My Not So Perfect Life

Life has a dreamy quality at the moment. Good-dreamy and bad-dreamy. The cycling Santas…Alex smiling at me as we pedaled along…going to Portobello with Flora later today—that’s all good-dreamy. The office Christmas party is on Monday night and I keep imagining bumping into Alex in my little black dress. Chatting…laughing…he puts a careless hand on my arm when no one’s looking…we go on for a drink…back to his place…

OK, full disclosure: I keep imagining a lot of different scenarios.

So life would pretty much be perfect right now…if it weren’t for the bad-dreamy stuff. More precisely, the fact that my laptop died on Thursday and I had to buy a new one and it’s given me this huge great well of fear, which I’m trying my hardest to ignore.

I still can’t believe it broke. The IT people at work couldn’t fix it, nor could the guy in the shop. He tried for an hour, then shrugged and said, “That’s fucked. Well, you needed an upgrade, anyway,” and my stomach went all gnarly with panic.

I need a laptop for all my design projects; I couldn’t not replace it. But I didn’t have that money. I’m on a really tight, planned-out budget; every pound matters—and a broken laptop is like a financial hurricane. It’s made a huge hole in my finances, and whenever I contemplate it, I feel cold with terror. I’ve been so careful with money. So careful. And then this comes along….It’s just not fair.

Anyway. I won’t think about it. I’ll have a great day with Flora and browse all the market stalls, and obviously I won’t be able to buy anything but that’s OK, because that’s not what it’s about, is it? It’s about the atmosphere. The vibe. The friendship.

Flora has suggested we meet at her house, and as I walk along the road, I feel my jaw sagging. If I thought Demeter’s house was impressive, it’s nothing on these mansions. The steps are twice the size of her steps. They all have front gardens and white stucco like wedding cakes. I find number 32 and survey it cautiously. This can’t be Flora’s house, surely. Is this…her parents’ house?

“Hi!” The door is flung open and I see Flora framed in the massive doorway, still in her dressing gown. “I saw you walking along. I’ve totally overslept, sorry! D’you want some breakfast?”

She ushers me into a hall filled with marble and lilies and a housekeeper polishing the banisters, then down an underlit glass staircase to an enormous kitchen with concrete work surfaces. Flora’s parents are seriously rich, I realize. And seriously cool.

“So…this is your parents’ house?” I say, to be sure. “It’s amazing.”

“Oh,” says Flora, without interest. “Yes, I suppose. D’you want a smoothie?” She starts throwing fruit into a NutriBullet, followed by chia seeds, organic ginger, and some special seaweed extract which I’ve seen in health shops and costs about three quid a shot.

“Here!” She hands me a glass and I devour it hungrily. My own breakfast was a cup of tea and oats with milk: total cost about 30p. Then Flora grabs a paper bag full of croissants and ushers me out again. “Come on. Help me get dressed.”

Her room is at the top of the house and has its own bathroom and dressing room. The wallpaper is a sheeny silver design of birds, and there are Diptyque candles everywhere and built-in cupboards and an antique desk. Everywhere you look, there’s something gorgeous. But Flora doesn’t even seem to notice her surroundings—she’s pulling jeans out of her wardrobe and cursing because she can’t find the ones she wants.

“So you’ve just lived here since uni?” I ask. “You’ve never moved out?”

Flora’s eyebrows rise in horror. “Move out? God, no. I mean, I could never afford to. Like, the rent and the food and everything…Who can do that? None of my friends have moved out! We’re all going to live at home till we’re thirty!”

I feel a tiny swell of some emotion I don’t want to admit to, like envy, or possibly even—just for a nanosecond—hatred.

No. Take that back. I don’t hate Flora; of course I don’t. But she does have everything so easy.

“Well, I don’t have parents who live in London.” I force a cheerful smile. “So. You know. I have to rent.”

“Oh, that’s right,” says Flora. “Aren’t you from the Midlands or somewhere? You don’t have an accent, though.”

“Actuall—” I begin, but Flora has disappeared into her dressing room again. I don’t think she’s that interested in where I come from, to be honest.

I wait patiently as Flora does her eyeliner about five times, then she grabs her bag and says, “Right! Let’s go shopping!” with an infectious beam. She’s got her blond hair piled on top of her head, and a boho sheepskin coat, and glittery eye shadow, and if you gave her a caption it would read Totally Up For Some Fun. We run down the stairs, both giggling, and a door opens on the second floor.

“Children! You’ll disturb Daddy!”

“Mummy, we’re not children,” pouts Flora, as an elegant woman appears on the landing. She looks just like an older Flora but even skinnier. She’s wearing Chanel pumps and tight jeans and smells amazing. “This is Cat.”

“Cat!” Flora’s mother puts a cool hand in mine, then turns back to Flora. “Are you off to Portobello?”

“Yes, we’re Christmas shopping! Only I’m a bit broke.” Flora looks wheedlingly at her mother. “And I need to find something for Granny….”

“Sweetheart.” Flora’s mum rolls her eyes. “All right, look in my bag. Take a hundred. No more,” she adds sternly. “You’re always cleaning me out of cash.”

“Thanks, Mummy!” Flora pecks her mother on the cheek and dances down the rest of the stairs. “Come on, Cat!”

My mind is reeling. A hundred quid? Just like that? I haven’t asked Dad for money for years. And I never would, even if he did have a load of spare cash, which he doesn’t.

I watch as Flora helps herself from her mum’s purse, then follow her down the palatial white steps of her house. If Demeter has steps fit for a princess, these are steps fit for a queen. I want to take a picture, but that would be uncool. Maybe when I’ve got to know Flora better.

