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“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 swear that his overnight bag has exploded. There’s stuff everywhere, and he’s only been here a few days.
I’m just pondering over how, exactly, a sock has ended up on the window ledge, when something outside makes my breath stop.
There, under the glow of a streetlamp, is Casper. And he’s slinking across the road.
Damn that cat. No wonder he’s looking furtive. He knows I don’t like him going out there. Granted, I live on a quiet residential street, far too hemmed in by cars parked on either side for anyone to drive too fast down, but still. That’s not the point. I fling open the window.
“Casper!”
At the sound of his name he stops, turning his head to look up. Just as a cyclist suddenly appears from behind the cars, whizzing towards him.
“Stop!” I yell, but it’s already too late. The cyclist swerves violently, tyres screeching against the tarmac. I can only look on in horror as they overbalance, finishing upside down in a nearby bush, the wheels of the bike spinning uselessly.
For a split second I’m stunned into immobility. Then I’m running, bursting down the stairs and out into the street.
“Are you all right?” I gasp, snatching Casper into my arms. Mercifully, he seems more put out than anything, glaring at the bicycle as though it did him a personal injury. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a flash of white tail disappearing into the bushes and immediately the object of his evening wanderings becomes clear. I should have known there’d be a lady involved. There’s not a lot else which he would prioritise over dinner.
It’s a sad fact when your cat has a better love life than you do, I think glumly. Maybe Heather was right, after all. Maybe I really do need to take some time to just be by myself for a bit. Stop chasing rainbows which don’t exist. After all, it’s not as if suitable men just pop up out of …
I look at the bike, skewered into the bush, and out of nowhere something begins to fizz beneath my skin, a prickle of excitement.
Surely not … I mean, it can’t be. That would just be crazy.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” a voice supplies from the depths of the foliage. “It’s the cat we should be concerned about.”
Despite its somewhat muffled tone, the sarcasm is unmistakable and I feel myself flushing, startled out of my reverie.
“Of course, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
The cyclist struggles out of the bush, helmet askew across his face, and, despite myself, my breath catches in anticipation. Now he’s standing upright, I see that he’s tall, towering over me by almost half a foot. I’ve always liked tall men.
I’m doing exactly what I promised I wouldn’t; I’m getting carried away again. I know it. But that doesn’t mean that I can help it. I mean, come on. I’m only human. And it doesn’t get much more romantic than this, does it? It’s like a meet cute in a movie. Any moment now, he’ll push up his helmet and our eyes will meet. Electricity will spark between us. And he’ll say something like … Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like …
“Just about, no thanks to that bloody animal. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road, anyway?”
I jolt backwards as though I’ve been slapped, his acerbic tone acting like a sledgehammer on the lovely rose-tinted vision I’d created.
Okay, definitely not something like that.
“It was my fault,” I say quickly as Casper bristles in my arms with a growl, obviously aware of the slight. “I called him and he turned to look. It was perfectly natural behaviour on his part.”
“Yes, well …” He straightens his helmet and I can see the outline of his face in the slanting light from the streetlamp. I can make out a strong aquiline nose, a sculpted jaw and a pair of dark eyes. Despite myself, I find myself wondering what colour they are and I mentally slap myself down. Stop it, Clara. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. Just thank every higher entity that he can’t read your thoughts.
I’m cringing inside just thinking about it.
Mercifully, he doesn’t seem to notice me staring. In fact, he’s not looking at me at all. So much for my fantasy that our eyes would lock; he hasn’t even so much as glanced at me once throughout our whole exchange. Instead, his attention is fixed upon the ground around our feet. “That’s all very well for you to say. But just look at what you’ve done!”
I follow his gaze, and for the first time I notice that there are papers scattered all over the road. A battered folder lies in the midst of it all, its mouth gaping open, more papers spilling out from within. They’re looking decidedly worse for wear, having landed on the rain-dampened tarmac. Most of them are splattered with mud, and one or two even have bicycle tracks across them.
I know I should be feeling guilty about that. But something about his abrasiveness sets my teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the dull sense of disappointment I still feel which makes my own response somewhat sharper than I’d intended. This man is definitely no romantic hero.
“What I’ve done? Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But this was clearly an accident.”
I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me. He’s scrabbling around after the papers, gathering them into a haphazard pile.
“This is priceless research!” he snaps, although I half wonder if it might be directed more at himself than me. “Utterly irreplaceable.”
Casper obviously takes exception to it anyway, because he lurches forward with a protracted hiss, compelling me to tighten my grip on him.
The man half glances upwards and, although I can’t see his face in the dark, incredulity colours his voice. “Did he really just hiss at me?”
I jut out my chin defensively. “You did almost run him over.”
“He got in my way, I think you’ll find. He’s bloody lucky I managed to swerve in time.”
“Clara?” Freddie’s standing in the open doorway, his arms folded across his body against the cold. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Always the last one to the party, my brother. I almost want to laugh. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well with the indignant man in front of me.
“It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute,” I call softly, relieved when Freddie disappears back inside the house. The last thing we need is to attract even more attention. I can practically feel the curtains twitching as it is. I turn back around, determined to do the decent thing. After all, despite what I said, I am indebted to this ill-mannered cyclist. I dread to think what would have happened if he hadn’t flung himself to the side of the road. And that bush looked pretty spiky. I’m sure we’ve got a first aid box inside somewhere. Or some plasters, at the very least. I can offer to …
My thoughts trail off as I observe that my charge is already pulling his bike out of the bush and climbing on. One of the wheels is bent out of shape, the spokes twisted at an unnatural angle.
“You’re not going to try and ride that home, are you?” I exclaim. “Let me call you a taxi. It’s the least I can do.”
