Page 46 of One Summer

He’s extremely broad in the shoulders. More like a bricklayer than an ice skater, although the thought of him wearing tight sparkly spandex while doing a pirouette makes the corner of my mouth twitch.

‘Nice cat you’ve got in there,’ he says, swiftly changing the subject. ‘What’s his name?

‘Nemo.’

‘For real?’ he asks, in a bit of a sneery voice that I don’t like at all.

‘Yes.’

‘I walked past the bookcase and he swiped at my head.’

‘Cats are naturally territorial.’

‘He’s only just arrived,’ he says. ‘It’s hardly his territory.’

‘He disagrees.’

‘So… you’re a cat person?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose.

I feel a twitch of offence on Nemo’s behalf. What’s wrong with liking cats?

‘My ex-boyfriend was. I have no preference. I like all animals.’

He scratches the side of his face, a gesture that somehow manages to convey surprise that I’ve been in a romantic relationship of any kind.

‘They’re probably going to hate each other,’ he says. ‘Ted likes to chase cats. He can be a bit of dick about it, from what I’ve heard.’

‘Well, Nemo likes to scratch dogs in the eyeballs.’

This is pure conjecture. Before meeting Ted, Nemo hadn’t, to my knowledge, ever seen a dog. He’s a house cat, and yet he seems to have the innate knowledge that dogs are trouble.

‘At least they’re well-matched in terms of size,’ he says.

I look down at Ted.

Nemo has longer legs, but Ted has superior muscle and girth. Even so, in a fight, I’d put my money on Nemo. Ted is just too people-pleasing. Nemo doesn’t give a toss if anyone likes him. It’s one of the things I most admire about his character.

‘It’s a bit hipster calling a cat after a fish,’ he says, walking to the garden window to peer at Nemo through the glass.

‘He isn’t named after a fish,’ I say, frostily, because frankly, I am fed up explaining this; my parents were particularly adamant in their wrongness.

‘He’s orange and white,’ he says, as if I’m wearing a blindfold. ‘He’s clearly named after the clownfish from the Disney movie.’

I shake my head, and say in a superior tone, ‘Nemo was born in Scotland. That’s where my ex-boyfriend adopted him before he moved back to London.’

I let it hang in the air.

He looks at me blankly.

‘And?’

And I get to break out some Latin – my only Latin, but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’

I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but this man has been getting on my nerves ever since I met him, and persists in looking at me with an incredulous expression on his face that makes me want to take him down a peg or two.

‘It’s the motto of Scotland, from the royal Stuart dynasty,’ I say, articulating the words slowly, as if he’s hard of hearing.

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