Ten Things My Cat Hates About You. Lottie Lucas

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СКАЧАТЬ 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

      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.

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