Ten Things My Cat Hates About You. Lottie Lucas

effect it has on his biceps, and almost miss the next part completely. “This is what needs to happen next. The wound’s quite deep; it’s going to need stitches. I’ll have to keep him in.”

      “Wait …” I surface from the mental fog. “Do you mean …?”

      “It’ll be a small procedure, yes. He’ll have to go under general anaesthetic.”

      I feel a swoop of dismay, and something else. Something cold. Fear.

      I look at Casper, who’s perched on the table, watching us both. I could almost swear that he’s following the conversation.

      “Isn’t there another way you can do it?” I ask desperately.

      “Afraid not.” The vet’s busy disposing of his gloves in the bin, but as soon as he takes a look at my face his expression softens. “Look, he’ll be fine. He’s a strong, healthy cat, in his prime.”

      Casper raises his head with a look of approval.

      “Stop buttering him up,” I scold, dismayed to find that my voice is wobbling a bit. “He’s already got enough of an ego as it is.”

      “I can tell,” he says gently. He goes to pick Casper up, then pauses, motioning for me to go ahead. Gratefully, I gather Casper into my arms, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head before popping him into his basket. He gazes up at me, and for the first time I see a flicker of trepidation in his bright green eyes. In that instant, I know that he’s well aware of what’s about to happen.

      “You’ll be fine,” I say aloud, and I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to reassure most.

      Nonetheless, as I snap the clasp on the basket closed, I feel my anxiety get the better of me.

      “You will look after him, won’t you, Dr …” I trail off as it occurs to me that I don’t even know his name.

      “Granger, but I prefer Josh. I don’t hold much with formality.” He picks up the cat basket and carefully sets it on the table. “And yes, I will. I promise. I’ll tell you what, I’ll try and get to him this morning. With any luck, you should be able to take him home tonight.”

      Something about his quietly confident manner reassures me, and I feel the tight ball in my solar plexus unknot slightly.

      “Thank you. That means a lot.” I hesitate for a moment, knowing that I should just go, but my feet won’t move. With a sinking sensation, I realise that I’m about to do something stupid. I’m used to the signs by now, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference. I’m powerless to stop it.

      “Look, I know you probably think I’m a bit mad, but … no, don’t interrupt,” I command as he opens his mouth. Here we go; now I’ve started. I don’t know why I feel like I need to tell him this, but something in me wants to make him understand. Something about him makes me think that he might understand, if only I can explain it. “He’s very precious to me. He turned up in my life when I needed him most, and …”

      “I don’t think you’re mad,” he says simply.

      “He’s not just a pet, you see, and …” I draw up short. “What did you just say?”

      Humour flashes in his eyes. “I said, I don’t think you’re mad. Or at least I didn’t, until you forbade me from speaking in my own consulting room. Then, I’ll admit, I started to have a few creeping misgivings.”

      “Oh.” I’m stunned into momentary silence. Then the implications of what he’s said hit me, and I feel hot with embarrassment. Oh, God, he’s right. I did do that, didn’t I? “Sorry about that. I got a bit … carried away.”

      Casper buries his head under his blanket, as though he can’t bear to watch. I kind of wish I could join him.

      “I’m quite sane, I assure you,” I joke weakly. “What can I do to prove it to you?”

      A snuffling sound comes from beneath the blanket, which I studiously ignore.

      “I’d like to get the chance to find out for myself,” he says lightly.

      We look at each other for what seems like a very long moment, and then, out of nowhere, something amazing happens. Something which I haven’t felt for the longest time: a fizzing feeling, sparkling through my entire body like champagne. It takes me by surprise, makes me suck in a breath.

      Unfortunately, it seems he isn’t similarly afflicted because he’s already looked away, occupied in the task of attaching a label to Casper’s basket.

      “Out of my surgery with you, Miss Swift, before people start to talk. I’ll call you later with an update.”

      ***

      “You’re late, my dear,” Eve states in her sing-song voice as I clatter into the foyer in a whirl of frenetic activity.

      “I know, I know.” I’m in the process of attempting to unbutton my coat, unwrap my scarf and smooth down my hair all at the same time. It’s not working. Instead, all I’m succeeding in is getting hopelessly tangled up. “The time has not evaded my notice.”

      Eve watches me fighting with my own clothing, her perfectly made-up face as benignly impassive as ever. “Is everything all right?” she enquires mildly.

      “I had to run Casper to the vet …” I gasp as my scarf makes a bid to garrotte me. I tug it away from my throat. “Got held up.”

      Very pleasurably held up, I add silently. Although, of course, my thoughts are still with Casper, I do find them occasionally drifting back to that moment in the consulting room. Just occasionally. Not … you know, once every two minutes. That would be absurd. Except …

      I’d like to get the chance to find out for myself. What did that mean? Frankly, it could have meant anything from I’d like to get the chance to talk to you again all the way to I’d like to ask you out, and everything in between. The fizzing sensation returns as I consider that second possibility, and I bite my lip. Damn it, why do men have to be so obscure, anyway? Why can’t they just say what they mean in the first place and have done with it? Then women wouldn’t have to waste so much of their time and energy dissecting everything, trying to work out what’s going on in their minds when we could be doing other more useful things, like running the world.

      Of course, I also have to accept that the alternative to all of this is that it meant nothing at all, save that I’m a hopeless fantasist who’s reading far too much into a simple sentence.

      That’s a deflating thought.

      “Jeremy’s already been by,” Ruby pipes up from where she’s rearranging leaflets on the front desk. “We covered for you, obviously.”

      “And I knew you would.” At last I’ve succeeded in divesting myself of all malevolent accessories and I reach down to pick up the takeaway coffee cups I left on the marble surround. “Hence why I brought these.”