My Not So Perfect Life(93)

“What about your mum?” I ask tentatively.

“She has…issues. She gets depressed. She withdraws. It’s not her fault,” he adds at once, and I can see a sudden boyish defensiveness in him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my lip. “I didn’t realize.”



“I spent quite a lot of my childhood being scared.” Alex is still staring up at the sky. “I was scared of my dad. And sometimes of my mum. I spent most of my childhood like a fish. Weaving and darting. Trying to avoid…stuff.”

“But you don’t need to weave and dart anymore,” I say.

I’m not even sure why I say it. Except that he suddenly looks like someone who’s still weaving and darting. And is maybe a bit exhausted by it. Alex turns onto his side, rests his head in his hand, and looks at me with an odd, lopsided smile.

“Once you’ve got into the habit of weaving and darting, it’s hard to stop.”

“I suppose,” I say slowly. My mind is still reeling at the idea of thirty-seven addresses. It’s dizzying just to think about it.

“Whereas your dad…” Alex interrupts my thoughts, and I roll my eyes.

“Oh God. My dad. If he tries to sell you a bathroom suite, do not say yes.”

“Your dad’s lovable,” says Alex, ignoring me. “He’s strong. You should tell him the truth about your job, you know. This whole secret thing you’ve got going…it’s wrong.”

It takes a moment for Alex’s words to hit home, and when they do, they make me inhale sharply. “Oh, you think so?”

“How’s he going to feel when he realizes you’ve been keeping such a huge secret from him?”

“He might never have to know. So.”

“But if he does? If he realizes you felt you couldn’t come to him when you were in trouble? He’ll be crushed.”

“You don’t know that!” I can’t help lashing out a little. “You don’t know anything about my dad.”



“I know he brought you up pretty much on his own.” Alex’s steady tone is relentless. “Biddy told me all about it, earlier.”

“Biddy told you?”

“I guess I quizzed her a little after I’d realized you lived here. I was interested. She told me how she came into your family and saw the way your dad loved you and thought if she could just get a fraction of that love, she’d be happy.”

If I know how to press Alex’s buttons, he sure as hell knows how to press mine too.

“I know Dad loves me,” I say in a muffled voice. “And I love him. But it’s not as simple as that. He was so betrayed when I left; he’ll never accept that I’m a Londoner—”

“Are you a Londoner, though?” says Alex, and I feel a fresh stab of dismay. What else from my shaky house-of-cards life is he going to dismantle?

“You think I’m not a Londoner?” I say, in a trembling voice. “You think I can’t cut it in the city?”

“It’s not that!” says Alex, sounding taken aback. “Of course you can cut it in the city, a beautiful, talented girl like you? That’s not the point. It’s just…” He hesitates. “I think you’re more torn than you’ll admit.”

OK, I’ve had enough.

“You barely know me,” I say furiously. “You can’t just come here and tell me about my life—”

“Maybe I’ve got fresh eyes? Perspective?” He cuts me off in reasonable tones, and I suddenly think of him looking at our view and seeing in an instant what was wrong with it. Then I shake my head, dismissing the thought. That was a view. I’m me.



“All I know,” Alex continues, “is that you’ve got your farmhouse, your family, people who have known you forever—and that’s worth something. You know how a rolling stone gathers no moss? Well, that’s me.” He gestures down at himself. “Not a fucking speck of moss. But you? You’re a walking, talking mossball.”

I look away. “That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant. And, anyway, it’s not just your family, it’s…” He pauses. “I don’t know, the way you talk about the land. The skylarks. It’s in you. It’s your heritage. You’re a Somerset girl, Katie. You shouldn’t deny that. You shouldn’t lose your accent, change your hair. It’s you.”

I’m silent for a moment, brewing with thoughts, trying to respond calmly.

“You know why I got rid of the accent?” I say at last. “I was in the loos in my first job in Birmingham and I heard two girls talking. Taking the piss out of me. ‘Farrrmer Katie’ they called me. I wanted to burst out and slap them.” I flop onto my back, breathing heavily at the memory.

Alex absorbs this for a few moments, then nods. “I was in the loos at school one day and I heard two sixth-formers talking. I’d just won the design prize. They assumed my dad had done the whole project for me. I wanted to burst out and thump them.”

“Did you?” I can’t help asking.

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

Alex sips from his cider and I do the same. The sky is at its bluest and stillest at this time of day. There isn’t a sound except the incessant skylarks.