My Not So Perfect Life(115)

I practically skip down the steps to the street, a huge smile licking across my face. I’m wondering how to fill the hour till I see Demeter and Alex again, and already looking forward to our drink, when my phone buzzes with some new message or other. As I pull it out I wonder—half-hope—if Demeter’s already summoning me back to the office.



But it’s not from Demeter. It’s from a digital branding agency called Broth, which I applied to weeks ago. My breath catches as I fumble to open the email and skim the words:

Dear Ms. Brenner…recent application for the post of junior associate…impressed by your application and would like to discuss this further…please call to arrange an interview…

And I stand transfixed, clutching my phone, my blood dancing in my veins. An interview. An actual interview. Oh my God!





I start next month. The salary’s pretty much what I was on before and the offices are in Marylebone, and I’m thinking about living somewhere west this time. I’ve been looking in Hanwell, which is quite cheap.

They were really friendly, the two women who interviewed me. They loved my portfolio and said I had to join their pub quiz team. It’s a great place to work—I can tell that already. And they phoned to offer me the job while I was on the train back home. They really want me! I’ve got everything I ever wanted. So I don’t know why I don’t feel more euphoric.

OK. Full disclosure: I know exactly why I don’t feel more euphoric.

First of all, two weeks have passed, but I haven’t seen Alex since we were in London together. After that extraordinary, heady day, I ended up staying the night at his place, and it was so exactly what I’d always dreamed of that I felt like I must have taken some mind-altering drug. He lives in this big, light flat in Battersea, with a balcony and a view of the river (if you lean over the balustrade to look), and we had sex all night with all of London’s lights twinkling along as accompaniment. And then we had the perfect morning-after breakfast of croissants and more sex. And then he said he’d call, but—



OK. Stop.

I am not going to be that person. Nor am I going to tot up how many times I’ve texted Alex. (Five.) Or how many times he’s texted me in return. (Once.)

And, anyway, this isn’t all about him. The honest truth is that it’s not just Alex who’s left me feeling a little bit small and disappointed. It’s Demeter. She, unlike Alex, has been good at keeping in touch. We’ve spoken on the phone nearly every day, in fact. But her reactions have been a bit weird.

I thought when I told her about my new job, she’d be delighted for me. But she’s been all prickly. She even said at first I shouldn’t take the job, as she was sure I could do better. (What? Is she nuts?) Then she backtracked and said, “No, you have to take it.” Then she fired a whole load of questions at me about the job and exactly what my deal was—then seemed to lose interest. We haven’t really talked about it, the last few days.

And all the time there’s this big, unanswered question which, every time I think about it, makes me feel a bit hollow: Why didn’t she offer me a job?

She could have done. I mean, they need new staff. It’s been carnage at Cooper Clemmow since it all came out. Sarah’s been fired. Rosa’s been fired. Flora was leaving to travel, anyway, so she wasn’t fired, but she won’t get a reference. None of them will get references, in fact. Which means they’ll find it very, very hard to find work now.

Although that’s better than prosecution, which is what it could have been. Should have been. They deserve it, especially Sarah, and I’ve told Demeter so loads of times. Sometimes I think I’m more angry about what happened than she is. I’d love to see Sarah standing in the dock, weeping into her retro-print hankie, mascara smeared everywhere….



But Demeter’s decided that she’s not going to press charges. Her point of view is that sometimes you have to be pragmatic. She doesn’t want the whole story coming out in the press; she doesn’t want to testify in court; she doesn’t want to become known as the woman whose staff stitched her up. She wants to move on. And Adrian is willing to support her, whatever she decides. So. Case closed.

Demeter did take the rest of the department out to lunch, though, and explain a few things. She told Mark that she’d nominated him for the Stylesign Award. She explained that Rosa never had been selected for the mayor’s project. She apologized for being scatty and tactless. Then she explained exactly why the other three had been fired. Apparently there was stunned silence for a full three minutes. I wish I’d been there.

So the department is up and running again—apparently much more happily than before. But it has some holes in it now, obviously. And I don’t know what they’re doing about it. Nor can I bring myself to ask.

Anyway, who cares? I have a job. A fab job. There’s no point feeling hurt by Demeter. Or Alex. I have more important things to do, like training up Denise to take my place here.

“OK, let’s try again.” I adopt a wide-eyed glamper’s expression. “Hello! We’ve just arrived! Is this Ansters Farm?”

I’m in the kitchen, doing some role play with Denise, who needs a bit of work on the charm side of things.



“?’Course it’s Ansters Farm,” Denise responds flatly. “Says so on the sign.”