myself hits me with a nasty jolt. My heart begins to patter in my chest. I cast a glance at his face, but it isn’t giving anything away. Does he know the truth? Is he just trying to catch me out? Because, if so, I’ve walked right into it.

In a quiet frenzy, I cast around for a suitable excuse for a hasty departure. Through the archway, I have a clear view into the classical antiquities gallery. My mind whirs, turning over possibilities. Perhaps I could pretend that I need to check on something in there? Would he believe that?

“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.




Chapter 6 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)


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.

“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.

Supposedly. And Casper …” Here, I find myself tailing off. What do I say about Casper?

Heather’s busily toasting pine nuts in a frying pan, but she turns to me with an amused look. “Is a grown cat? Supposedly?”

“Has had his fair share of trouble for one week,” I say firmly. “Believe me, he won’t go looking for any more. He was quiet this morning. I think last night shook him a little. He’s realised that he’s not as invincible as he thought he was.” A hopeful thought strikes me. “Perhaps he’ll turn over a new leaf.”

“Hmm …” Heather prods the pine nuts with a wooden spoon, not looking wholly convinced by my logic “… I’ll believe that when I see it.”




Chapter 7 (#ulink_f583099d-e892-502e-b7d3-cd18241d222a)


I wake with a start, jerking into an upright position in bed. Darkness envelops the room, broken only by a pale lilac light creeping beneath the curtains.

Momentarily disorientated, I fumble for the bedside lamp, relieved when its warm glow chases away the shadows, revealing the familiar outline of my bedroom. Everything looks as it should be, at least. Yesterday’s dress thrown over the back of the pink velvet chair, the cream painted wardrobe hulking in the corner, the door slightly ajar as always. I bought it at an antiques centre several years ago, and it’s never closed properly. My dressing table is littered with various paraphernalia: bottles of nail polish, lipsticks, a piece of amethyst given to me by my mother, its faceted crystals gleaming in the lamplight.

I sit there for a moment, the duvet drawn up under my chin for warmth, wondering what might have woken me. Normally I sleep fairly soundly. Unless I’m having a nightmare, and usually, if I’ve had one of those, I know all about it. I wake up cold, shaking, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of my mind like cobwebs.

No, I’m pretty certain that I was sleeping quite peacefully. So what …?

And then I hear it. A deafening, screeching sound fills the air, followed by yowling. It sounds like it hails from the bowels of the earth itself, but I know better than that.

Fully awake now, I throw the covers aside, heart already in my mouth. As I clatter down the stairs, knotting my kimono at my waist, I keep telling myself that I’m overreacting. That of course it’s not Casper. That I’ll open the kitchen door and he’ll be safely there, all curled up in his …

All right, so he’s not in his basket. He’s not on the windowsill either. Or on the chair. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Really, who was I trying to kid? If there’s a fight going on, he’s bound to be involved. I’ve never known him to miss one yet.

The hideous screaming sound has stopped and I waver in the middle of the room, trying to decide what to do next. Then, with a huff of resignation, I pull on my flowery wellington boots, which now live permanently next to the back door. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to take a nightly sojourn into the garden in pursuit of my errant pet. Far from it. But I know I’ll never get back to sleep until I’ve reassured myself that he’s all right.

“Casper?” I call softly, even as I do so wondering why I’m bothering. As if that cacophony hasn’t woken the whole street anyway. He certainly has a way of making me unpopular with the neighbours.

Tentatively, I venture out onto the lawn, my boots sinking into the damp grass. The first light of dawn is bleeding into the sky, washing the garden in an ethereal pink glow. Dewdrops have transformed the lawn into a shimmering carpet and the air is bitingly cold, invigorating in its sharpness. It would be stunningly beautiful, I suppose, if I weren’t too preoccupied with worry to pay it much attention.

I check half-heartedly under a few bushes, already knowing that he won’t be there. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready, and not a moment sooner. I don’t come across his assailant either. Or – and I have to allow for this possibility – his victim. I’m not so blinded by love that I don’t know what he’s like. He’s just as likely to start a fight as he is to get drawn into one.

Giving up the search, I trudge back into the kitchen to find a tousled-looking Freddie standing there, yawning extravagantly.

“What’s going on? I got up for a glass of water and saw that the lights were on downstairs.”

