Читать книгу: «Ten Things My Cat Hates About You», страница 3

It is soul-destroying. Scratch that, it’s soul-obliterating.

What more do I need to say? I’m just really not a paperwork person. I’m a creative. I do big ideas, not tiny printed figures.

Plus, you know. High-fiving cats. I mean, come on. How can anyone say that’s not important?

Struggling out from behind my desk, I poke my head cautiously round the door, scanning the corridor for signs of life.

All quiet. Excellent. I’m absolutely desperate for a cup of tea. I think this qualifies as a two sugars kind of situation.

I should introduce you to my sugar scale. I developed it whilst at university, and it’s served me well ever since. It goes like this: two sugars for a real emergency, one for mild shock (or particularly malignant period cramps), and none for days when all’s reasonably well and I can’t find any excuse to justify it.

Technically, that should mean that I have no sugar in my tea most of the time. But somehow it doesn’t quite seem to work out like that.

Collecting my cup from the top drawer of my desk where it habitually lives, safe from the clutches of office mug thieves, I slip quietly out. I’m not about to take any chances, although the absurdity of creeping around my own place of work is not lost on me.

I can see the doorway to the cramped staff kitchen area, light gleaming around the edges. I’m only about four paces away when a deep voice rings out behind me, making me stop dead.

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Chapter 5

I whirl on my glitter-covered heel to discover Jeremy standing there, hands on hips. He doesn’t look pleased, I note. But then, he rarely does.

Surreptitiously, I scan the corridor behind him, trying to work out where he emerged from. Not that it matters much now, in any event. He’s here. And glaring at me as though somehow it’s entirely my fault that he hasn’t been able to track me down sooner.

Which it kind of is. I mean, I have spent the morning hiding from him. But he doesn’t know that, does he?

“Are you on your way downstairs?” he asks briskly. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Good. Me too. We can walk together.”

Mutely, I look at the mug in my hand. Blatantly, I wasn’t on my way downstairs. But either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he inclines his head towards the staircase impatiently.

“Come along, then. We haven’t got all day.”

Resigned to my fate, I scuttle after him, amazed to find myself struggling to keep up with his pace. For someone who gives every impression of being about ninety years old, he can certainly move fast when he wants to.

As you might have gathered by now, Jeremy is the head curator of the museum, which, regrettably for us both, means that he’s my immediate boss. We’re not exactly what you’d call compatible; he’s run the place since … Well, since about the dawn of time, as far as I can ascertain. I’ve seen old pictures of him and, believe me, he looks exactly the same. I’m not convinced that he’s ever even been young. I honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised if one day I caught him emerging from the fabric of the building itself.

In any case, temporal being or not, he certainly has his own, very ingrained way of doing things. He worships the status quo, his unerring vision of what a museum of this standing should embody.

I am not a part of that vision. He’s made that quite clear. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t even be here, but apparently the board of trustees decreed that what the museum needed was someone young, fresh and innovative.

All of which, apparently, I am.

Which is … nice, I suppose. I’m not quite sure that I live up to that towering epithet on a daily basis, but still. It’s great that someone has faith in me.

As for Jeremy … Well, what can I say? Jobs in this field are notoriously limited. I’d struggle to get another position this good, even if it does come with certain drawbacks.

Besides, this has never been just a job to me. This place kept me sane when I thought I might drown in grief. The normalcy of it all: the unchanging paintings on the walls, Ruby and Eve’s patter when I came into work each morning, even Jeremy’s pompous lectures … Somehow they made everything seem okay, even though nothing really was. I’ll always be grateful for that.

So, you see, how can I really complain about a few little annoyances here and there? He might not be the easiest of bosses, but I do my best to humour him, even if it’s challenging at times.

And, believe me, it is very challenging at times.

“I’ve been thinking about next summer’s exhibition,” Jeremy says as we power through a room filled with Dutch flower paintings.

