going to notice a splodge of sick I’ve only jut spotted on the sleeve of my jumpsuit but instead, his eyes land on Hera.
‘And who’s this?’ he asks.
‘Oh, this is my daughter, Hera,’ I explain, turning a little so Will can get a better view of Hera’s gorgeous face.
‘Aww, what a pretty girl!’ Will says. I smile and thank him, but I just know the next question he’s going to ask is going to be something to do with Hera’s father and standing here, covered in sick, the last thing I need is to answer questions about Leroy, who hasn’t once tried to get in touch since I had Hera and, as far as I know, is still living in his studio flat painting bookcases and having wild sex with Lydia.
I give Hera to my mum to hold and take the cat jumper, leaving her to show off Hera to Will and deflect the ‘where’s the daddy’ style questions. I pull the jumper over my head. It smells musty and stale, from having been in the charity shop, but also from having been stuffed in the boot of my mum’s car for God knows how long. Combined with the smell of sick, I’m really not my best self tonight. I just hope I don’t run into anyone else from school.
I sweep my hair out from under my collar and take in my bizarre reflection in the car window, before turning to Will and my mum. They’ve moved on from cooing over Hera to talking about my mum’s dress. Will is telling her how ‘sensational’ she looks and she’s lapping it up.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, batting her eyelashes like a flirtatious schoolgirl.
‘Oh yes, it’s very flattering. A great cut, very figure-hugging,’ Will remarks. My mum smiles delightedly.
A great cut?! Figure-hugging?
‘Do you mind?’ I sneer, wondering if there’s any low to which Will won’t stoop. Clearly even 60-year-old women aren’t off his radar. He hasn’t changed a bit since school, and don’t even get me started on the nitty gritty of what he was like back then.
‘What? I was just saying how fabulous your mother looks,’ Will comments defensively, before taking in my jumper, his eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hmmm … interesting choice. I heard that you work in fashion. Is that top some kind of ironic statement?’
‘What do you mean, ironic?’
‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.
My mum giggles.
‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’
I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.
‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.
Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.
‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’
Martha takes the cup, looking a little taken aback, before dutifully refilling it. A boozy mum in weird cat clothes with a baby sitting in a carrier at her feet probably isn’t the best look, but I’m beyond caring. Martha doesn’t bother with the fruit garnish this time and simply hands me the glass. I thank her and sip hungrily at it, before wandering over to the buffet. The buffet table, with its striped plastic cups and matching paper plates laden with party food is exactly as I remember it from back when the fundraiser first began so many years ago. Even the hall is the same, with the exact same rainbow bunting and streamers.
A few of the older men who I vaguely recognise regard me as I approach. They’re local busybodies that have been active in neighbourhood affairs for years. I think a few of them sit on the board of Chiddingfold Parish Council. They’re always finding something to complain about, from the frequency of the bin collection to the meandering bus routes. One guy, a retired naval officer called Clive who always wears a flat cap even when indoors and has been poking his nose into other people’s business for years, watches me closely as I reach for a bread roll. I pretend to be fascinated by the roll, taking a bite before inspecting the fluffy dough as though it’s the most interesting and engaging thing ever; I really don’t want Clive to speak to me. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I last saw him at a Christmas party at the local pub nearly two decades ago and the memory’s still disturbingly fresh. He was wearing the same grey flat cap and bent my 12-year-old ears off about unreasonable parking regulations near my school and blah blah blah. I can feel Clive zoning in on me, so I spear a few olives from a bowl with a toothpick and try to busy myself with the buffet, when I suddenly hear a different male voice over my shoulder.
‘Sorry Natalie, you don’t look like a cat lady,’ Will says, reaching for a cheese and grape stick from a plate on the buffet. He pops the chunks of cheese and grape speared onto the stick into his mouth in one bite.
I ignore him and turn back to the buffet to spear another olive. Will’s hand follows mine to the bowl. His fingers are long and surprisingly well-groomed, his nails and cuticles are incredibly neat and tidy, and his hands look soft and moisturised. Not like the hands of the rough-around-the-edges Will I remember.
‘Okay, maybe you do look a bit like a cat lady, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’ Will ventures.
‘What?’ I snap, before popping an olive into my mouth and shooting him a look.
‘Well, cat ladies … If you think about it, they’re just animal lovers, aren’t they? And what’s wrong with looking like an animal lover? Cats are lovely animals.’
I turn to look at Will, giving him a deadpan stare as he makes his case for why it’s okay to go around saying how someone you haven’t seen for over a decade looks like a ‘cat lady’. Even though he’s just as annoying as ever, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s still handsome. His young self and his current self are like the difference between a picture with a filter and the original. He’s got a few lines now, his face isn’t quite as smooth and blemish-free as it used to be and his hairline is beginning to recede, but he’s still good-looking. His eyes are as striking as ever and they have a depth to them now that they never had before, even if he’s still chatting total rubbish like he used to back at school. As well as his ability to chat to anyone about anything, he has the same dimples he had all those years ago and the same trademark playful smile.
He smiles at me, waiting for a response, but as usual, Will baffles me. His habit of talking complete crap is strangely beguiling, because even though you know what he’s saying is rubbish, you find yourself engaging with it nonetheless. I consider his statement.
‘Well, while there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with being a cat lady, it’s not exactly style goals, is it?’ I comment.
Will
