Читать книгу: «Ten Things My Cat Hates About You», страница 4

“On second thoughts, maybe I will stay,” I say casually. I can’t let on to Heather how long it’s been since I last had anything that wasn’t reheated. She’d probably fall into a dead faint. “They can cope for an evening on their own. After all, Freddie’s a grown man.

Supposedly. And Casper …” Here, I find myself tailing off. What do I say about Casper?

Heather’s busily toasting pine nuts in a frying pan, but she turns to me with an amused look. “Is a grown cat? Supposedly?”

“Has had his fair share of trouble for one week,” I say firmly. “Believe me, he won’t go looking for any more. He was quiet this morning. I think last night shook him a little. He’s realised that he’s not as invincible as he thought he was.” A hopeful thought strikes me. “Perhaps he’ll turn over a new leaf.”

“Hmm …” Heather prods the pine nuts with a wooden spoon, not looking wholly convinced by my logic “… I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Chapter 7

I wake with a start, jerking into an upright position in bed. Darkness envelops the room, broken only by a pale lilac light creeping beneath the curtains.

Momentarily disorientated, I fumble for the bedside lamp, relieved when its warm glow chases away the shadows, revealing the familiar outline of my bedroom. Everything looks as it should be, at least. Yesterday’s dress thrown over the back of the pink velvet chair, the cream painted wardrobe hulking in the corner, the door slightly ajar as always. I bought it at an antiques centre several years ago, and it’s never closed properly. My dressing table is littered with various paraphernalia: bottles of nail polish, lipsticks, a piece of amethyst given to me by my mother, its faceted crystals gleaming in the lamplight.

I sit there for a moment, the duvet drawn up under my chin for warmth, wondering what might have woken me. Normally I sleep fairly soundly. Unless I’m having a nightmare, and usually, if I’ve had one of those, I know all about it. I wake up cold, shaking, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of my mind like cobwebs.

No, I’m pretty certain that I was sleeping quite peacefully. So what …?

And then I hear it. A deafening, screeching sound fills the air, followed by yowling. It sounds like it hails from the bowels of the earth itself, but I know better than that.

Fully awake now, I throw the covers aside, heart already in my mouth. As I clatter down the stairs, knotting my kimono at my waist, I keep telling myself that I’m overreacting. That of course it’s not Casper. That I’ll open the kitchen door and he’ll be safely there, all curled up in his …

All right, so he’s not in his basket. He’s not on the windowsill either. Or on the chair. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Really, who was I trying to kid? If there’s a fight going on, he’s bound to be involved. I’ve never known him to miss one yet.

The hideous screaming sound has stopped and I waver in the middle of the room, trying to decide what to do next. Then, with a huff of resignation, I pull on my flowery wellington boots, which now live permanently next to the back door. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to take a nightly sojourn into the garden in pursuit of my errant pet. Far from it. But I know I’ll never get back to sleep until I’ve reassured myself that he’s all right.

“Casper?” I call softly, even as I do so wondering why I’m bothering. As if that cacophony hasn’t woken the whole street anyway. He certainly has a way of making me unpopular with the neighbours.

Tentatively, I venture out onto the lawn, my boots sinking into the damp grass. The first light of dawn is bleeding into the sky, washing the garden in an ethereal pink glow. Dewdrops have transformed the lawn into a shimmering carpet and the air is bitingly cold, invigorating in its sharpness. It would be stunningly beautiful, I suppose, if I weren’t too preoccupied with worry to pay it much attention.

I check half-heartedly under a few bushes, already knowing that he won’t be there. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready, and not a moment sooner. I don’t come across his assailant either. Or – and I have to allow for this possibility – his victim. I’m not so blinded by love that I don’t know what he’s like. He’s just as likely to start a fight as he is to get drawn into one.

Giving up the search, I trudge back into the kitchen to find a tousled-looking Freddie standing there, yawning extravagantly.

“What’s going on? I got up for a glass of water and saw that the lights were on downstairs.”