I’m aware of a creeping trepidation, mixed with a bubbling sense of excitement. “Yes?” I venture cautiously.

I tell myself that it’s unwise to get my hopes up. After all, we’ve been here before, and it inevitably ends in disappointment. But still, I can’t help it, I’m an eternal optimist. A part of me will always hold out hope that things can turn around at any moment.

Maybe this is it. Maybe, at last, I might get my chance.

Annoyingly, he chooses this moment to fall silent, pausing on the stairs to admire a statue of Venus.

“Your ideas were … interesting,” he says at last, still inspecting the marble figure.

He utters that word like it carries the bubonic plague, and I feel a plummeting swoop of despondency.

He’s still talking, his hands clasped behind his back as though he’s about to give a lecture. To be honest, I’m only half listening by this point. I know how this next part goes; I could pretty much recite it in my sleep.

“But this is a serious institution, Miss Swift. You must understand that by now. We have a standard to uphold. People have expectations of us, scholarly expectations, which we wouldn’t wish to disappoint. To stray too far from our blueprint, to change …” He raises a fluttering hand to his forehead, his signet ring glinting under the overhead lights.

“Woe betide that anything should ever change,” I mutter bitterly. “How would the world cope?”

He scowls. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” I widen my eyes at him innocently.

His lips form into a thin line. “Could only spell disaster,” he finishes. Or, at least, I sincerely hope he’s finished. Once he starts on a soliloquy, nothing can stop him. The whole building could fall down and he’d probably still be pontificating away amongst the rubble, blithely oblivious.

“Quite … of course.” My voice is overly bright, almost brittle. I’m already backing away, looking for an exit. I’m trying really hard to do what I normally do. I’m reminding myself how lucky I am to be here, how grateful I am. How I shouldn’t feel resentful, shouldn’t expect too much. But, for some reason, today it’s just not working. My throat’s beginning to feel tight, burning with repressed emotion. “Very … er … astute reasoning.”

This is what happens. Every time. I should have known better than to try.

“I’m so glad you agree.” He looks insufferably pleased with himself. “I knew that once I’d explained it to you in simple terms, you would come to appreciate the logic of it.” He sighs solemnly, his gaze travelling up towards the glass ceiling above us. “As the great philosopher Aristotle once said …”

Oh, lord. Not Aristotle. I really can’t handle that particular soliloquy right now. I know from experience that it lasts for a good twenty minutes.

“That’s wonderful,” I say with more than a touch of desperation. “If that’s all, then …”

“Just a minute, if you will.” His brows draw downwards, his tone becoming several degrees colder. “That wasn’t all. We haven’t yet discussed those applications.”

I realise with a quiet sense of doom that I’ve flung myself straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. The Aristotle monologue is beginning to look really good right about now.

“Ah, yes,” I manage, stretching out each word very slowly in an attempt to buy my brain some more time. “The applications.”

I leave a knowing sort of pause. Unfortunately, the desired flash of inspiration fails to materialise, and it lengthens awkwardly before trailing off into more of a dead silence.

“Well?” Jeremy demands, irritation lacing his voice. “Have you completed them? Because if we miss that deadline … rest assured, Miss Swift, I won’t hesitate to lay the blame where it’s due.”

I draw backwards, eyes widening in shock. Was that a threat?

Surely he can’t actually be threatening me? I mean, I know he has his faults, but …

I look into his steely grey eyes and my conviction wavers.

“Of course they’re finished,” I hear myself responding coolly.

Brilliant, now I’ve just told a bald-faced lie. Great work, Clara. Very professional.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Jeremy says blandly. “We’ll have a look at them now, then, shall we?”

The true extent of the hole I’ve just dug for myself hits me with a nasty jolt. My heart begins to patter in my chest. I cast a glance at his face, but it isn’t giving anything away. Does he know the truth? Is he just trying to catch me out? Because, if so, I’ve walked right into it.