And yet, somehow, the screeching and caterwauling completely passed him by. My brother would make a fascinating case for medical science. His tendency towards complete obliviousness never fails to astonish me. I swear he could sleep through the apocalypse with no trouble at all.

“I can’t find Casper,” I explain, stamping my boots on the mat to knock the excess mud off them. “He’s not in the garden.”

Freddie stares at me like I’m utterly insane. “Clara, he’s a cat. What do you expect? That he’s going to just stay in one place?”

“I know, but …” How can I explain it to him? How can I tell him how much Casper means to me? Of course, to him, it seems ridiculous. Even to my own ears it sounds it.

At that moment the cat flap rattles and Casper slinks into the kitchen, drawing up short to look askance at us both. For a cat, he has a surprisingly expressive face, and I can tell that he’s wondering what the humans are doing up at this hour.

“There you are.” Instinctively, I move towards him, the relief in my voice audible.

Certainly, he’s been in a tussle of sorts; his fur is all standing on end, his eyes bright and feverish. But he looks okay, at least. To be honest, I feel a bit foolish now, having got into such a state about it all.

“See, he’s fine.” Freddie’s already halfway through the doorway, stifling another gargantuan yawn. “Nothing to worry about. Now can we go back to bed?”

“Freddie …” I’ve drawn my hand away from Casper’s side to find it stained red. For a moment, I can only stare at it, frozen.

“What?” He turns, then blanches. “Oh, God. Is that …? What do we do?”

Casper’s leaning into me now, obviously weakening. I shake the fog from my brain, willing myself to stay focused. This is no time to panic.

“Get the cat basket out of the cupboard under the stairs, will you? We’re going to have to make a dash across town.”

***

“What were you even thinking?” I pant as we cross the market square. Rearranging my grip on the basket, which was digging painfully into my fingers, I continue. “Why must you get yourself into every fight going?”

Casper looks up at me balefully from where he’s nestled on his favourite blue blanket. I know he must be feeling bad because Freddie and I managed to get him into the basket with surprisingly little fuss. Usually, the very sight of it is enough to send him into histrionics.

I longingly watch a car trundle past. There’s no point in my owning a car here in Cambridge; in fact, very few people do. Normally, I’m quite content to get around on foot, although this morning that’s not so much the case, what with my rather unwieldy cargo.

I’m beginning to wish I’d just bitten the bullet and called a cab. I’d forgotten how heavy Casper starts to feel by the time you’ve lugged him halfway across town. Failing that, I should have let Freddie bring him.

“Besides, you’re not exactly a spring chicken any more, are you?” I point out, stopping on the corner to catch my breath. “Don’t you think you should be past all of this by now? Isn’t it time to retire to your basket and let the younger toms have it out?”

Actually, that’s probably a bit unfair. The truth is, I have no idea how old Casper is. When I first took him in, the vet estimated him to be somewhere between four and twelve.

Which is … you know, helpful.

In any event, he’s old enough to know better. But perhaps not quite at the pipe and slippers stage just yet.

He obviously feels the same because he glowers at me before turning around in his basket so that he’s facing the other way.

“Fine, be like that,” I mutter. “It was only a suggestion. Ah, here we are.”

Thank God the vet opens early, I think as I wrestle my way, cat basket in arms, through the glass doors. Inside the cool grey interior, all is calm. There are a couple of people already in the waiting room, baskets by their feet. Classical music floats through the air. Behind the curved steel desk, a receptionist taps away efficiently at her keyboard.

“Good morning,” I say, still slightly breathless. “I need to make an emergency appointment.”

She looks up, a pleasant smile on her face. Then her eyes travel down to Casper, filling with dread. “Oh, no,” she says emphatically. “Absolutely not. That cat is banned!”

I’d anticipated that we’d come up against this issue, so I’m already prepared with a response. “Look, I know he hasn’t always been the easiest of patients …”

“Easiest?” Her voice comes out as a strangled shriek. “He’s an absolute nightmare. He can’t possibly come in here.”

Casper, who’s been quietly slouched in the corner of his basket, opens one eye and emits a faint hiss. The receptionist pales, shrinking behind the counter.

“You’re not exactly helping yourself,” I murmur at him out of the corner of my mouth. “Just work with me here, all right?”

He falls silent, which I take as tacit agreement.

I turn back to the receptionist. “If you could just give him one more chance …”

“He’s already had more chances than he deserves,” she retorts. She holds up her hand, beginning to tick off her fingers, and immediately I feel a sense of foreboding.