And yet, somehow, the screeching and caterwauling completely passed him by. My brother would make a fascinating case for medical science. His tendency towards complete obliviousness never fails to astonish me. I swear he could sleep through the apocalypse with no trouble at all.

“I can’t find Casper,” I explain, stamping my boots on the mat to knock the excess mud off them. “He’s not in the garden.”

Freddie stares at me like I’m utterly insane. “Clara, he’s a cat. What do you expect? That he’s going to just stay in one place?”

“I know, but …” How can I explain it to him? How can I tell him how much Casper means to me? Of course, to him, it seems ridiculous. Even to my own ears it sounds it.

At that moment the cat flap rattles and Casper slinks into the kitchen, drawing up short to look askance at us both. For a cat, he has a surprisingly expressive face, and I can tell that he’s wondering what the humans are doing up at this hour.

“There you are.” Instinctively, I move towards him, the relief in my voice audible.

Certainly, he’s been in a tussle of sorts; his fur is all standing on end, his eyes bright and feverish. But he looks okay, at least. To be honest, I feel a bit foolish now, having got into such a state about it all.

“See, he’s fine.” Freddie’s already halfway through the doorway, stifling another gargantuan yawn. “Nothing to worry about. Now can we go back to bed?”

“Freddie …” I’ve drawn my hand away from Casper’s side to find it stained red. For a moment, I can only stare at it, frozen.

“What?” He turns, then blanches. “Oh, God. Is that …? What do we do?”

Casper’s leaning into me now, obviously weakening. I shake the fog from my brain, willing myself to stay focused. This is no time to panic.

“Get the cat basket out of the cupboard under the stairs, will you? We’re going to have to make a dash across town.”

***

“What were you even thinking?” I pant as we cross the market square. Rearranging my grip on the basket, which was digging painfully into my fingers, I continue. “Why must you get yourself into every fight going?”

Casper looks up at me balefully from where he’s nestled on his favourite blue blanket. I know he must be feeling bad because Freddie and I managed to get him into the basket with surprisingly little fuss. Usually, the very sight of it is enough to send him into histrionics.

I longingly watch a car trundle past. There’s no point in my owning a car here in Cambridge; in fact, very few people do. Normally, I’m quite content to get around on foot, although this morning that’s not so much the case, what with my rather unwieldy cargo.

I’m beginning to wish I’d just bitten the bullet and called a cab. I’d forgotten how heavy Casper starts to feel by the time you’ve lugged him halfway across town. Failing that, I should have let Freddie bring him.

“Besides, you’re not exactly a spring chicken any more, are you?” I point out, stopping on the corner to catch my breath. “Don’t you think you should be past all of this by now? Isn’t it time to retire to your basket and let the younger toms have it out?”

Actually, that’s probably a bit unfair. The truth is, I have no idea how old Casper is. When I first took him in, the vet estimated him to be somewhere between four and twelve.

Which is … you know, helpful.

In any event, he’s old enough to know better. But perhaps not quite at the pipe and slippers stage just yet.

He obviously feels the same because he glowers at me before turning around in his basket so that he’s facing the other way.

“Fine, be like that,” I mutter. “It was only a suggestion. Ah, here we are.”

Thank God the vet opens early, I think as I wrestle my way, cat basket in arms, through the glass doors. Inside the cool grey interior, all is calm. There are a couple of people already in the waiting room, baskets by their feet. Classical music floats through the air. Behind the curved steel desk, a receptionist taps away efficiently at her keyboard.

“Good morning,” I say, still slightly breathless. “I need to make an emergency appointment.”

She looks up, a pleasant smile on her face. Then her eyes travel down to Casper, filling with dread. “Oh, no,” she says emphatically. “Absolutely not. That cat is banned!”

I’d anticipated that we’d come up against this issue, so I’m already prepared with a response. “Look, I know he hasn’t always been the easiest of patients …”

“Easiest?” Her voice comes out as a strangled shriek. “He’s an absolute nightmare. He can’t possibly come in here.”

Casper, who’s been quietly slouched in the corner of his basket, opens one eye and emits a faint hiss. The receptionist pales, shrinking behind the counter.

