My Not So Perfect Life(11)

“I’m planning to,” I say after a pause. “What did you think?”

“I was impressed.” Demeter nods. “You know that the tables are handmade in Kathmandu? And the food is challenging but earthy. Very authentic. All organic, of course.”

“Of course.” I match her serious, this-is-no-joking-matter tone. I think, if Demeter had to put her religion down on a form, she’d put Organic.

“Isn’t the chef the same guy who was at Sit, Eat?” I say, dabbing the brush into more gloopy dye. “He’s not Nepalese.”

“No, but he’s got a Nepalese adviser and he spent two years out there….” Demeter swivels round and looks at me more appraisingly. “You know your restaurants, don’t you?”

“I like food.”

Which is true. I read restaurant reviews like some people read horoscopes. I even keep a list in my bag of all the top restaurants I’d like to go to sometime. I wrote it out as a jokey thing with my friend Fi one day, and it’s just kind of stuck around, like a talisman.

“What do you think of Salt Block?” Demeter demands, as though testing me.

“I think the dish to have is the sea urchin,” I say without missing a beat.

I’ve read that everywhere. Every review, every blog. It’s all about the sea urchin.



“The sea urchin.” Demeter nods, frowning. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. I should have ordered it.”

I can tell she’s fretting now. She’s missed out on the must-eat dish. She’ll have to go back and have it.

Demeter turns and gives me a short, penetrating look—then swivels back to her computer. “Next time we get a food project, I’m putting you on it.”

I feel a flicker of disbelieving delight. Was that a vote of approval from Demeter? Am I actually getting somewhere?

“I worked on the re-launch of the Awesome Pizza Place in Birmingham,” I quickly remind her. It was on my CV, but she’ll have forgotten that.

“Birmingham,” echoes Demeter absently. “That’s right.” She types furiously for a few moments, then adds, “You don’t sound Brummie.”

Oh God. I’m not going into the whole ditching-the-West-Country-accent story. It’s too embarrassing. And who cares where I’m originally from, anyway? I’m a Londoner now.

“I guess I’m just not an accent person,” I say, closing the subject. I don’t want to talk about where I’m from; I want to press on toward my goal. “So, um, Demeter? You know the Wash-Blu rebrand we’re pitching for? Well, I’ve done some mock-ups of my own for the new logo and packaging. In my spare time. And I wondered, could I show them to you?”

“Absolutely.” Demeter nods encouragingly. “Good for you! Email them to me.”

This is how she always reacts. She says, “Email them to me!” with great enthusiasm, and you do, and then you don’t hear anything back, ever.



“Right.” I nod. “Perfect. Or I can show you right now?”

“Now?” says Demeter vaguely, reaching for a plastic folder.

She wanted tenacious, didn’t she? I carefully put down the hair dye on a shelf and hurry to get my designs.

“So, this is the front of the box….” I put a printout in front of her. “You’ll see how I’ve treated the lettering, while keeping the very recognizable blue tone….”

Demeter’s mobile phone buzzes and she grabs it.

“Hello, Roy? Yes, I got your message.” She nods intently. “Let me just write that down….” She seizes my printout, turns it over, and scribbles a number on the back of it. “Six o’clock. Yes, absolutely.”

She puts the phone down, absently folds the paper up into quarters, and puts it in her bag. Then she looks up at me and comes to. “Oh! Sorry. That’s your paper, isn’t it? Do you mind if I keep it? Rather an important number.”

I stare back, blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know how to respond. That was my design. My design. That I was showing her. Not some piece of crappy scrap paper. Should I say something? Should I stand up for myself?

My spirits have plummeted. I feel so stupid. There I was, believing—hoping—that we were bonding, that she was noticing me….

“Shit.” Demeter interrupts my thoughts, staring at her computer in consternation. “Shit. Oh God.”

She pushes her chair back with no warning and bashes my legs. I cry, “Ow!” but I’m not sure she hears: She’s too agitated. She peers out of her glass office wall, then ducks down.

“What is it?” I gulp. “What’s happened?”



“Alex is on his way!” she says, as though this is self-explanatory.

“Alex?” I echo stupidly. Who’s Alex?

“He just emailed. He can’t see me like this.” She gestures at her head, which is all messy with dye and needs to be left for at least another five minutes. “Go and meet the lift,” she says urgently. “Intercept him.”

“I don’t know who he is!”

“You’ll know him!” Demeter says impatiently. “Tell him to come back in half an hour. Or email. But don’t let him come in here.” Her hands rise to her head as though to shield it.