My Not So Perfect Life(19)

I try to scrabble out of the box, but I feel my shoe heel catching on another pouch and bursting it. (Oops. Maybe won’t mention that to Alan.) More powder is floating up from the box, but this isn’t white, it’s beige. And it smells different. More savory.

“Alan,” I say. “Is all this stuff supposed to be vanilla whey?”

“It is vanilla whey.”

“Well, this isn’t.” I reach into the box and haul out the pouch I’ve just broken. “This is…” I consult the label. “Powdered chicken stock.”

“What?” I pass the pouch over to him, and Alan stares at it in disbelief. “Nooo. What the fuck?” With sudden animation he rips open another box and delves inside. He pulls out two plastic pouches and surveys them in consternation. “Chicken stock?” And now, in a frenzy, he’s pulling pouches out of the boxes and reading the labels. “Whey…stock…more stock…Jesus.” He covers his face with his hands. “No!” He sounds like a gorilla in torment. “Nooooo!”



Honestly. It’s only whey. Or not-whey. Whatever.

“They must have had a mix-up,” I say. “Just get them to come and exchange the wrong ones.”

“It’s not as simple as that!” he practically bellows. “I got them from—from—”

He stops mid-sentence, and I keep very quiet. I’m not going to pursue this, because: 1. Clearly it’s something a bit dodgy. 2. This is not my problem. And 3. I don’t want it to be my problem.

Again, Alan’s reminding me of my dad—and I know my dad. He brings you into his problems. He makes you feel like you can’t walk away. And next thing you know, you’re on the phone trying to sell pouches of unwanted chicken stock.

“Well, I hope you can sort it,” I say. “Excuse me.”

Somehow I manage to retrieve my foot and crawl cautiously back over the boxes to the kitchen door, with my plate of eggs balanced in one hand. I feel like I’m in some stupid endurance game show and, next minute, spiders will be descending from the ceiling.

“D’you want some chicken stock?” says Alan abruptly. “I’ll sell it to you. It’s top stuff, excellent quality….”

Is he serious?

“No, thanks. I don’t use that much chicken stock.”

“Right.” Alan subsides. He rips open another box, looks inside, and groans. He looks so distraught that I pat his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll work it out.”



“Hey.” He looks up, his face glimmering with hope. “Cat.”

“Yes?”

“What about a pity shag?”

“What?” I peer at him in total incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

Alan gestures down at himself, as though it’s obvious. “You feel sorry for me right now, yes?”

“Er…a bit,” I say cautiously.

“So you should want to shag me.”

OK, am I missing something here?

“Alan…” I can’t believe I’m asking this question out loud. “Why should I want to shag you?”

“Because that’s what a pity shag is. That’s what it is.” He reaches toward my bum and I move away. (OK, I leap away.)

“No!”

“No what?”

“Just…no! To everything! No pity shag. Nada. Never. Sorry,” I add as an afterthought.

Alan gives me a reproachful look and slumps onto one of the boxes. “So basically you’re heartless.”

“I’m not heartless because I don’t want to shag you!” I say furiously. “Just…shut up!”

I head to my room, shut the door, and plonk myself on my single bed. My room is so small, there isn’t any room for a closet, so I keep all my stuff in a kind of hammock thing slung above my bed. (That’s why I wear a lot of non-iron clothes. Plus they’re cheap.) I sit cross-legged on the bed, put a forkful of scrambled eggs in my mouth, and shudder at the hideous synthetic vanilla flavor. I need to stop seething. I need to calm down and be Zen. I will therefore distract myself.



I find my Instagram account, consider for a moment, then post a picture of the Shard, with the caption: Another amazing day, balancing work, play, and not much rest!! Then I find a gorgeous photo of a hot chocolate with marshmallows, which I took the other day. It wasn’t actually my hot chocolate, it was on an outside table at a café in Marylebone. The girl had gone to the ladies’ and I swooped in for a picture.

OK, full disclosure: I stalk expensive cafés for Instagrammable pictures. Is there anything wrong with that? I’m not saying I drank the hot chocolate. I’m saying, Look: hot chocolate! If people assume it was mine…well, that’s up to them.

I post it up with a simple caption: Yum!!! and a few moments later, a new message comes in from Fi:

Life in London sounds a blast!

I shoot back a reply:

It totally is!!!

Then, for good measure, I add:

Guess what, I have a date tomorrow…!

I know that’ll get her attention, and sure enough her reply comes ten seconds later:

A DATE?? Spill!!!

Simply seeing her reaction makes me glow. Meeting Alex today—laughing with him up on that roof—I felt like a door was opening. A door to something different. Some sort of…I don’t know. A new existence, maybe. And I know it’s just lunch. But still. Every relationship starts off with just something, doesn’t it? Like, Romeo and Juliet started off with just falling madly in love with each other at first sight.