“There’s no need—” I begin hurriedly, but it’s too late.

“First he broke the brand new scales.”

“That was an accident,” I say defensively. “He didn’t mean to do it.”

She gives me a hard stare. “He kicked them off the bench. There was nothing accidental about it.”

I notice that the other people in the waiting room are pretending very hard not to listen, but with little success. I feel heat rising beneath my skin.

“Then, of course, there was the time he escaped and ran all around the surgery.” She’s warming to her theme now. I could swear she almost seems to be enjoying herself. “We had to have half the staff pulled away from their duties to chase him around. Twenty minutes it took us to catch him, and even then we had to throw a towel over him to do so.”

“He must have panicked. No one likes to see a thermometer heading towards their rear end. Isn’t that right, Casper?” I appeal to him.

He just looks back at me disdainfully. If cats could roll their eyes, I’m certain he’d be doing so right now.

“And then, of course,” the receptionist trills, triumph colouring her voice, “the final straw was when he bit poor Stacey. She was traumatised.”

I wince. That was pretty bad. Who knew a tiny nip from a cat could produce so much blood?

“He sensed that she was nervous, that’s all,” I reply quickly, with a mollifying smile. “Inexperienced. Perhaps he took advantage a little, I’ll admit. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

She looks at me sourly. “It doesn’t.”

I feel my face fall. Wow, she’s a tough nut. I thought it would be easier than this.

“We had to sign her off with stress, you know,” she’s saying now. “It was weeks before she felt up to facing another patient on her own.”

I sense that I’m getting nowhere with this line of attack. She looks completely and utterly unmoved. If anything, she actually looks even stonier than she did when we first came in. So, flinging my pride out of the way, I resort to the only tactic still available to me: shameless pleading.

“Look …” I put Casper down on the floor, where he immediately starts terrorising a Jack Russell sitting under the nearest chair. Placing both hands flat on the counter, I look her straight in the eye. “I understand why you don’t want him in here, I do. But I haven’t had time to find him another vet just yet, and now he’s injured. I don’t know where else to take him. So will you please just see him once more? Then I promise you solemnly that I will take him far away from here, find another surgery, and we will never darken your door again.”

For the briefest of moments she looks on the verge of relenting. Then the Jack Russell whimpers from beneath the seat, cowering away from Casper. She purses her lips, and I know that I’ve lost her.

“I’m sorry, Miss Swift,” she declares, not looking particularly sorry at all. “But it’s just not possible.”

A cold sensation lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as I take in her words. What am I going to do? This was my one and only plan. I look down at Casper. He’s lying on his side, panting heavily. I’m willing myself to calm down, but it’s not working.

Then, from the doorway through to the surgery, an unfamiliar voice speaks. “I’ll take a look at him.”




Chapter 8 (#ulink_b8cfb5f3-1a8e-5a82-aba5-7dd27e57709f)


“Thank you so much for agreeing to see him,” I blurt out for what must be the third time in as many minutes.

I’m kicking myself before the words are even out of my mouth. Way to sound like a complete cretin, Clara.

“You’re most welcome,” he replies, also for what must be the third time in as many minutes. Amazingly, though, there’s no hint of sarcasm or impatience in his tone. Instead, he just smiles at me, before returning his attention to Casper.

The thing is, the new vet is decidedly not what I was expecting. It’s sort of thrown me off balance. For one thing, he’s quite a lot younger than most of the partners here.

He’s quite a lot more attractive too. Just … you know, as an observation.

Not, of course, that I’m in any state to be noticing that sort of thing. After all, my mind is consumed with anxiety over the welfare of my precious cat. I haven’t got the energy left to pay much notice to … I don’t know … say, those warm green eyes or those high, slanting cheekbones or that burnished brown hair falling over his forehead as he leans over Casper …

Who, incidentally, is behaving most … well, most unlike Casper, for want of a better phrase. That’s the biggest shock of all; to be honest, I think I’m still getting my head around it. My cat, sitting quite tamely on the vet’s table. He’s even allowing himself to be touched without the slightest peep of complaint.

It’s like a dream. A very sad, pet owner’s dream, granted, but a dream nonetheless.

“He likes you,” I say faintly, watching in astonishment as this superhuman being of a vet manages to turn Casper over slightly so he can examine his side, and all without losing a finger in the process.

