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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.
