My Not So Perfect Life(28)

Anyway. I won’t think about it. I’ll have a great day with Flora and browse all the market stalls, and obviously I won’t be able to buy anything but that’s OK, because that’s not what it’s about, is it? It’s about the atmosphere. The vibe. The friendship.

Flora has suggested we meet at her house, and as I walk along the road, I feel my jaw sagging. If I thought Demeter’s house was impressive, it’s nothing on these mansions. The steps are twice the size of her steps. They all have front gardens and white stucco like wedding cakes. I find number 32 and survey it cautiously. This can’t be Flora’s house, surely. Is this…her parents’ house?

“Hi!” The door is flung open and I see Flora framed in the massive doorway, still in her dressing gown. “I saw you walking along. I’ve totally overslept, sorry! D’you want some breakfast?”

She ushers me into a hall filled with marble and lilies and a housekeeper polishing the banisters, then down an underlit glass staircase to an enormous kitchen with concrete work surfaces. Flora’s parents are seriously rich, I realize. And seriously cool.

“So…this is your parents’ house?” I say, to be sure. “It’s amazing.”



“Oh,” says Flora, without interest. “Yes, I suppose. D’you want a smoothie?” She starts throwing fruit into a NutriBullet, followed by chia seeds, organic ginger, and some special seaweed extract which I’ve seen in health shops and costs about three quid a shot.

“Here!” She hands me a glass and I devour it hungrily. My own breakfast was a cup of tea and oats with milk: total cost about 30p. Then Flora grabs a paper bag full of croissants and ushers me out again. “Come on. Help me get dressed.”

Her room is at the top of the house and has its own bathroom and dressing room. The wallpaper is a sheeny silver design of birds, and there are Diptyque candles everywhere and built-in cupboards and an antique desk. Everywhere you look, there’s something gorgeous. But Flora doesn’t even seem to notice her surroundings—she’s pulling jeans out of her wardrobe and cursing because she can’t find the ones she wants.

“So you’ve just lived here since uni?” I ask. “You’ve never moved out?”

Flora’s eyebrows rise in horror. “Move out? God, no. I mean, I could never afford to. Like, the rent and the food and everything…Who can do that? None of my friends have moved out! We’re all going to live at home till we’re thirty!”

I feel a tiny swell of some emotion I don’t want to admit to, like envy, or possibly even—just for a nanosecond—hatred.

No. Take that back. I don’t hate Flora; of course I don’t. But she does have everything so easy.

“Well, I don’t have parents who live in London.” I force a cheerful smile. “So. You know. I have to rent.”

“Oh, that’s right,” says Flora. “Aren’t you from the Midlands or somewhere? You don’t have an accent, though.”



“Actuall—” I begin, but Flora has disappeared into her dressing room again. I don’t think she’s that interested in where I come from, to be honest.

I wait patiently as Flora does her eyeliner about five times, then she grabs her bag and says, “Right! Let’s go shopping!” with an infectious beam. She’s got her blond hair piled on top of her head, and a boho sheepskin coat, and glittery eye shadow, and if you gave her a caption it would read Totally Up For Some Fun. We run down the stairs, both giggling, and a door opens on the second floor.

“Children! You’ll disturb Daddy!”

“Mummy, we’re not children,” pouts Flora, as an elegant woman appears on the landing. She looks just like an older Flora but even skinnier. She’s wearing Chanel pumps and tight jeans and smells amazing. “This is Cat.”

“Cat!” Flora’s mother puts a cool hand in mine, then turns back to Flora. “Are you off to Portobello?”

“Yes, we’re Christmas shopping! Only I’m a bit broke.” Flora looks wheedlingly at her mother. “And I need to find something for Granny….”

“Sweetheart.” Flora’s mum rolls her eyes. “All right, look in my bag. Take a hundred. No more,” she adds sternly. “You’re always cleaning me out of cash.”

“Thanks, Mummy!” Flora pecks her mother on the cheek and dances down the rest of the stairs. “Come on, Cat!”

My mind is reeling. A hundred quid? Just like that? I haven’t asked Dad for money for years. And I never would, even if he did have a load of spare cash, which he doesn’t.

I watch as Flora helps herself from her mum’s purse, then follow her down the palatial white steps of her house. If Demeter has steps fit for a princess, these are steps fit for a queen. I want to take a picture, but that would be uncool. Maybe when I’ve got to know Flora better.



The air is crisp, and as we stride along, I feel buoyant. This is such a cool area of London. The rows of pastel houses are adorable, like something from a storybook, and I keep stopping to take pictures for Instagram.

“So, what d’you want to get?” asks Flora as we round the corner to Portobello, slightly battling the crowds of tourists.

“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Nothing much. I’ll just browse.”