Practicality wins the day.
I cross back into the living room and open my suitcase. Inside are several framed photos, each encased in layers of tissue paper. I unwrap them and carry them over to the empty mantle, placing them in a neat row. My parents and best friends smile at me, but my attention lingers on the photo of my grandfather.
When I was little, my grandfather told me stories about a magical version of Oxford. He’d been a librarian here before he retired. My dad would tell him to stop filling my head with nonsense, but my grandfather was undeterred. I loved snuggling up next to him on the sofa. He’d sneak a bowl of crisps out of the kitchen, sharing them for as long as I would sit quietly and listen. He passed away while I was in primary school, but he’d be proud to see me continue the family legacy here at Oxford.
I pull myself from my reverie and get back to work unpacking, tearing open a box to find my collection of throw pillows. I left most of my belongings back at my parents’ house in London, but a girl needs a few personal touches to make a place feel like home. The next two hours fly by as I spend them putting away clothes and setting out framed prints and knickknacks around the rooms. By the time I put my Wonder Woman tea mug in the kitchen cupboard, it doesn’t look like the same house anymore. I pick up my journal from the kitchen table and tick ‘unpack’ off my lengthy To Do list. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that my entire existence lies within its leather cover. Every idea, activity and plan is noted with detail. I glow in satisfaction when I can tick them off my lists.
Famished, I turn back towards the refrigerator and its intriguing contents.
“Oh my god, aged Lincolnshire poacher cheddar. My favourite.”
I unearth a cutting board and frying pan in a cluttered kitchen cabinet and assemble a posh toastie. Chef Smythe wouldn’t approve, but it will hit the spot.
Right as I set my plate down on the scuffed coffee table, ready to relax to whatever the BBC offers, I hear a soft knock at the back door.
I claw my way back up from the sunken cushions, heading for the kitchen. “Might be Harry, maybe she forgot to give me some kind of instructions.”
I grab the keys from the counter and cross to the door, twisting the locks.
No one is there.
“Hello? Hello? Hmm, I swear I heard a knock,” I mutter. “Guess it must have been my imagination.”
After closing and locking the door, I turn once again towards the smell of warm cheese emanating from the living room.
I take one step and tumble over a furry barrier.
“Mrrriaowwww!” the friendly cat rubs its furry little head against my arm.
Sprawled across the wooden kitchen floor, I watch in shock as it nudges my palm, begging for a deep scratch between the ears.
“Lucky for you, I like cats, you little devil. Otherwise, I’d be more upset about the giant bruise forming on my leg.” I stroke its back before picking myself up again. Dusting my jumper off, I eyeball my guest. I always wanted a pet, but my mother was allergic and then my busy work schedule made it out of the question. A communal college cat could be the perfect pet for a busy gal.
“Do you live here at the college?”
“Mrrrriaowwww.”
“I’m Nat. What’s your name, college cat?”
Staring down, I wait for a response. The cat blinks at me in return.
“Oh god, I’m talking to a cat and I’m expecting it to answer.”
The cat, solid black except for two tufts of white fur around the neckline, winds in and out of my feet, alternating miaows with purrs in a cacophony only a cat can make. I wonder how I’ll walk with a cat underfoot. Maybe it will wander around the flat and ignore me now that it’s inside.
“Rightie-o, I guess Harry forgot to mention that I have a roommate. Now where did I leave that cheese toastie?”
I am no sooner seated on the couch before the cat leaps up and curls around beside me.
“Miaow?”
“Did the word cheese perk you up? Are you hungry?” An answering paw attempts to swipe the sandwich from my hand. “I’ve let you in the house, but I draw the line at sharing a plate. Come on, I’ll find you something.”
Four more slices of Lincolnshire poacher later, laid out on a plate for my guest, I bite into my now-soggy sandwich. After all my unpacking, I’m too tired to care. I follow the sandwich with a packet of jammy dodgers and a small glass from the bottle of wine Harry left on the counter. As the rain drizzles down my sash windows, I realise I can hardly toss the cat back outside in these conditions.
“Cat,” I prod it gently to gain its attention. “This is how it’s going to work.”
The cat slits open one eyelid and gives a short trill of a response.
“Excellent, you’re awake. Here are the rules. I’m going to sleep now. I sleep in the bedroom. You sleep here. Me, there. You, here. Got it?”
The cat squints one eye open, gives a giant yawn and then goes right back to sleep.
“I’ll take that as cat-language for a yes. Good night, college cat. Don’t poop in my suitcase.” I close the suitcase, just to be safe. You never know with cats.
In retrospect, I should have reiterated the point about not sleeping in my bed instead.
Chapter Three
When
