My Not So Perfect Life(78)

“What are you talking about?” Demeter stares at me.

“Oh, come on!” I explode. “Don’t look at me like that! You have the perfect life! You’ve got the job, the husband, the lover, the kids, the money, the looks, the trendy clothes, the celebrity friends, the invitations to parties, the haircut, the Farrow and Ball front door, the gorgeous stone steps, the holidays…” I run out of breath. “I mean, you’ve got it all. And you stand there and look at me like What perfect life?”



There’s another silence. I can hear my own breath coming, short and fast; I have never felt such tension in these woods, never. Then Demeter comes wading through the swamp to me. Her face is still plastered with mud, but I can see the fury simmering in her eyes.

“OK, Katie,” she spits. “You want my perfect life? You want to know about my perfect life? I’m tired all the time. All the time. My husband and I have a hellish struggle balancing two jobs, but we need the money because, yes, we bought ourselves a big family house with a big, crippling mortgage, and, yes, we redecorated it, which was probably a mistake, but everyone makes mistakes, right? I go to restaurant launches to network for my job. I sit on judging panels, ditto. Parties, ditto. I wear heels that give me backache and I look at my watch every half hour, wishing I could escape.”

I stare at her, dumbstruck. I’m remembering the Net-A-Porter boxes, the photos on Instagram, the upbeat tweets. Demeter here, there, and everywhere, being sparkling and brilliant. It never in a million years occurred to me that she might not enjoy it.

“I never have time to see my friends,” Demeter continues without missing a beat. “Every time I come home late, my children give me a hard time. I’ve missed so many moments of their lives, I’d weep if I could, but I’m beyond weeping over that particular issue. I’m an aging woman in a young people’s game, and one day that’s going to lose me my job. My hair is going gray, as you know. And I think I’m getting dementia. So fuck off with your ‘perfect life.’?”



“Dementia?” I stare at her.

“Oh, and those steps you mentioned? I hate those fucking steps more than anything in the world.” Demeter starts shaking all over. She seems to have reached a whole new level of anger. “Have you ever tried wheeling a pram up a flight of ten steps? Because it’s a nightmare. Those steps have been the bane of my existence. Do you know what happened the Christmas Eve that my daughter was five? I was bringing in the presents from the car and carrying them up the icy steps when I slipped and fell. I spent the whole of Christmas Day in hospital.”

“Oh,” I say nervously.

“So don’t talk to me about my fucking steps.”

“OK.” I swallow. “Right. Um…sorry I mentioned the steps.”

I’m a bit shell-shocked, actually. I had such a firm vision of Demeter tripping down her beautiful stone steps in a designer coat, looking all smug and Demeter-ish, living the perfect princess life. But now that’s been supplanted by new images. Demeter lugging a pram up the steps. Demeter slipping and falling.

That kind of thing never occurred to me.

“It’s OK.” Demeter seems to calm down a little. “And I’m sorry I let you go insensitively. I truly am. I was in a real state that day, but that should not have stopped me treating you fairly and with respect. I would like to apologize…Cat?”

“Katie,” I say awkwardly. “Cat never really took.”

“Katie, then.” She holds out her muddy hand, and after a pause, I take it and we shake.

“Don’t tell Dad and Biddy,” I say abruptly. “Please.”



“Don’t tell them what?” Demeter’s eyes glitter at me. “That you pushed me into the mud? Don’t worry, I wasn’t intending to. This is fairly embarrassing for me too.”

“No, not that. Don’t tell them I got made redundant. They think…” I look at the ground. “They think I’m on sabbatical for six months.”

“What?”

“They got the wrong end of the stick, and I couldn’t tell them the truth. It was too—” I break off. “I just couldn’t.”

“So—what—they think you’ve been on sabbatical from Cooper Clemmow all this time?” Demeter seems incredulous.

“Yes.”

“And they believe that?”

“They think I’m…you know. Quite important at the company,” I practically whisper.

“I see.” Demeter digests this. “So what are you going to do when the six months are up?”

“I’ll get a job,” I say robustly. “Or if not…well, it’s my problem. I’ll sort it.”

“Right.” Demeter raises her eyebrows skeptically. “Well, good luck with that.” Then something seems to occur to her. “Hey. How do you know about my steps, anyway?”

“Oh. That.” I feel myself flushing. “Well, Flora told me where you live, and I…I happened to be in the area.”

“And you decided to go and look at my house,” says Demeter flatly. “And think to yourself, She lives in that house, she must be a rich bitch.”

“No! Well…maybe a bit…” I pause awkwardly. “It’s an amazing house. I saw it in Livingetc.”