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I’d picked the damn cat from the adoption centre because of its ridiculous name, assuming it meant the creature was lazy and not too much trouble. I’d been wrong.

Very wrong.

Lady Potato was a fucking demon. I was sure of it.

The moment I’d brought her home last Thursday, she’d streaked up my curtains and crouched at the top, hissing at me. Then, on her way back down, she’d intentionally dragged her claws along the entire length, leaving tracks in the fabric.

She also liked knocking everything off every single surface, kneading every single piece of fabric in the house to pluck at it and swiping at my ankles if I dared walk past something she was hiding underneath.

And her favourite thing to do was wail outside my bedroom door at five in the morning for no fucking reason. I’d tried feeding her. I’d tried half-heartedly patting the top of her head, which was an extremely risky endeavour. I’d tried cleaning out her litter tray, because she refused to step foot in it again if there was so much as a single used clump present. I’d even tried letting her sleep in the bedroom with me. She didn’t want any of that. She just wanted to wail at five in the morning. Every morning.

I was half-convinced that she was some kind of cat shifter who was fucking with me.

When I couldn’t find her in the living room, I took a deep breath and cautiously walked into the kitchen. And there she was. Curled up in the fruit bowl in the centre of the island.

The fruit was scattered everywhere. An over-ripe peach splattered on the floor. A pomegranate that had split and exploded on impact, sending seeds and red juice shooting across the kitchen. A banana that she had, for some unknown reason, attacked viciously, because its skin was covered in tooth and claw marks.

She’d also spent some time attacking the mail I’d left on the counter this morning, it seemed, because several envelopes had been torn open and ripped to shreds, now scattered on the floor.

I sighed and bent to collect them as Lady Potato lifted her head and blinked at me with a sleepy mrow. As I was straightening, familiar handwriting on one of the exposed letters made me freeze.

It was from my mother.

It had been a while since she’d last written. At least a year. My heart started to pound, sweat prickling on my scalp when my eyes automatically scanned the few lines of the letter that were visible beneath the ruined envelope.

When a certain word—a name—appeared, I flung the letter down and immediately covered it with the others.

Lady Potato lifted her head again to eye me, and for some reason her scrutinising stare made me flush and lift my chin, trying to compose myself.

Trying not to think about what I’d just read, I strode to the cupboard and grabbed a tin of cat food. That made Lady Potato shoot out of the bowl, sending it skidding across the counter and flying off the end to shatter on the floor. I flinched, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Why the fuck had I got a cat?

While she was busy eating, I swept up the shards, cleaned up all the ruined fruit, and stuffed the pile of mail into a drawer to deal with another time.

Maybe never.

Wine seemed like a better idea right now. Yes.

Instead of making myself a proper dinner, I grabbed the bowl of olives from the fridge and carried it and my wine glass into the living room. At least there were no disgusting regurgitated lumps of wet fur for me to clean up this time. Small miracles.

As I took my first sip and attempted to relax, I turned on the TV and settled in. Then I quickly got back up to close the curtains, because I didn’t want anyone to peer in and see what I was watching, even though I lived in the middle of nowhere and never had any visitors. Ever.

But still. No one could know that I was addicted to reality television shows.

I watched all of them. Every kind. I didn’t care what the subject matter or competition was, I just found them all fascinating. Getting to see how humans lived, how they dated, how they cooked, how they competed against each other for anything from a stand mixer to a million-dollar prize.

I picked at the olives and sipped my red wine, actually managing to relax somewhat. Every now and then, an unwanted thought would pop into my head—the letter, the cat, work, Vince, our upcoming ‘couples’ therapy—but more wine seemed to be working well at making them go away.

It wasn’t until I stumbled slightly as I made my way back into the kitchen for the fourth time that I realised I’d finished the bottle. And was a little drunk.

Lady Potato had vanished, her food bowl empty and a fresh steaming shit in the litter tray. Deciding to deal with it in the morning, I locked up and turned off all the lights, then had to cling to the banister as I made my way upstairs.

Alright, maybe I was more than a little drunk.

I poured a bit too much oil into my bath and ended up splashing water everywhere when I climbed in and my foot slid out from under me. My skin felt slippery as I lay back in the tub and absently ran a hand over my chest, my eyelids drooping.

That name on the letter popped back into my head, so I groaned and quickly tried to think of something else.