Ten Things My Cat Hates About You. Lottie Lucas
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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.
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,