“You’re not exactly helping yourself,” I murmur at him out of the corner of my mouth. “Just work with me here, all right?”

He falls silent, which I take as tacit agreement.

I turn back to the receptionist. “If you could just give him one more chance …”

“He’s already had more chances than he deserves,” she retorts. She holds up her hand, beginning to tick off her fingers, and immediately I feel a sense of foreboding.

“There’s no need—” I begin hurriedly, but it’s too late.

“First he broke the brand new scales.”

“That was an accident,” I say defensively. “He didn’t mean to do it.”

She gives me a hard stare. “He kicked them off the bench. There was nothing accidental about it.”

I notice that the other people in the waiting room are pretending very hard not to listen, but with little success. I feel heat rising beneath my skin.

“Then, of course, there was the time he escaped and ran all around the surgery.” She’s warming to her theme now. I could swear she almost seems to be enjoying herself. “We had to have half the staff pulled away from their duties to chase him around. Twenty minutes it took us to catch him, and even then we had to throw a towel over him to do so.”

“He must have panicked. No one likes to see a thermometer heading towards their rear end. Isn’t that right, Casper?” I appeal to him.

He just looks back at me disdainfully. If cats could roll their eyes, I’m certain he’d be doing so right now.

“And then, of course,” the receptionist trills, triumph colouring her voice, “the final straw was when he bit poor Stacey. She was traumatised.”

I wince. That was pretty bad. Who knew a tiny nip from a cat could produce so much blood?

“He sensed that she was nervous, that’s all,” I reply quickly, with a mollifying smile. “Inexperienced. Perhaps he took advantage a little, I’ll admit. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

She looks at me sourly. “It doesn’t.”

I feel my face fall. Wow, she’s a tough nut. I thought it would be easier than this.

“We had to sign her off with stress, you know,” she’s saying now. “It was weeks before she felt up to facing another patient on her own.”

I sense that I’m getting nowhere with this line of attack. She looks completely and utterly unmoved. If anything, she actually looks even stonier than she did when we first came in. So, flinging my pride out of the way, I resort to the only tactic still available to me: shameless pleading.

“Look …” I put Casper down on the floor, where he immediately starts terrorising a Jack Russell sitting under the nearest chair. Placing both hands flat on the counter, I look her straight in the eye. “I understand why you don’t want him in here, I do. But I haven’t had time to find him another vet just yet, and now he’s injured. I don’t know where else to take him. So will you please just see him once more? Then I promise you solemnly that I will take him far away from here, find another surgery, and we will never darken your door again.”

For the briefest of moments she looks on the verge of relenting. Then the Jack Russell whimpers from beneath the seat, cowering away from Casper. She purses her lips, and I know that I’ve lost her.

“I’m sorry, Miss Swift,” she declares, not looking particularly sorry at all. “But it’s just not possible.”

A cold sensation lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as I take in her words. What am I going to do? This was my one and only plan. I look down at Casper. He’s lying on his side, panting heavily. I’m willing myself to calm down, but it’s not working.

Then, from the doorway through to the surgery, an unfamiliar voice speaks. “I’ll take a look at him.”

Chapter 8

“Thank you so much for agreeing to see him,” I blurt out for what must be the third time in as many minutes.

I’m kicking myself before the words are even out of my mouth. Way to sound like a complete cretin, Clara.

“You’re most welcome,” he replies, also for what must be the third time in as many minutes. Amazingly, though, there’s no hint of sarcasm or impatience in his tone. Instead, he just smiles at me, before returning his attention to Casper.

The thing is, the new vet is decidedly not what I was expecting. It’s sort of thrown me off balance. For one thing, he’s quite a lot younger than most of the partners here.

He’s quite a lot more attractive too. Just … you know, as an observation.

