My Not So Perfect Life(95)

“Maybe.” I feel my rosy glow dim a little. I don’t want the bubble to burst. But Alex is already out of the bubble, his face alert, his fingers moving quickly as they do up his buttons.

“OK. We need to get back. I need to—” He breaks off and I finish the sentence in my head. Fire Demeter.

Already, he looks beleaguered and stressed out by the thought. Maybe some bosses get a kick out of sacking people and throwing their weight around—but it really doesn’t suit Alex.

I take the wheel this time, and as we bump back to the farmhouse, I can’t resist speaking my mind.



“You’re not enjoying this prospect, are you?”

“What, having to fire my friend and mentor?” he replies evenly. “Funnily enough, no. And I know she’s going to try to wriggle out of it, which will make it even harder.”

“But even if she wasn’t your friend and mentor?”

Alex is silent, his face taut, as we bump over a hillocky patch of ground. Then he sighs. “OK. You got me. I’m not cut out to be a boss.”

“I didn’t say that!” I say, dismayed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s true, though,” he interrupts. “This management stuff—I hate it. It’s not me. I should never have taken on the role.”

I drive on, feeling a bit speechless. The famous Alex Astalis feels insecure about his job?

“Have you ever shaken up a compass and seen the arrow whirling around, trying to find a place to settle?” says Alex abruptly. “Well, that’s my brain. It’s all over the place.”

“Demeter’s like that,” I volunteer. “Totally scattershot.”

“If you think Demeter’s bad, I’m ten times worse.” Alex gives me a wry grin. “But bosses aren’t like that. They’re focused. They can compartmentalize. They like process. And long tedious meetings.” He shudders. “Everything I hate, bosses love. Yet here I am, a boss.”

“No one likes long, tedious meetings,” I protest. “Even bosses.”

“OK, maybe not all bosses do,” he allows. “But a lot of manager types do. Biscuit people do.”

“Biscuit people?” I snort with laughter.



“That’s what I call them. They come into the meeting room and sit down and take a biscuit and plop back with this air of contentment, like Well, life can’t get any better than this, can it? It’s as though they’re settling in for a long-haul flight and they’re pretty chuffed to get the legroom and who cares what else goes on?”

I grin. “So you’re not a biscuit person.”

“I never even sit down at meetings.” Alex looks abashed. “It drives everyone mad. And I can’t deal with conflict. I can’t manage people. It bores me. It gets in the way of ideas. And that’s why I shouldn’t be a boss.” He sighs, gazing out of the window at the passing landscape. “Every promotion requires you to do less of the thing you originally wanted to do. Don’t you find?”

“No,” I say bluntly. “If I got a promotion I’d do more of the thing I want to do. But, then, I’m at the opposite end from you.”

Alex winces. “That makes me sound ancient.”

“You are ancient. In prodigy years.”

“Prodigy years?” Alex starts to laugh. “Is that like dog years? Anyway, who says I’m a prodigy?”

“You came up with Whenty when you were twenty-one,” I remind him.

“Oh yeah,” he says, as though he’d half-forgotten. “Well, that was just…you know. Luck.” He comes to. “Shall I get that gate?”

I watch as he unhooks the gate, then drive through and wait for him to close it and hop back in. The engine’s still running, but for a moment I don’t move. We’re in a kind of limbo-land here, and I want to broach something with Alex, while I have the chance.



“Was it really luck?” I say tentatively. “Or do you think maybe you were trying to impress your father?”

I want to add: Is that why you can’t stand conflict? But let’s not turn into Freud.

Alex is silent for a few minutes, and I can see thoughts buzzing round his eyes.

“Probably,” he says at last. “Probably still am.” Then he turns to me, with a wry acknowledging smile. “Will you stop being right?”

I grin back—touché—and start driving on again. I sense that Alex might carry on unburdening himself, and, sure enough, after a few moments he draws breath.

“Sometimes I worry my ideas might dry up,” he says, an odd tone to his voice. “I’m not sure who I’d be without them. Sometimes I think I’m really just an empty vessel floating about, downloading ideas and not much else.”

“You’re a funny, gorgeous, sexy guy,” I say at once, and he smiles at me as though I’m joking. I can tell he’s not pretending: He really feels this. I can’t believe I need to bolster Alex Astalis.

“What would you do,” I say impulsively, “if you weren’t rushing round the world, creating award-winning branding concepts?”

“Good question.” Alex’s face lights up. “Live on a farm. Drive the Defender. That was the best fun I’ve had in years. Eat Biddy’s scones.” We come to a halt in the yard, and Alex twines his fingers around mine on the steering wheel. “Kiss a beautiful girl every day.”