In a quiet frenzy, I cast around for a suitable excuse for a hasty departure. Through the archway, I have a clear view into the classical antiquities gallery. My mind whirs, turning over possibilities. Perhaps I could pretend that I need to check on something in there? Would he believe that?

“Absolutely,” I blurt out. “I’d be glad to. It’s just that …”

He’s looking at me expectantly, one bushy eyebrow raised, and to my dismay, I realise that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this.

“I’ve just spotted someone I urgently need to speak with,” I say, wondering what on earth I’m saying. “I’ve been trying to catch him for ages. In fact, it’s really quite urgent. I’ll just go and …”

“And who, exactly, would this be?”

I blink at the abrupt question. I didn’t expect him to ask that.

“Er … him.” I point randomly to a man standing over by a stone sarcophagus, his head bent over a book.

Jeremy arches an eyebrow. “Really? You know him, do you?”

Heat begins to prickle across the back of my neck. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Why can’t he just accept my lie and leave it at that? It’s what anyone else would do.

“Yes, I do,” I say staunchly. “Very well, in fact. We’re … er … old acquaintances.”

Just in case I thought this couldn’t get any worse. Now I’m embellishing the lie. Am I crazy? Next I’ll be inventing an entire 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.

Chapter 6

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, what I intended to say somehow isn’t there. It’s like someone’s mixed up the words, and instead I can only listen on in horror as what I actually say is …

“What? No! Definitely not. I mean …” I rummage in the pocket of my cardigan, brandishing my lanyard. Really, I’m supposed to be wearing it, but it’s such an outfit killer I can’t bring myself to. I didn’t spend twenty minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe this morning trying to select a cute ensemble only to loop an unflattering black cord around my neck. “Probably around the museum. I work here, you see.”

Well, that’s that then. I’ve officially lied right to his face. That’s … that’s just fantastic. My second monstrous fabrication of the day, and it’s not even ten-thirty yet. As if it weren’t enough to dig myself one grave in the course of a morning, I have to go and excavate myself a second.

Perhaps this is what Heather means when she says I’m my own worst enemy.

His cobalt blue eyes scan the card for several seconds, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. At last, though, he shrugs.

“That must be it, then. So tell me,” he begins casually, crossing one leg over the other, “is it museum policy to kiss unsuspecting members of the public?”

My head snaps up. Did he really just say that?

“I did not kiss you,” I say haughtily. “It was an accident. One of those kids pushed me!”

He nods knowingly. “All right, well, we’ll have to take your word for that, I suppose, considering the lack of any firm evidence.”

“It’s true,” I say hotly.

“So you say.”

I look into his dark eyes, trying to work out if he’s playing with me or not. But there’s nothing there to give him away. His expression is totally inscrutable. We could just as easily be discussing the weather.

Annoyed at my own confusion, I turn away, craning my neck to squint around the window casement, which screens us from both sides. To my intense aggravation, Jeremy’s still there, lurking behind a stone pillar in what he clearly imagines to be an unobtrusive manner. Honestly, does he not have something else he could be doing? Since when did spying on me become a legitimate part of his job description? The only small bright spot in the whole thing is the expression on his face. It’s priceless. If everything else weren’t so awful right at this moment, I’d probably be enjoying myself immensely.

“And who, exactly, are we hiding from?” murmurs my new companion.

“No one.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? No one? You’re habitually this furtive, then?”

“No, I …” I flush guiltily. “Look, you don’t understand …”

I see him sidle a dubious glance at the mug still in my hand. It has a picture of Casper on it, surrounded by clouds and rainbows. Hastily, I move my hand so it’s covering the image. The last thing I need is for him to recognise the cat which dented his bike and ruined his precious research papers. That’s a can of worms I really can’t face opening just now.

In fact, I can’t do any of this. I can’t sit here, making pleasant conversation with this man. Well, semi-pleasant, at least. I stand, not caring if Jeremy’s still there. “I’d better go.”

He looks faintly disappointed. “So soon? Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me once more before you do?”

