Ten Things My Cat Hates About You

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Lottie Lucas 2019

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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.

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Source ISBN: 9780008353636

Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008353629

Version: 2019-08-16

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

“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

“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 …