Ten Things My Cat Hates About You. Lottie Lucas

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