He is laughing at me. I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Who’d have thought he had a sense of humour? Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to share it right now.

“No, thank you,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. “I don’t think you enjoyed it all that much the first time. I wouldn’t wish to put you through it again.”

For a moment, he looks as though he might be about to say something else, but then he simply inclines his head. It’s an old-fashioned gesture, oddly formal, but it seems to suit him, somehow.

“Well, then, until next time, Miss Swift.”

Good God, I think, as I scuttle away as fast as my pride and poise will allow, I hope not. If the insufferable Professor Warwick never crossed my path again, it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.

***

“I’m going to hell,” I moan, flinging myself across the sofa. “It’s official. My fate is sealed.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” Heather tuts, although I notice that she puts down the kettle and reaches into the wine rack instead. “It can’t be that bad. Although why you didn’t just tell the truth, I don’t know.”

“Because that would have been sensible. That’s the sort of thing you would have done. I’m not like you. I panicked.”

“And made an idiot of yourself, as usual,” Heather remarks calmly.

I sit bolt upright. “That’s not very supportive!”

She shrugs, pouring pale pink wine into two expensive-looking glasses. “Sometimes I’m here to be supportive, sometimes just to tell you the truth. And the truth is, you’re an idiot. In this case, at least.”

“You’re right,” I admit mournfully as she settles onto the sofa next to me. I hug my knees to my chest and take a fortifying sip of my wine. Almost immediately, its warming effect helps me to relax, and I sink back into the cushions. Heather has lots of cushions. And they’re always perfectly plumped too. I don’t know how she keeps it up, not with a rambunctious three-year-old charging around the house all day.

“Better?” she asks with a knowing look.

“Yes,” I say in a small voice.

It’s always nice coming to Heather’s. Like visiting your mum’s. Everything’s wonderfully ordered, with a soothingly tasteful colour scheme. You always get offered a drink of some description from their sumptuous new kitchen, with its Carrara marble island unit and built-in wine rack. And when the drink comes, it’s unfailingly from an ever-ready supply of sparklingly clean glasses in the glossy-fronted cupboard. You’ll never find Heather scrabbling around for a halfway decent receptacle before eventually serving up warm wine in a chipped Moomins mug she’s had since she was eight.

In fact, much as I like coming to Heather’s, it always makes me feel a little … I don’t know, flat. Because it just highlights the ever-growing chasm between her life and mine. Heather’s a grown-up, a fully fledged adult member of society with the tasteful arrangement of beeswax pillar candles to prove it. And I’m …

Well, today was a case in point.

I look at those candles now, blazing away on the glazed fire surround. Then, slowly, I look at Heather, in a powder-blue cashmere jumper, her favourite diamond studs glinting in her ears.

“Oh, sorry. Have I interrupted a romantic evening?” Now I feel really guilty. Why didn’t she say something?

She looks nonplussed. “Not at all. Dominic’s just putting Oscar to bed, then he’s got a squash match.”

“You mean, this is your staying at home outfit?” I’m only half teasing.

“One has to make an effort, even if only for oneself.” She cradles her wineglass against her lips, looking mischievous. “So, what I really want to know about is this man. A professor, you say?”

“Heather!” If we were at my house, where the soft furnishings aren’t quite so precious, I would gladly throw a cushion at her. “Don’t even think about it. Believe me, he is definitely not a candidate for romantic interest.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what people always say to begin with? I wasn’t exactly keen on Dominic when I first met him.”

“Yes, but you slept with him anyway,” I point out drily. It’s about the most reckless thing Heather’s ever done. And just like her luck that it should actually turn out well in the end.

I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m happy that it did, really I am. But at the same time it is the tiniest bit vexing when you consider that she never wanted any of this in the first place. Her sights were firmly set on becoming a top psychologist; she already had her place secured on the MA course—she hadn’t even had to apply; they’d offered it to her. She wasn’t interested in anything which could even be loosely defined as a serious relationship, let alone a husband, and children … not on her radar at all. She’d always maintained that watching her parents thrash their way through an acrimonious divorce had been enough to put her off all of that for life.

