My Not So Perfect Life(34)

“I’m not in love with you!” Somehow I muster a shrill laugh. “Honestly! I’m so sorry about my friend. I hardly even know you, so how could I be in love with you?”

“Isn’t it him?” Flora claps a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. It must be another guy with dark hair and a tat-tat—” She stumbles over the word again. “Tattoo,” she manages at last.

Both Alex and I glance at his wrist. He looks up and meets my eyes, and I can see he knows: It’s him.

I want to die.

“So, I’d better go,” I say in a miserable, flustered rush. “I need to pack, and…um…thanks for the party….”

“No problem,” says Alex, a curious tone to his voice. “Do you have to go now?”

“Yes!” I say desperately, as Demeter turns to join us again. Her face is pink and she looks rattled, for Demeter.

“So, Cath.” She makes a visible effort to put on a pleasant expression. “Are you off tomorrow?”

She’s clearly forgotten the fact I’m called Cat. But I can’t be bothered to correct her again. “That’s right! Absolutely.”

“And have you chosen yet? Turkey or goose?”

“Oh, turkey. But with a rather lovely porcini stuffing,” I hear myself adding a bit wildly. I shoot an overbright smile around this group of sophisticated Londoners. Everyone so hip and cool, treating Christmas like an ironic event that’s all about the styling.



“Porcini.” Demeter looks interested.

“Oh yes, from a little place in Tuscany,” I hear myself saying. “And…truffles from Sardinia…and vintage champagne, of course. So…Happy Christmas, everyone! See you after the break.”

I can see Alex opening his mouth, but I don’t wait to hear what he says. My face is burning as I head toward the exit, tripping a little in my hurry. I need to get out. Away. Home to my gourmet luxury Christmas. The porcini. The vintage champagne. Oh, and of course the truffles. I can’t wait.





“Come and sample my latest.” My dad turns from the kitchen counter and holds out a drink. It’s not a glass of vintage champagne or a sophisticated cocktail. It’s not even some artisan local organic cider. It’s Dad’s patented Christmas punch of whatever cut-price bottles of spirits he could get at the market, all mixed together with long-life orange juice, pineapple juice, and lime cordial. “Cheers, m’dear.”

It’s midday on Christmas Eve, and I’m at home in the country, and London seems a lifetime away. Everything’s different here. The air, the sounds, the expanse. We live on a farm in a part of Somerset which is so remote, no one’s ever heard of it. The papers keep talking about fashionable Somerset and celebrity Somerset….Well, believe me, we’re arse-end-of-nowhere Somerset.

Our house is in a valley, and all you can see from the kitchen window are fields, some sheep dotted around, the rise of the slope to Hexall Hill, and the odd hang glider in the distance. Some cows too, although Dad doesn’t go in for cows quite as much as he used to. Not enough money in them, he says. There are better games to be in. Although he doesn’t seem to have found any of those games yet.



Dad lifts his glass and gives me his crinkly, twinkly beam. No one can resist Dad’s smile, including me. All my life, I’ve seen him win people round with his charm, his bottomless optimism. Like that time I was ten and forgot about my holiday project. Dad just turned up at school, twinkled at the teacher, told her several times how certain he was that it wouldn’t be a problem…and sure enough, it wasn’t. Everything was magically OK.

I mean, I’m not stupid. There was a sympathy element there too. I was the girl with no mum….

Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Christmas Eve. I step outside the kitchen door, making my way through a cluster of chickens to breathe in the fresh West Country air. I must admit, the air is amazing here. In fact, the whole place is amazing. Dad thinks I’ve completely rejected Somerset, but I haven’t. I’ve just made a choice about how to live my life—

I close my eyes briefly. Stop it. How many imaginary conversations have I had with Dad about this? And now I’m having them when he’s standing three yards away?

I take a sip of punch and try to focus on the distant landscape rather than the farmyard, because the closer you get to the actual house, the less picturesque it becomes. Dad’s tried a lot of moneymaking wheezes over the years, none of which have worked—and all around the farmyard are the remains and detritus of them, which he’s never bothered clearing up. There’s the cider press, sitting in its barn, barely used. There’s the massage table, from when we were going to have a spa. (He couldn’t find a massage therapist cheap enough.) There’s the matching turquoise swirly eighties headboard and bedside tables that he bought off a mate, intending to set up a B&B. They’re still wrapped up in their plastic, leaning against a gate. They look terrible.



And there’s Colin the alpaca, roaming around in his little paddock, looking like the miserable sod he is. God, the alpacas were a disaster. Dad bought six of them, about three years ago, and he reckoned they were going to make our fortune. They were going to be an attraction, and we were going to set up an alpaca wool factory, and all sorts. He actually charged tickets for some school party to come and visit, but then an alpaca bit one of the kids, and he hadn’t done a risk assessment or whatever and it was all a total hassle.