My Not So Perfect Life(18)

I was so flummoxed, I didn’t know what to reply. And, sure enough, I’ve never really had a proper conversation with her since. All she does is work or talk on the phone to her family in Coventry. She’s polite, and she sometimes sends Alan and me emails about rubbish collection—but nothing more. I once asked her why she lived in such a cheap place when she could surely afford something better, and she just shrugged and said, “I’m getting my deposit together. I’m on thirty-one grand,” as though it was obvious.

Now she opens the door and I see she’s on the phone.

“Oh, hi!” I say. “Sorry to disturb you, only…have you seen all these boxes? Have you said anything to Alan?”

Anita puts her hand over the phone and says, in that impassive way of hers: “I’m being sent to Paris for three months.”

“Oh.”

“So.”

There’s silence, and I belatedly realize that what she means is: I don’t give a shit about the boxes. I’m off to Paris.

“Right,” I say after a pause. “OK. Well, have fun.”

She nods and closes the door, and I look at it silently for a moment. London flat life hasn’t been what I expected. I thought it would be all riotous laughter and quirky friends and hilarious stories involving pubs and iconic London landmarks and costume parties or traffic cones. But it hasn’t panned out like that. I can’t even imagine Anita in a costume.

To be fair, I did have some good nights out with the girls at my previous job. But all we really did was drink prosecco and bitch, and after then I had such a scare with my overdraft, I swore off going out for a bit. And at Cooper Clemmow, no one seems to socialize at all. Unless you count working late as “socializing.”



Anyway, I think as I turn away, who cares? Because I’m having lunch with Alex Astalis! Already my spirits are lifting again. It’s all good. I’ll have some supper and then go on Instagram—

What?

I’m standing, aghast, at the door to the kitchen. It’s a sea of boxes. The whole floor is covered, two deep. Boxes are blocking the bottom cupboards. And the freezer. And the oven.

“Alan!” I yell furiously, head back to his door, and pound on it. “What’s going on in the kitchen!”

“What?” As Alan opens the door, he has a belligerent look. “I couldn’t fit it all in the hall. It’s only temporary, till I sell it.”

“But—”

“This is my business, OK? Could you try supporting it?” He shuts the door, and I glare at it. But there’s no point trying again. And I’m starving.

I return to the kitchen and cautiously step onto the top layer of boxes. They’re so high, my head is nearly brushing the ceiling. I feel like Alice in bloody Wonderland. Surely this is a fire hazard? An everything hazard?

Perilously teetering on the cardboard, I just about manage to open the fridge, get out two eggs, and put them on the hob, which is around the level of my knees. At that moment, I get an Instagram private message from Fi, my best friend from uni. I only talk to Fi on Instagram these days; I think she’s forgotten there’s any other way to communicate.



Hi! How’s it going? Sun’s shining in Washington Sq Park, God, I love this place. It’s great even in winter. Having soy lattes with Dane and Jonah, I told you about them? They are HILARIOUS! You have to come visit!

She’s attached a selfie in what I assume is Washington Square Park (I’ve never been to New York). The sky is vivid blue and her nose is pink, and she’s laughing at something out of shot. And I can’t help feeling a small wrench inside.

Living in New York was always Fi’s aim, just like mine was to live in London. It became a running joke between us at uni—trying to persuade each other to switch allegiance. One Christmas I bought her a Big Ben snow globe and Fi got me an inflatable Statue of Liberty. It was a game.

But now it’s real. After graduation, I headed toward London in my roundabout way, while Fi moved to New York to do an internship. And she’s never come back. She’s totally in love with the city, and she really has got a crew of quirky friends, who live in the West Village and rollerblade and go antiquing at flea markets every weekend. She posts pictures all the time and she’s even started writing in American spelling.

I mean, I’m glad for her. Really, I am. But sometimes I imagine how it would have been if she’d come to London instead. We could have shared a flat…everything would have felt different…anyway. There’s no point feeling wistful. I quickly message back:

All good here! Was just hanging out with Alan and Anita, we have such a laugh!!! London life is crazy fun!!!



I bend down to stir my eggs, nearly cricking my back. And I’m about to add some cayenne pepper when—

“Aaargh!”

I hear myself cry out before I realize what’s happened. The box beneath me has given way. I’m knee-deep in pouches of whey. And some of them must have burst, because white powder is floating up in the most revolting vanilla fug.

“What’s happened?” Alan must have heard my scream, because he’s already at the door of the kitchen, glowering. “Are you damaging my whey?”

“No, your whey’s damaging me!” I yell.

One of my ankles does actually feel a bit twisted. And the cloud of whey powder is coating my eggs, I suddenly notice. Which is vile. But I can’t make anything else—all my other food is trapped in the freezer. And I’m so hungry.