My Not So Perfect Life(107)

“OK,” she says, as though we’re seamlessly continuing the conversation from last night. “I’ve remembered something. There’s a whole stack of email printouts in my office.”

“In your office?” I think doubtfully back to the piles of paper on Demeter’s floor. “But won’t Sarah have gone through those and thrown out anything incriminating?”

“Not the ones in the cupboard.” Demeter looks up with a glint. “The ones she doesn’t know about.”

“Doesn’t know about?” I echo in blank astonishment. There’s something in Demeter’s life that Sarah doesn’t know about?



“She got so cross at me for printing out emails that I used to do it secretly. And then I put them all in that big cupboard. There must be hundreds in there. The cupboard’s locked.” She pauses. “And I’ve got the key. Here on my key ring.”

“Hundreds?” I stare at her. “Why did you keep hundreds of email printouts?”

“Don’t you start!” says Demeter defensively. “I suppose I thought I might need them one day.”

“Well,” I say after a pause. “You did.”

“Yes,” says Demeter dryly. “Turns out I did.”

She meets my eye and I feel a sudden rise of confidence. A conviction. She’s bloody well going to win this. Demeter taps again at her computer and I can see her eyes teeming with ideas again. Ideas and anger.

“You seem different this morning,” I say tentatively. “You seem like…you want it.”

“Oh, I want it,” says Demeter, and there’s a steeliness to her that makes me want to cheer. The strong, determined woman I know is back! “I don’t know what got into me last night. But I woke up today and I thought…what?”

“Exactly!” I nod. “What?”

“I am not being fucked over by my own fucking assistant.”

“Hear, hear!”

“The only thing which has come to me…” She pauses and rubs her brow. “I think Sarah must have teamed up with someone else. Some of that information she played around with came from meetings she didn’t attend.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. My mind is already working round the possibilities. “So who do you think…”

“Rosa,” says Demeter flatly. “Has to be.”



“Or Mark,” I say.

“Right.” Demeter winces. “Or Mark. Equally likely. Any other contenders?”

I’m not being very tactful here, I suddenly realize. It can’t be much fun to think there are so many people out to get you.

“Look, don’t think about that,” I say hastily. “Whoever it was…we’ll find out. But now we need to work out a plan.”

—

Demeter and I march into breakfast half an hour later, side by side. We have a strategy worked out and now we just need to find Alex. Which isn’t hard to do, as he’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking a bit shell-shocked while Biddy piles mushrooms onto his plate. A plate which already holds three sausages, four rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, two tomatoes, and some of Biddy’s famous fried bread, which, honestly, is heaven. (If heaven had four hundred calories a slice.)

“That’s wonderful.” Alex gulps. “That’s plenty. No!” he almost yelps as Biddy advances with the other frying pan. “No more bacon, thanks.”

“So, as I say, Alex,” Dad seems to be concluding a conversation, “it’s a one-off opportunity, which an astute businessman like yourself will be quick to spot. Anyway…” He darts a shifty look at me and crunches a piece of toast. “We’ll leave that subject for now. HP Sauce, Alex?”

“What opportunity?” I say warily.

“Nothing!” says Dad with a guileless smile. “Just chinwagging with Alex here. Passing the time of day.”



“Are you trying to sell him something?” I glare at him. “Because don’t.”

“Your dad was interesting me in a wigwam venture,” says Alex with a straight face.

“Wigwam venture?” I echo, thunderstruck. “Dad, what are you on?”

“Trying to expand the franchise!” says Dad defensively. “If you stand still you go backward, love. There’s a site over by Old Elmford; Dave Yarnett can get us some wigwams….”

I shake my head in despair. “I thought I’d weaned you off buying tents from Dave Yarnett.”

“I could be Big Chief Mick!” Dad makes a Native American–type sign. “The kiddies would love it!”

“Dad, stop right there! We’re not buying wigwams and you’re not dressing up as a Native American….” I wonder whether to launch into a lecture about political correctness, but decide against it. Not the right time. “For so many reasons,” I conclude. “And, anyway, we need to talk to Alex. So could you possibly…” I gesture at him to move, and Dad shifts along the table. “Can you stop the other glampers coming in?” I add to Biddy. “We just need five minutes.”

“Morning, Alex,” says Demeter, and takes a seat opposite him.

She’s got a crisp white shirt on today, and her hair is glossy (she blow-dried it in my room), and she looks calm and focused and on it.