My Not So Perfect Life(32)

Shooting me a last, uncertain look, Flora blows me a kiss, then disappears. When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly rise from my crouched position. I’m gazing fixedly at my sandwich. Yes, it’s in a street bin. Which is gross. Unspeakable. But it’s still fully wrapped in cling film. So…in theory…

No, Katie.

I’m not getting my lunch back out of the bin. I’m not sinking that low.

But it’s wrapped up. It’s fine.

No.

But why shouldn’t I?

Without quite meaning to, I’m edging toward the bin. No one’s even looking.

“I’ll just take a picture of this bin for my blog on food wastage,” I say in loud, self-conscious tones. I take a photo of the bin and move still closer. “Wow, an untouched sandwich. So…I’ll just take a photo of this sandwich for my research about how food wastage is a real problem these days.”

Flushing slightly, I pick the sandwich out of the rubbish and take a photo of it. A little girl, aged about five, is watching me, and she pulls at the sleeve of a pale-pink cashmere coat.



“Mummy, that lady gets her food from the bin,” she says in high-pitched tones.

“It’s for my blog on food wastage,” I say hastily.

“She took that sandwich out of the bin,” says the girl, ignoring me. “The bin, Mummy.” She tugs at her mother’s arm, looking distressed. “We must give her some money. Mummy, the poor lady needs money.” Finally her mother looks up and shoots me a distracted glance.

“There’s a hostel a few streets away, you know,” she says disapprovingly. “You should get help, not harass people for money.”

Seriously?

“I’m not harassing people!” I erupt with indignation. “I don’t want your bloody money! And it’s my sandwich! I made it, OK? With my own ingredients.” Tears have started to my eyes, which is all I need. I grab the sandwich and stuff it into my bag with trembling hands. And I’m just starting to stride off when I feel a hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was insensitive. You’re a nice-looking girl.” The pink-cashmere woman runs her eye up and down my shabby Topshop coat. “I don’t know why you’re on the streets or what your story might be…but you should have hope. Everyone deserves hope. So, here. Happy Christmas.” She produces a fifty-pound note and offers it to me.

“Oh God,” I say in horror. “No. You don’t under—”

“Please.” The woman suddenly sounds fervent. “Let me do this for you. At Christmastime.”

She tucks the note into my hand, and I can see the little girl’s eyes shining with pride at her generous mummy. Clearly both of them are carried away with the romance of helping out a homeless stranger.



OK, this is the most excruciating moment of my life. There’s no point explaining the truth to this woman; it’ll be too mortifying for both of us. And, by the way, I know my hair isn’t blow-dried or anything and I know my shoes need re-heeling—but do I really look to her like someone who lives on the streets? Are my clothes that terrible compared to the average Notting Hill outfit?

(Actually, maybe they are.)

“Well, thanks,” I say stiltedly, at last. “You’re a good woman. God bless you,” I add for good measure. “God bless us, every one.”

I walk swiftly away and, as soon as I’ve turned the corner, approach a Salvation Army officer holding out a tin. And full disclosure: I do feel a slight wrench as I put the money in. I mean, fifty quid is fifty quid. But I couldn’t do anything else, could I?

The Salvation Army officer’s eyes light up—but as he starts exclaiming at my apparent generosity, I turn away and start walking even faster. What a bloody fiasco. What a bloody day.

And now, before I can stop it, my mind miserably fills with a vision of Alex. Alex and Demeter in their hotel room, lying entwined on some Danish designer rug, toasting each other for being so successful and hot and über…

No. Enough. There’s no point thinking about it. I just need to avoid him at the Christmas party. And then it’ll be Christmas and a whole new year and everything will be different. Exactly. It’s going to be fine.





Shit. There he is, standing by the bar. Shit.

I hastily duck away and reach for a balloon to hide behind. Maybe I can disguise myself with Christmas decorations. Or maybe I should just leave.

The Christmas party has been going for about two hours. We’re all in an upstairs room at the Corkscrew, and it’s the coolest Christmas party I’ve ever been to. Which figures.

From the office chat last week, I learned that no one at Cooper Clemmow, at least in our department, does bog-standard Christmas dinner, or “norm-Christmas,” as Rosa jokily put it. Demeter and Flora and Rosa are all having goose rather than turkey. (Organic, of course.) Mark is having nut roast because his partner is vegan. Liz is doing an Ottolenghi quail recipe. Sarah’s doing lobster and is styling her table with a centerpiece made from driftwood that she collected in the summer. (I have no idea what that has to do with Christmas.)

Then someone said, “What about you, Cat?” and I had an instant vision of my dad, at our ancient kitchen table, wearing a paper hat from the Cash & Carry, slathering a turkey with some cut-price margarine he got in bulk. You couldn’t get more “norm-Christmas.” So I just smiled and said, “Not sure yet,” and the conversation moved on.