Читать книгу Ten Things My Cat Hates About You - Lottie Lucas - Страница 9

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 …

“We can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Eve, who’s been following behind at a more stately pace, ventures excitedly. She claps her hands together, making the stacks of rings she wears jingle against one another.

The sound of her voice catapults me back into the present, visions of irreplaceable artworks biting the dust receding mercifully into the abyss. My relief is short-lived, however, as my heart sinks all over again, this time for an entirely different reason.

Why did I have to tell them about my date? I should know better by now, what with Casper’s track record in that department.

To be honest, after the disastrous events of last night, I’d sort of begun to forget about my equally disastrous date with James. One disaster rather eclipsed the other, if you will. But now it comes rushing back to me, with an attendant sense of acute humiliation. I really can’t face talking about this now. I look down, hoping I can hedge my way around it.

“Oh, it was … uh, fine. You know, nice. Ish. Kind of.”

They’re looking hopelessly confused, not unreasonably. I focus my attention on unbuttoning the rest of my coat, not meeting their eyes. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though.”

“Oh,” they chorus, faces falling in mutual disappointment. There’s a brief awkward pause, during which I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. But, to my immense gratitude, they hurriedly start chattering about museum matters, Ruby recounting a story about someone who brought an illicit sandwich into the Egyptian gallery and refused to give it up, resulting in an undignified tussle with one of the room attendants. Eve chimes in every now and again, filling the gaps with amusing observations, and not for the first time, I find myself sending up a little prayer of thanks for my wonderful volunteers.

No one would ever imagine that these two would have become such fast friends. A candyfloss-pink-haired art student barely out of her teens and an elegant, cashmere-clad grandmother of four wouldn’t usually even mix, let alone find so much in common. But they adore one another. They’re usually to be found together, laughing over something or other in a corner. They’re not exactly the most productive of volunteers; they’re far too busy having a good time for that. But they’re easily my favourites. The museum just wouldn’t be the same without them.

Not, of course, that I’d ever tell them that. It wouldn’t do for them to get too complacent.

I have a sneaking suspicion that they know anyway, though.

“But we ought not to detain you, dear,” Eve is saying now. She leans towards me with a meaningful look. “You might want to get straight up to your office, if you catch my meaning. You know who has been looking for you.”

Over her shoulder, Ruby is nodding conspiratorially, her flamingo-shaped earrings dancing against her neck.

I don’t need telling twice. I head for the stairs, mouthing a thank you as I go.

It’s not often that I view my poky little office as a haven. The walls are a depressing sort of magnolia colour which has greyed with age, and the tiny window looks out onto the car park. My desk is wedged into the corner at such an angle that I have to climb into my chair from the side because I can’t pull it back properly. On the whole, I endeavour to spend as little time holed up in here as possible, but today, as I close the door behind me, it presents a welcoming refuge.

In here, I’m safe. No one can get to me.

Even so, it’s with a lurch that my gaze falls upon the ominous-looking pile of grant applications still looming large on the edge of my desk. I really can’t put those off any longer. The odd offhand query as to their state of completion began to be flavoured faintly with vexation a couple of weeks ago. Last Wednesday, it morphed into something more closely resembling a demand. I simply can’t admit to Jeremy that they’re still not finished.

And I can’t carry on avoiding him for much longer either, I concede reluctantly. I’m running out of pillars to jump behind and garbled excuses as to why I can’t stop for a discussion. Sooner or later, the game’s going to be up.

It’s simple enough. I’ll just stay in here all morning, finish these forms, and then I’ll have nothing to worry about. He never needs to know that I hadn’t even started them until yesterday.

Technically, Jeremy and I are supposed to share the paperwork, but somehow that never quite seems to happen. He always finds a reason to foist it all off onto me.

I spend a few enjoyable moments imagining what would happen if I pointed that out to him. He’d probably spontaneously combust.

I shake my head, feeling myself deflate. Alas, whilst that would be undoubtedly a spectacle, I don’t think it’s something I want to instigate just now. There’d be a lot of explaining to do.

Not to mention even more paperwork to fill out.

Pulling the stack of papers towards me, I select the uppermost one and stare at it earnestly. And then I carry on staring at it. To my credit, I stare at it for a full three minutes before slamming it back down on the pile with a sigh.

This is so boring. What kind of malevolent entity invented spreadsheets, anyway?

Sometimes, I wonder about the poor people on the other side of the process. Do they find visitor number projections and diagrams on marketing outreach as tedious as I do? Or are they the kind who love nothing better than a good graph and get a thrill at the prospect of five pages of statistics?

The next thing I know, I’m scrolling through Instagram and when I next look up it’s half an hour later.

Oops. That … wasn’t the plan.

I’m aware that I might not be showing myself in the best light here. I feel I ought to interject and point out in my defence that I’m normally excellent at my job.

Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. Pretty good is probably a better description. But, either way, I’m not a slacker. I work hard. I don’t habitually lounge around my office looking at how to do a plum-coloured smoky eye, or watching videos of high-fiving cats.

On the whole, I love what I do. It’s hugely rewarding to walk in here every day and be surrounded by incomparable pieces of art. I know I’m insanely lucky to be able to say that there’s very little about my job which I don’t enjoy.

Paperwork, however, is about the one exception. When I first took this position, I had no idea just how much of it there would be; I was filled with romantic notions about educating people on art history. Of conserving important artefacts. Of promoting culture.

And it’s not that I don’t do all of those things. To an extent. But the sad fact is that by far the biggest preoccupation of a small museum such as this is securing funding. Grant applications are a major part of that; we wouldn’t last a year without them. They’re basically our lifeline.

They are also an assault course of graphs, data, and all the things I most hate in life.

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.”