“Every two weeks, but Sita and I don’t ‘speak.’ We discuss logistical details on WhatsApp, and I get the twins every third Sunday. We don’t e-mail, and we never write messages longer than a sentence.” Reeva glanced anxiously at the phone. “This doesn’t look good.”
“Here, I’ll read it.” Lakshmi grabbed the phone from Reeva. “Okay. Ahem.” She raised her voice an octave and began reading. “ ‘Reeva, why are the lawyers saying you’re considering not coming to our dad’s house? I know you’re a hotshot lawyer who doesn’t need the money, but spare a thought for the rest of us. Jaya has a wedding to plan, and I’m a mother of two. I thought you at least cared about the twins. This money could make a huge difference to their futures. Can you stop being so selfish? We’re heading up to Leicester tonight and expect to see you there. Hopefully we can figure out this gaping hole in our family history while we’re at it. Sita.’ Wow, she is co-old.”
“See why I don’t want to go?” cried Reeva. “I can’t bear it. I know I’m the oldest sister, but I just feel kind of . . . pathetic around them. They’re so confident and scary. Every time I go to Surrey to pick up the twins, I have to put on your playlist. It’s the only way I can face Sita.”
“Hey, you’re a ‘hotshot lawyer,’ remember? And I’ve seen you at work; you’re scary too. Reevs, you can handle your sisters. And isn’t it all worth it to get to the bottom of this whole mystery about your dad? You’ve got to be desperate to know why no one told you about him.”
Reeva sighed. “Obviously. I just . . . Me, Sita, and Jaya? Together for almost two weeks? Even before the Rakesh thing we would have killed each other.”
Lakshmi put an arm around her. “In that case, I guess we’d better write your will too.”
* * *
—
Reeva pushed the front door shut behind her and Nick, almost tripping over the doormat in the process. She was drunker than she’d thought.
Nick followed her into the living room. The walls were painted a very pale pink with gray wooden molding, and the sofas were navy velvet. There were a few photos on the alcove shelves—a series of Reeva and Lakshmi through the years, from selfies on the beach to drunk dancing at weddings—nestled among brightly colored books with “Booker Prize” and “Women’s Prize for Fiction” stickers on them. Everything was arranged immaculately, from glass art deco lamps to slate coasters, and there was zero clutter. It all looked like it was straight out of the pages of an interior design magazine—apart from the enormous wicker cat tree planted in front of the window.
Nick slipped out of his navy blazer to reveal a soft white T-shirt and sat down on the armchair as he unlaced his vegan leather trainers. He watched Reeva in bemusement as she went over to stroke the black-and-white cat installed on the middle of its perch. She stroked the cat twice before it tried to bite her.
“Progress!” said Reeva. “Last time she only let me stroke her once.”
“So . . . your cat still doesn’t like you?” asked Nick.
“Hey, she tolerates me,” said Reeva, turning back to him. “Which is embarrassing because I did a Daily Mail quiz the other day called ‘What relationship do you have with your cat?’ and it turns out we’re codependent. Only it’s not mutual.”
Nick smiled politely. “I’m going to have to admit I’m not really a cat person.”
“Oh, neither was I,” Reeva assured him. “Until Lakshmi shoved Fluffy Panda onto me. And now here I am. In love with a cat that hates me.”
“Poor Reeva. Come here.” He opened his arms and Reeva walked into them, tiptoeing to kiss him. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders, slowly sliding them up to cradle her head. Nick always kissed her like it was the finale of a rom-com and Reeva loved every second of it. She leaned in happily, temporarily forgetting about wills, sisters, and dead dads—until his hand almost reached her bald patch. She pulled away with a start.
“Sorry, uh, I should feed FP.” She turned away quickly and walked into the kitchen. FP leaped out of the tree to follow her, snuggling up against her legs as she opened the food cupboard.
“Cats are so fickle,” said Nick. “It’s why I prefer dogs.”
Reeva frowned—it was not a good sign that the guy she was dating did not like the best thing in her life. She forced herself to remember that pre-FP, she’d been the same. Or even worse. She used to tell people she wasn’t an animal person. But when Lakshmi had turned up on her doorstep almost three months ago with a kitten christened Fluffy Panda, everything had changed. “It’s to help with the alopecia,” Lakshmi had explained, dumping the scrawny cat into Reeva’s confused arms the day after she’d found the bald patch (1.7 centimeters). “I read an article on how pets can help with stress; stroking them is calming. And I figured it would stop you from feeling so depressed about how much hair you’re molting all over your flat. Because now the cat can molt its hair with you!”
As expected, FP did molt all over Reeva’s flat. Her black-and-white fur relentlessly found its way onto every single item of her owner’s, including her predominantly black-and-cream wardrobe, which meant Reeva now spent several extra hours a week cleaning. This was just one example of FP failing to lower Reeva’s stress levels and instead managing to do the exact opposite. Because FP did not like being showered in hugs, strokes, belly rubs, or anything that would release stress-busting oxytocin in her owner. She’d accept three hugs a day from Reeva—all before six a.m.—before asserting her boundaries and biting her. Her favorite hobby appeared to be turning up her little wet nose at all of Reeva’s efforts to make her life better, like bulk-buying the overpriced organic food she was currently refusing to eat.
Which was why Reeva was now on her knees on the kitchen floor, waving a bowl of Chicken Princess at a cat who was completely ignoring her.
“She . . . doesn’t eat her food?” asked Nick.
“She only likes the cheap stuff,” explained Reeva. “But I can’t let her eat it. It’s only five percent meat and ninety-five percent unknown substances.”
“You sound exactly like my friends who have kids,” Nick said, laughing. “The ones that shop at Waitrose.”
Reeva suddenly realized she was crouched on the floor of her flat like a crazy cat lady while an incredibly attractive man—a man who did not like cats—was watching everything. She stood up quickly. “You know what, she can eat the cheap stuff for once.” She pulled out a pouch of processed lamb and let the firm jelly plop satisfyingly into a bowl. FP instantly ran over and began gobbling it up at record speed, purring loudly. Reeva shook her head. “Wow, I wish a bowl of twenty-five-p meat could cheer me up that much. I’d eat five pounds’ worth.”