My Not So Perfect Life(86)

“I wish. It’s not that. It’s worse than that.” She gives me a bleak little smile. “I’ve googled early-onset dementia. I have all the signs.”



“But you’re totally with it!” I say, feeling quite distressed at this conversation. “You’re sane, you’re lucid, you’re young, for God’s sake….”

Demeter shakes her head. “I send emails I don’t remember sending. I get confused over dates. I don’t remember things I’ve agreed to. This issue with Allersons. I’m sure they told me to stall. They were waiting for some piece of research they’d commissioned.” Her face crumples. “But now everyone’s telling me they didn’t say that. So it must be me. I must be losing my sanity. Luckily I think quickly on my feet, so I’ve got myself out of a lot of situations. But not all of them.”

I have a flashback to Demeter in the office, peering at her phone as though nothing in the world makes sense, turning to Sarah with that confused, helpless expression, deflecting attention with some random loud announcement. And now, of course, it all looks like a coping mechanism.

The thought makes me squirm uncomfortably. I can’t believe Demeter is anything other than a powerful, intelligent woman, at the top of her game and just a bit crap at managing people.

She’s pacing around the woodshed now, her face tortured. She looks like she’s trying to solve some problem involving Pythagoras and string theory, all at once.

“I know I saw that email,” she suddenly declares. “I printed it out. I had it.”

“So where is it?”

“God knows. Not on my computer, I’ve checked enough times. But…” Her face jolts. “Wait. Did I put it in my raffia bag?”



She looks transfixed. I don’t even dare breathe, in case I disturb her.

“I did. I think I did. I took a bundle of emails home….” Demeter rubs her mud-strewn face. “They’re not on my desk. I’ve checked that too. But could they be in that bag? It’s been hanging on my bedroom-door handle for weeks. I never even…Is that where it went?”

She looks at me urgently, as though expecting an answer. I mean, honestly. What do I know about her raffia bag? On the other hand, leaving a bundle of emails in a bag is a totally Demeter thing to do.

“Maybe.” I nod. “Absolutely.”

“I’ve got to try, at least.” Abruptly, she starts brushing herself down. “I’ve got to give it a go.”

“Give what a go?”

“I’m going to London.” She looks directly at me. “It’s only midday. I can get up there and back by evening. The children are busy; they won’t even know I’ve gone.”

“You’re going to the office?” I say, confused.

“No!” She gives a half bark of mirthless laughter. “I can’t risk going near the office. No, I’m going home. I need to see what I can salvage from my stuff there. If I’ve got any chance of fighting this, I need ammunition.”

“But what about Alex?” I point out. “He’s here. He’s waiting for you.”

“You can tell him what I’m doing when I’ve gone. Either he’ll come chasing after me or, knowing Alex, he probably won’t….” Demeter gives me a wry look. “I’ll just ask you one more favor, Katie. Give me a head start. OK?”





A head start. How long is a head start?

It’s twenty minutes later and Demeter’s already gone. I smuggled her into the house, stood sentry while she took a lightning-quick shower, then kept a lookout while she drove away. Now I need to see what Alex is up to.

He isn’t in the garden anymore, and when I knock on his bedroom door, I don’t get an answer. So I head along to the kitchen and find him sitting at our Formica table, looking at Biddy’s array of jams. As I enter, he turns to me with a weird expression of—what, exactly? I can’t make it out. Is it amusement? Or disquiet?

Is it pity?

I look swiftly at Biddy—what’s going on?—but she smiles pleasantly back. Clearly she hasn’t picked up anything amiss.

“Hi,” I say warily.

“Hi, Katie,” says Alex, his voice sounding constrained. “So, I was just talking to your dad and I hear you’re on sabbatical from a company called Cooper Clemmow?”

It’s like someone drops a set of cymbals inside me. Everything seems to clash and fall, while outwardly I’m perfectly still. All I can do is gaze at him helplessly, thinking: No. Please no. Nooooo.



“Not that you’re getting any rest, are you, love?” says Dad, with a little laugh. “They call her all the time, wanting advice on this or that….”

“Do they?” says Alex, in the same odd voice. “How inconsiderate of them.”

I want to curl up. I want to shrivel.

“Oh, she’s always on her laptop or on the phone, talking about these ‘brands’ they do,” chimes in Biddy eagerly. “Everyone wants our Katie.”

“These London bosses.” Alex shakes his head.

“Too demanding,” asserts Dad. “I mean, is she on sabbatical or isn’t she?”

“Very good question,” says Alex, nodding. “I think you’ve got right to the nub of it, Mick, if I may say so.”