Not, of course, that I’m in any state to be noticing that sort of thing. After all, my mind is consumed with anxiety over the welfare of my precious cat. I haven’t got the energy left to pay much notice to … I don’t know … say, those warm green eyes or those high, slanting cheekbones or that burnished brown hair falling over his forehead as he leans over Casper …

Who, incidentally, is behaving most … well, most unlike Casper, for want of a better phrase. That’s the biggest shock of all; to be honest, I think I’m still getting my head around it. My cat, sitting quite tamely on the vet’s table. He’s even allowing himself to be touched without the slightest peep of complaint.

It’s like a dream. A very sad, pet owner’s dream, granted, but a dream nonetheless.

“He likes you,” I say faintly, watching in astonishment as this superhuman being of a vet manages to turn Casper over slightly so he can examine his side, and all without losing a finger in the process.

It’s more than a dream. It’s a miracle. It’s like I’ve fallen into a parallel universe and everything is the wrong way around. A place where vets are fantastically good-looking and my cat is a model pet.

“I’d like to think I have a vague rapport with animals,” he says neutrally. “This would be something of a difficult career path if I didn’t, don’t you think?”

For a moment, I think I detect the slightest hint of a smile in his voice. But then he carries on with his inspection without further comment, and I decide that I must have imagined it.

“Yes, but Casper’s a bit … different,” I say cautiously, suddenly aware that I should be careful what I’m saying. The last thing I need is for him to realise that he’s unwittingly taken on the scourge of vets everywhere, the terror of the waiting room. Thank God he’s new and that Casper’s reputation, for once, doesn’t seem to have preceded him. “He’s not usually that keen on vets,” I finish, tactfully. There. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole scale-kicking, blood-drawing truth either.

He’s been waiting patiently whilst I stumbled through that explanation. Now, however, he arches an eyebrow. “I know. I’ve read his file.”

I choke on air. He’s what?

“Or rather, I should say, files,” he amends thoughtfully, as though there’s been no interruption. “There were quite a few, you know. They’ve provided me with an entertaining read on several coffee breaks.”

With an effort, I recover my voice, although it comes out as a discordant croak. “And you still agreed to see him?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughs, and the rich sound ripples right through me. “He’s the most entertaining patient we have. I couldn’t wait to meet him.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I was joking earlier about the parallel universe thing, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Have I fallen and hit my head or something?

“I’m not sure that your receptionist shares that sentiment,” I say slowly. “She didn’t seem all that pleased when you let him in.”

That’s something of an understatement. She looked thoroughly livid. I dread to think what confrontation awaits him in the staff room later.

He raises one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “Susan is rarely pleased about anything. It’s sort of her modus operandi.”

Privately, I wonder if she and Jeremy would get along. Shaking off that thought, I return to the matter at hand. “Nonetheless, I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.”

His lips quirk up at the corners. “Fear not, Miss Swift. It was worth it.”

I blush, inwardly cursing myself as I do so. Just because someone happens to be charming doesn’t mean I have to turn into a simpering idiot. He’s probably equally as engaging with everyone who comes in here, whether they’re a twenty-something blonde or an eighty-something purple rinse.

For all I know, he could be a serial seducer. He probably uses his position to lure in tender-hearted females, worming his way into their affections with his charismatic banter whilst he runs his hands all over their …

I look down at Casper and inwardly recoil. Seriously, Clara, what is wrong with you? Has it really been that long?

Yes, a small voice in my head replies pertly. It really has. No wonder you’re losing the plot.

“Clara, please,” I say quickly, trying to conceal the fact that I feel like I’m about to burst into flames. Oh, God, this is so embarrassing. Thank heavens technology hasn’t yet provided us with the ability to read minds; the day that happens, I’m throwing myself off a bridge. It’s the only option. No one can ever find out what weird stuff goes through my head. “I think you’ve earned that right, after what you’ve done for Casper.”

“I haven’t done it yet.” He strips off his surgical gloves and leans against the side of the table, folding his arms. I’m momentarily distracted by the favourable 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.”

Ruby’s eyes go round. “Are those pumpkin spice lattes?”

I nod solemnly. “It is pumpkin season, is it not? We must make the most of it while we can.”

“Ooh!” Ruby squeals, practically lunging for hers, the leaflets in a forgotten pile on the desk behind her.

