My Not So Perfect Life(46)

Demeter’s phone buzzes, and she answers it. “Hello? Oh, Michael. Yes, I did get your email….” She lifts up five fingers at me, which I guess means, “Wait five minutes,” and steps into a nearby empty room. And I’m left with Alex. Again.

I glance up at him and see his kind, tactful eyes, and I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. The horror of my job loss is so devastating, you’d think nothing else would even sting. You’d think I’d be numb to lesser feelings like humiliation and crushed pride. But I’m not. They just smart in a different way.

And suddenly I don’t want to keep quiet anymore. Why do we all do that? Why do we all pretend? I know what the rules say: Salvage your dignity; walk away; admit nothing. But I’m never going to see this man again in my life. And suddenly the desire to say what I really think is bigger than any other.



“You know what?” I say abruptly. “Let’s address what happened at the Christmas party.”

“What?” Alex looks so gobsmacked at the idea, I nearly want to laugh.

“Flora said I was in love with you,” I press on. “Well, of course I’m not; that’s ridiculous.”

“Look.” Alex seems to be seeking escape. “We really don’t have to do this—”

“All I thought was that you and I had…” I search for the best way to put it. “A spark. A tiny little spark of…I don’t know. Connection. Possibility. I liked spending time with you. At the time, I didn’t know anything about you and—”

I break off. I’m not going to say “Demeter” out loud in a company corridor. He’ll know what I mean.

“So I’m embarrassed now,” I resume. “Really embarrassed. Of course I am. But you know something? I’m owning my embarrassment. I’m not hiding or playing games.” I lift my chin, high and resolute. “Here I am: Katie Brenner, Embarrassed. There are worse things to be.”

The wrong name has slipped out, I realize, but I don’t care.

Alex looks stupefied by my little speech. Well, good. I feel liberated and even kind of exhilarated. So my cheeks are blazing. So my legs are a bit wobbly. So bloody what?

“OK, then,” I add. “So that was all I had to say, except goodbye. Tell Demeter I’ve gone up. Good luck with everything.” I jab the lift button and stare fixedly at it, waiting.

“Cat—” Alex begins, then stops. “Katie—” he tries again, but he doesn’t seem to know where he wants to go next. And despite the fact that everything about my situation is horrendous—and will seem even more horrendous when I get home—I feel a tiny twinge of satisfaction. At least that patronizing expression has disappeared from his face.



“Cat—” Alex tries a third time. “What are you going to do now?”

“Now?”

“I mean, job-wise.”

“Now, I’ve spoken to Cath.” Demeter comes swooping back into the conversation from nowhere. “I’ve told her to stay positive. She’s going to buy Grasp the Nettle and take her inspiration from that.”

“Oh, great!” says Alex weakly. “Good idea.”

“I thought so.” Demeter nods, and they both look at me as though: Phew! We recommended a book. Our consciences can be clear now.

They have no idea, either of them. Educated people talk about ignorance. Well, how ignorant are these two? Do they know what it’s like to live in Catford on a tiny, scraping, heart-juddering budget?

“I’m not going to buy that book, Demeter,” I say in a voice which suddenly trembles. “Because it’ll be eighteen pounds and I can’t afford it. I can’t afford anything. Don’t you understand? I’m not like you! I’m not like you!”

Demeter is peering at me with a blank frown. “Really, Cath, I think if you can afford to eat at Salt Block, you can afford to buy a very inspiring book—”

“I can’t afford to eat at Salt Block! How do you think I could ever afford to do that? That was all bullshit! I was trying to impress you!” My anguish spills out in a scream. “I don’t have a financial cushion. Or a famous daddy to give me a career.” A dart of shock passes across Alex’s face, but I don’t care. It’s true. “You’re so fucking entitled. Both of you.” I spread my arms wide, encompassing Alex. “Do you know that? Do you have any idea, any sense of—” I break off and give a little odd-sounding laugh. “Of course you don’t. OK. Well, I’m leaving now. So. Enjoy your perfect lives.”



The lift doors have opened, and I step inside. I jab the button for the third floor and begin to rise, thankfully without either of them trying to follow me. My eyes are stinging and my heart is miserably pounding. So much for a dignified exit. So much for keeping the door open. But right now…I really don’t care.





It’s funny how life works like a seesaw: Some things go up while others plunge down. My life is swiftly unraveling while Dad’s is finally, it seems, coming together. He’s sent me pictures of the constructed yurts, and they look wonderful. The bathroom block is gleaming, the fire pits look picturesque, the bunting is charming, and Biddy has stockpiled homemade jam. Meanwhile, we’ve sent out the brochures to everyone we can think of. Dad has left piles of them in every trendy café around Somerset, while I’ve targeted likely places in London. (I left a pile in a café in Wandsworth, and a woman in a Boden mac picked one up while I was still there. It was like magic.)