It’s more than a dream. It’s a miracle. It’s like I’ve fallen into a parallel universe and everything is the wrong way around. A place where vets are fantastically good-looking and my cat is a model pet.

“I’d like to think I have a vague rapport with animals,” he says neutrally. “This would be something of a difficult career path if I didn’t, don’t you think?”

For a moment, I think I detect the slightest hint of a smile in his voice. But then he carries on with his inspection without further comment, and I decide that I must have imagined it.

“Yes, but Casper’s a bit … different,” I say cautiously, suddenly aware that I should be careful what I’m saying. The last thing I need is for him to realise that he’s unwittingly taken on the scourge of vets everywhere, the terror of the waiting room. Thank God he’s new and that Casper’s reputation, for once, doesn’t seem to have preceded him. “He’s not usually that keen on vets,” I finish, tactfully. There. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole scale-kicking, blood-drawing truth either.

He’s been waiting patiently whilst I stumbled through that explanation. Now, however, he arches an eyebrow. “I know. I’ve read his file.”

I choke on air. He’s what?

“Or rather, I should say, files,” he amends thoughtfully, as though there’s been no interruption. “There were quite a few, you know. They’ve provided me with an entertaining read on several coffee breaks.”

With an effort, I recover my voice, although it comes out as a discordant croak. “And you still agreed to see him?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughs, and the rich sound ripples right through me. “He’s the most entertaining patient we have. I couldn’t wait to meet him.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I was joking earlier about the parallel universe thing, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Have I fallen and hit my head or something?

“I’m not sure that your receptionist shares that sentiment,” I say slowly. “She didn’t seem all that pleased when you let him in.”

That’s something of an understatement. She looked thoroughly livid. I dread to think what confrontation awaits him in the staff room later.

He raises one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “Susan is rarely pleased about anything. It’s sort of her modus operandi.”

Privately, I wonder if she and Jeremy would get along. Shaking off that thought, I return to the matter at hand. “Nonetheless, I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.”

His lips quirk up at the corners. “Fear not, Miss Swift. It was worth it.”

I blush, inwardly cursing myself as I do so. Just because someone happens to be charming doesn’t mean I have to turn into a simpering idiot. He’s probably equally as engaging with everyone who comes in here, whether they’re a twenty-something blonde or an eighty-something purple rinse.

For all I know, he could be a serial seducer. He probably uses his position to lure in tender-hearted females, worming his way into their affections with his charismatic banter whilst he runs his hands all over their …

I look down at Casper and inwardly recoil. Seriously, Clara, what is wrong with you? Has it really been that long?

Yes, a small voice in my head replies pertly. It really has. No wonder you’re losing the plot.

“Clara, please,” I say quickly, trying to conceal the fact that I feel like I’m about to burst into flames. Oh, God, this is so embarrassing. Thank heavens technology hasn’t yet provided us with the ability to read minds; the day that happens, I’m throwing myself off a bridge. It’s the only option. No one can ever find out what weird stuff goes through my head. “I think you’ve earned that right, after what you’ve done for Casper.”

“I haven’t done it yet.” He strips off his surgical gloves and leans against the side of the table, folding his arms. I’m momentarily distracted by the favourable effect it has on his biceps, and almost miss the next part completely. “This is what needs to happen next. The wound’s quite deep; it’s going to need stitches. I’ll have to keep him in.”

“Wait …” I surface from the mental fog. “Do you mean …?”

“It’ll be a small procedure, yes. He’ll have to go under general anaesthetic.”

I feel a swoop of dismay, and something else. Something cold. Fear.

I look at Casper, who’s perched on the table, watching us both. I could almost swear that he’s following the conversation.

“Isn’t there another way you can do it?” I ask desperately.

“Afraid not.” The vet’s busy disposing of his gloves in the bin, but as soon as he takes a look at my face his expression softens. “Look, he’ll be fine. He’s a strong, healthy cat, in his prime.”

Casper raises his head with a look of approval.

“Stop buttering him up,” I scold, dismayed to find that my voice is wobbling a bit. “He’s already got enough of an ego as it is.”

“I can tell,” he says gently. He goes to pick Casper up, then pauses, motioning for me to go ahead. Gratefully, I gather Casper into my arms, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head before popping him into his basket. He gazes up at me, and for the first time I see a flicker of trepidation in his bright green eyes. In that instant, I know that he’s well aware of what’s about to happen.