No, it was always me who wanted those things, not Heather. And yet … look at us.

“Quite, and thank you for announcing that so loudly,” she says in an arch voice. “But what I mean is, feelings often come later. In real life, instant attraction is a very rare thing. In fact, I’m not so certain it exists at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” a voice behind us says. “Although it’s good to know how you really felt about me back then. Don’t spare my feelings, will you?”

Heather twists around to roll her eyes at her husband. “All right, so instant mutual attraction doesn’t exist. And you already knew how I felt about you back then. I made no secret of it.”

“Hello, Dominic,” I chime in.

“Hello, Clara.” He smiles thinly at me, dropping his squash bag onto the floor and heading towards the fridge. “And what brings you here this evening? Something to do with men, I should imagine, from the look on my wife’s face.”

I have a sinking suspicion that Dominic thinks I’m some sort of man-eater. God only knows what Heather tells him. Either way, I don’t think it helps endear me to him.

Dominic and I have an odd, uneasy sort of understanding. We’re pleasant enough to one another but, on the whole, we try to keep our contact time to a minimum. We’ve never really got on, not since those early days at university. I know that he thinks I’m immature, that I create unnecessary drama. And he …

Well, sometimes he looks at me and I’m convinced that he knows. He knows what I thought about him all those years ago, how I tried to persuade Heather to break up with him. How I said that he’d only hold her back.

Obviously, I was wrong. I mean, if they hadn’t stayed together, they would never have had Oscar. And now here they are and … well, clearly, it was the right choice. It should all be water under the bridge. But still, I can’t help but feel that Dominic resents me for it somehow.

“She has a new admirer,” Heather pipes up, eyes shining.

“He is not an admirer!” I sit up so hastily that I only narrowly avoid sloshing wine all over my lap. “Believe me, there’s nothing even remotely …”

“She kissed him!” Heather squeals. “And then he bowed to her!”

“That is totally out of context,” I splutter, snatching her empty wineglass from her hand. “How much have you had to drink today?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says defiantly. “I haven’t been anywhere. Except to the half-term lunch, but that doesn’t count.”

Ah, so that explains it. You’d think that a midday gathering with fellow school gate mothers would be a refined affair. Not a bit of it. By the sounds of things, they’d put most illicit teenage house parties to shame in terms of alcohol consumption.

Dominic frowns faintly at her before turning his attention to me. “He actually bowed to you, did he? How … courtly of him.”

The last sentence is uttered with a barely repressed smirk, and I resist the impulse to narrow my eyes at him.

“Haven’t you got a squash game to get to?” I say sweetly.

It has the desired effect because he jumps to attention, grabbing an iced bottle of water from the fridge and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.

“Oh, damn. Yes, and I’m already late.” He swoops down to drop a perfunctory kiss on the top of Heather’s head. “I’ll see you later. Oscar’s fast asleep; he went straight off. I doubt you’ll hear more out of him tonight.”

Heather just flaps a hand in a vague sort of farewell.

“Now we’ve got rid of him,” she says as the sound of the front door closing echoes through the house, “do you want some dinner? Only something simple, I’m afraid, as I thought it was just going to be me.”

“I’d probably better get back to Freddie,” I say reluctantly, getting up and taking our wineglasses over to the dishwasher. “Lord only knows what he and Casper will have got up to in the time I’ve been away. They’re both as bad as each other.”

“If you’re sure,” she begins, pulling items out of the fridge. Fresh pasta. A tub of pesto. Parmesan wrapped in paper from the Italian deli down the street. “Could you look in that cupboard for pine nuts? I think I bought some last week.”

I can only stare, mesmerised, as the ingredients stack up on the island in front of me. Proper food. I think of the congealed cold pizza waiting at home in the fridge and my stomach makes the decision for me.