Читать книгу Ten Things My Cat Hates About You - Lottie Lucas - Страница 10

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.