“You’ll be fine,” I say aloud, and I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to reassure most.

Nonetheless, as I snap the clasp on the basket closed, I feel my anxiety get the better of me.

“You will look after him, won’t you, Dr …” I trail off as it occurs to me that I don’t even know his name.

“Granger, but I prefer Josh. I don’t hold much with formality.” He picks up the cat basket and carefully sets it on the table. “And yes, I will. I promise. I’ll tell you what, I’ll try and get to him this morning. With any luck, you should be able to take him home tonight.”

Something about his quietly confident manner reassures me, and I feel the tight ball in my solar plexus unknot slightly.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” I hesitate for a moment, knowing that I should just go, but my feet won’t move. With a sinking sensation, I realise that I’m about to do something stupid. I’m used to the signs by now, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference. I’m powerless to stop it.

“Look, I know you probably think I’m a bit mad, but … no, don’t interrupt,” I command as he opens his mouth. Here we go; now I’ve started. I don’t know why I feel like I need to tell him this, but something in me wants to make him understand. Something about him makes me think that he might understand, if only I can explain it. “He’s very precious to me. He turned up in my life when I needed him most, and …”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” he says simply.

“He’s not just a pet, you see, and …” I draw up short. “What did you just say?”

Humour flashes in his eyes. “I said, I don’t think you’re mad. Or at least I didn’t, until you forbade me from speaking in my own consulting room. Then, I’ll admit, I started to have a few creeping misgivings.”

“Oh.” I’m stunned into momentary silence. Then the implications of what he’s said hit me, and I feel hot with embarrassment. Oh, God, he’s right. I did do that, didn’t I? “Sorry about that. I got a bit … carried away.”

Casper buries his head under his blanket, as though he can’t bear to watch. I kind of wish I could join him.

“I’m quite sane, I assure you,” I joke weakly. “What can I do to prove it to you?”

A snuffling sound comes from beneath the blanket, which I studiously ignore.

“I’d like to get the chance to find out for myself,” he says lightly.

We look at each other for what seems like a very long moment, and then, out of nowhere, something amazing happens. Something which I haven’t felt for the longest time: a fizzing feeling, sparkling through my entire body like champagne. It takes me by surprise, makes me suck in a breath.

Unfortunately, it seems he isn’t similarly afflicted because he’s already looked away, occupied in the task of attaching a label to Casper’s basket.

“Out of my surgery with you, Miss Swift, before people start to talk. I’ll call you later with an update.”

***

“You’re late, my dear,” Eve states in her sing-song voice as I clatter into the foyer in a whirl of frenetic activity.

“I know, I know.” I’m in the process of attempting to unbutton my coat, unwrap my scarf and smooth down my hair all at the same time. It’s not working. Instead, all I’m succeeding in is getting hopelessly tangled up. “The time has not evaded my notice.”

Eve watches me fighting with my own clothing, her perfectly made-up face as benignly impassive as ever. “Is everything all right?” she enquires mildly.

“I had to run Casper to the vet …” I gasp as my scarf makes a bid to garrotte me. I tug it away from my throat. “Got held up.”

Very pleasurably held up, I add silently. Although, of course, my thoughts are still with Casper, I do find them occasionally drifting back to that moment in the consulting room. Just occasionally. Not … you know, once every two minutes. That would be absurd. Except …

I’d like to get the chance to find out for myself. What did that mean? Frankly, it could have meant anything from I’d like to get the chance to talk to you again all the way to I’d like to ask you out, and everything in between. The fizzing sensation returns as I consider that second possibility, and I bite my lip. Damn it, why do men have to be so obscure, anyway? Why can’t they just say what they mean in the first place and have done with it? Then women wouldn’t have to waste so much of their time and energy dissecting everything, trying to work out what’s going on in their minds when we could be doing other more useful things, like running the world.

Of course, I also have to accept that the alternative to all of this is that it meant nothing at all, save that I’m a hopeless fantasist who’s reading far too much into a simple sentence.

That’s a deflating thought.

“Jeremy’s already been by,” Ruby pipes up from where she’s rearranging leaflets on the front desk. “We covered for you, obviously.”

“And I knew you would.” At last I’ve succeeded in divesting myself of all malevolent accessories and I reach down to pick up the takeaway coffee cups I left on the marble surround. “Hence why I brought these.”





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