Eve accepts hers more gingerly, lifting the lid to peer at the contents with a wrinkle of the nose. “Is this another one of those young person things? Like unicorn porridge and mermaid stationery?”

Ruby and I exchange a knowing look. Eve pretends to be disdainful of all things millennial, but the truth is that she absolutely loves finding out about all of this stuff. It gives her something to boast about at her bridge club meetings. I can already envision her, regaling them all with how she’s sampled the ultimate seasonal fad.

“So …” I take a sip of my own coffee, mentally cursing as I burn the tip of my tongue “… anything I should know about this morning? No disasters of cataclysmic proportions?”

“Not just yet, no,” Ruby chirps. “But then, it’s only quarter past ten. There’s still time. Oh, except … I meant to tell you, Eve. You were wrong about the Professor Warwick thing. He hasn’t got a wife. I checked.”

I try to keep my choking to a discreet minimum. Honestly, the man is a plague on my life. Just the sound of his name is enough to give me convulsions.

“It always was an unlikely guess.” Eve takes her attention away from her latte to raise an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen him wearing a ring. But I had to suggest something. Ah, well, I suppose I owe you twenty pence, then.”

“I’ll put it on your tab,” Ruby quips. “Although I was wrong about the woman in the picture gallery last week. She really was just waiting for her friend. So, to be fair, we’re probably about even.”

My head’s bobbing back and forth as I try to follow the conversation. Ruby and Eve are always making little bets to pass the time. It can be anything: what colour will Jeremy’s waistcoat be today; what time will the first water spillage happen; what will get left behind in lost property this week …?

“What exactly are we talking about here?” I ask hopelessly.

“Rumour has it that Professor Warwick was seen kissing someone in the Roman gallery yesterday,” Ruby says in a stage whisper.

Suddenly my throat feels rather tight.

Eve’s nodding emphatically, eyes shining. “More than that. Apparently she positively launched herself at him.”

The word launched is uttered with such relish that I long to sink into the floor there and then.

“Really?” I manage at last, although my voice comes out several octaves higher than usual. Luckily, neither of them seems to notice.

“It’s all just so wonderfully unexpected,” Ruby says gleefully. “What a dark horse! He looks so stuffy, and all along he has this sordid other life. God only knows what else he gets up to. He probably …”

“Yes, well, let’s not go into that,” I interrupt quickly, before the whole foyer is treated to some rather graphic terminology. I know how Ruby’s mind works.

I’m actually starting to feel quite sorry for the besmirched Professor Warwick. I dread to think what sort of insinuations are flying around the place, especially now Ruby’s got involved with her very … er … active imagination. It’s a good thing she channels a lot of it into her art is all I’ll say.

“This is very sweet,” Eve interjects plaintively, having taken a first tentative sip of her coffee. She looks around as though some passerby might offer the answer. “Is it meant to be like that?”

“Stop moaning and drink it,” Ruby directs. “The sugar rush will do you good. Anyway —” she turns back to me, pouting “—I just wish I knew what really happened. This surmising is all so unsatisfactory.”

She doesn’t mean that. She’s positively glowing with the thrill of a mystery. I know I should come out with it and burst her bubble, but I can’t bring myself to. And so I tell myself that I’m simply changing the course of the conversation with my next question.

“What else do you know about him?”

I fiddle with the lid of my coffee cup, trying to appear casual. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m asking anyway. It’s not like I’m interested or anything. I have far more important things to occupy my mind, like obscure sentences uttered by handsome vets. Why would I want to know about boring old Professor Warwick?

“Not much.” Ruby drains her latte and puts her takeaway cup down on the edge of the desk, where it wobbles precariously. “Just that he’s some super-intelligent academic. I’ve heard Jeremy raving on about him. Apparently he’s the youngest professor in his college or something. Sounds pretty one-dimensional, if you ask me.”

Eve rescues the cup and deposits it safely in the paper bin. “Or one could say committed,” she supplies kindly. “It does seem strange, though. A young man like that. He’s always here, and on his own too. One would think he’d have other places to be.”