“No, I’m fine,” he says tersely. Then, “Thank you,” he adds in a voice which, if not exactly gracious, is noticeably gentler. He gives an awkward cough. “That’s very kind. But there’s no need.” He tries to push off. The bike wobbles precariously, almost ending up in the bush all over again. Instinctively, I rush forward, although what I’m hoping to do with Casper still in my arms is questionable.
“Really, if you’ll just let me …” He holds up a hand, his eyes closing briefly as though in pain. Then he tries again, and this time it works. After a fashion. I watch as he cycles away from me, the bike lurching alarmingly to one side and then the other, muttering darkly to himself in a language which, for a few seconds, I can’t understand. Then, out of the deep recesses of my brain, something begins to stir.
“Is that …” Freddie has appeared at my shoulder, his voice dripping with incredulity “… Latin?”
“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think it is.”
I don’t even think I’ve heard anyone speak it out loud since school. That’s kind of the point of Latin these days. It’s a dead language. You use it for scholarly research, and the odd plant name or family motto, but that’s about it. No one actually speaks it.
For a few moments we simply stand, staring after the bike as it makes its drunken way over the brow of the hill.
“You know, sis, I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably have cause to say it again,” Freddie says at last, with a shake of his head. “But you really do get some strange people in Cambridge.”
Chapter 4 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)
I wind my scarf loosely around my neck as I step out onto the bright, sunlit street. It’s one of those utterly perfect October mornings, all crisp blue skies and leaves swirling through the air in shades of amber, honey and gold. It’s the kind of day which can’t fail to put me in a good mood. Even the residual sense of embarrassment hanging over from last night seems to fizzle into nothing in the dazzling light of a new day. Better still, I’m actually running on time for work for once. Perhaps the gods really are smiling down on me after all.
The streets begin to narrow the closer I get to the centre of town, becoming labyrinthine passageways barely large enough for a single car to squeeze through. I stop briefly to allow a cyclist to pass and he holds up a hand in thanks, his coat billowing out behind him.
Cambridge looks more romantic than ever on a day like this, the sun warming the stone to its richest hue, gleaming like molten bronze in the narrow mullioned windows. Somewhere, amongst the cluster of turrets and spires, bells are ringing, a melodic, undulating rhythm which is as familiar to me now as breathing. Bells are always ringing somewhere in Cambridge; most of the time, I hardly even notice them any more. But today their sound seems to be everywhere, filling the air around me in cascading layers.
Sidling around a cluster of tourists peering at the grasshopper clock, I check the time on my phone, automatically beginning to pick up the pace. It’s easy to dawdle in a city like this, to wander around dreamily at half speed without even realising you’re doing it. Familiarity never seems to dull its beauty, its ancient magic. If I had to pin it down, I’d say that’s ultimately what made me choose to stay here, rather than letting myself be drawn away to the bright lights of London, as so many of my classmates were.
I’d like to think that it was a wise choice, to an extent. My life might not exactly be flawless but, as I look around me now, I know without a doubt that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And, at the end of the day, how many people can honestly say that?
My thoughts are interrupted as the imposing facade of the Montague Museum comes into view. My glittery lilac ankle boots make a hollow tapping sound on the smooth stone steps as I ascend between the soaring Corinthian columns. One of a row of stately Georgian townhouses, it’s quite an impressive-looking place of work; I still get a thrill of anticipation every time I walk up to it.
Even so, it’s the inside where it really takes your breath away.
The cold air is still tingling on my cheeks as I push through the revolving door into the opulent marble foyer.
Just bear in mind, if you will, that when I say marble, I don’t just mean a few niches or a bit of panelling here and there. Oh, no. That, someone clearly decided, would be far too pedestrian.
Instead, the entire space, from floor to ceiling, is lined in the purest white marble. It’s quite dazzling to the eye if you’re unused to it. Ancient Greek statues flank the sweeping staircase and priceless Chinese porcelain is scattered across every available surface.
In short, it’s a health and safety nightmare. Not to mention a conservationist’s one. But that’s how Lord Montague, the slightly mad Victorian collector who bequeathed the house, wanted it. He actually stipulated the fact when he left the place in trust to be run as a private museum. What began as a cabinet of curiosities soon overtook his entire home, and he was adamant that it should remain that way.
It isn’t a big museum, not at all, but it holds some breathtaking pieces of art. I haven’t even begun to talk about the paintings – that’s really my area of expertise although, in a little place like this, the role of assistant curator covers all departments, as well as some other jobs which a curator would never dream of undertaking in a larger establishment. I help out with everything: hanging pictures, showing visitors around, doing further research into some of the pieces … Just last year, we discovered that one of the more nondescript sketches which had hung in the corridor by the ladies’ toilets was in fact a previously unknown Renoir.
That’s what this job’s like – from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve discovered it’s best not to dwell upon the sheer responsibility of it all. It only induces mild panic. Which, in turn, can only be alleviated by several biscuits and a mocha made in the largest mug in the staffroom cupboard.
That’s chocolate biscuits, obviously. I mean, what else?
“You’re here!” Ruby bears down upon me in a kaleidoscope of colour. “Thank God, we’ve been absolutely desperate to talk to you.”
Immediately, I feel a shiver of alarm and my hands stop halfway down the velvet-covered buttons of my coat.
“What’s the matter? It’s not one of the paintings, is it?”
I have this recurring nightmare that I’m standing in the main picture gallery, and someone’s drawn all over one of the Gainsboroughs with permanent marker. I’m trying desperately to rub it off, but the paint itself begins to dissolve, running down the wall in rivulets. Then, if I don’t wake up at that point, it only gets worse, because someone else trips over Casper, who’s mysteriously appeared, and I can only watch in mounting horror as they pitch head first into a William Etty, before …