The air is crisp, and as we stride along, I feel buoyant. This is such a cool area of London. The rows of pastel houses are adorable, like something from a storybook, and I keep stopping to take pictures for Instagram.

“So, what d’you want to get?” asks Flora as we round the corner to Portobello, slightly battling the crowds of tourists.

“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Nothing much. I’ll just browse.”

My eyes are drinking in the sight of endless market stalls stretching ahead of us, with everything from necklaces to Kashmiri scarves, vintage cameras to antique plates. I’ve been to Portobello before, but not at Christmas, and it has an extra-fun vibe today. There are decorations up on the lampposts, and a group of guys in hipster hats are singing a cappella carols, while a CD stall blasts out Christmas songs in competition. There are mulled-wine stalls and a mince-pie stall and the delicious scent of freshly made crepes in the air.

I have a sudden flashback to sipping mulled wine with Alex, and find myself thinking, Ooh, will that be “our drink”? before I wrench my thoughts away, like a needle off a vinyl record. Get a grip, Katie. Mulled wine? “Our drink”? I might as well say that Santa hats will be “our headwear.”

Flora finds a china elephant for her granny and then drags me into a designer shop to buy a sequined dress for the office party. I wasn’t intending to get anything, but it turns out that some of the prices aren’t too scary. I see a woolly hat for Dad, only £8, and then a rack of £1 clothes, which Flora thinks is hilarious. Especially when I actually buy a crochet cardigan. At another stall we both try on crazy felt hats and I take loads of photos and I’m exhilarated. This is the quirky London life I always wanted to have.

Flora has been texting throughout the morning, and as we pause by a stall of mirrors she scowls at her phone.

“Something up?” I ask, and she makes a huffing noise.

“No. Yes.” She shoves her phone away. “Men.”

“Oh, men,” I agree, even though I don’t know exactly what she means.

“Anyone in your life at the moment?” she asks, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. I mean, the answer is no. But my mind is roaming back to that moment on the merry-go-round, the feel of Alex’s fingers in my hair.

“No. At least, there’s this guy…”As I meet Flora’s eyes I laugh, partly out of relief at having someone to talk to. “I’m sure he isn’t interested, but…”

“I bet he is! What’s he like?”

“Oh, you know. Gorgeous. Dark hair. Tattoo,” I add, with a little grin.

There. That’s vague enough. It could be anyone.

“A tattoo!” Flora’s eyes widen. “Wow. And where did you meet him?”

“Through other people,” I say vaguely. “You know. It was a bit random.”

“So, has anything happened?” She makes such a comical face that I laugh again.

“Nothing real. Just flirting. Wishing,” I add, with sudden honesty. “And what about you?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be seeing this guy called Ant, only I think he’s going off me.” She looks disconsolate. “He never replies to my texts….”

“They don’t.”

“I know, right? What’s so hard about sending a text?”

“They think sending a text makes them lose part of their soul,” I say, and Flora giggles.

“You’re funny,” she says, and links her arm in mine. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the office, Cat.”

We walk on for a few seconds, and I take a photo of a stall selling only vintage car horns. Then Flora turns to me, looking thoughtful.

“Listen, Cat, there’s something I need to ask you. Did you know we meet for regular drinks at Wednesday lunchtime? Me, Rosa, and Sarah. At the Blue Bear. Every week.”

“Oh, right. No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, we keep it a bit quiet. We don’t want Demeter gate-crashing.” Flora pulls a face. “Can you imagine?”

“Ah.” I nod. “I get that.”

“So the point is, this isn’t an open thing. It’s like…” She hesitates. “It’s like a gang. A club. A special little club.”

“Right.”

“And I’m asking you to join the club.” She squeezes my arm. “What about it? Are you in?”

I feel a joyful little surge inside. A gang. A club. I hadn’t realized quite how lonely I was feeling.

“Definitely!” I say with a huge beam. “Count me in!”

I’ll have to adjust my budget if I’m going to start buying rounds every Wednesday, but it will so be worth it.

“Cool! We’ll start again after Christmas. I’ll let you know. Only don’t tell Demeter.”

“OK! I promise!” I’m about to ask where the Blue Bear is, when Flora gives a loud shriek.

“Oh my God!”

“Babe.” A tall, dark-haired guy in a trilby has appeared from nowhere and has wrapped his arms round Flora from behind. “Your mum said you were here.”

“I’ve been texting you!” says Flora accusingly. “You should have texted.”

The guy shrugs, and Flora pushes him and giggles, and I’m wondering whether I should slip away, when Flora grabs my arm and says, “This is Cat. Cat, this is Ant.” She pouts charmingly up at him. “And since you’ve been such a nightmare, Ant, lunch is on you.”

Ant rolls his eyes with good humor, and I hurriedly say, “Actually, I’ll be going.”

“No, come with us!” Flora links arms with both Ant and me and drags us across the road to the Butterfly Bakery, which I’ve read about in a zillion blogs. It’s all pink and white stripes, and there are paper butterflies hanging everywhere from the ceiling. The customers color them in with felt-tips. It’s, like, the gimmick.

We hang up our coats on white wooden hooks by the door, then Flora grabs a floral-printed tray for each of us and bossily starts dumping items on them. “OK, these pumpkin muffins are yummy. And the flapjack hearts are great…and we should get a salad each…and this ginger cordial is amazing….” She loads up each tray, then announces, “Ant, you get in the queue. We’re going to nab a table. C’mon, Cat.”

She leads me across the room to an alcove where a couple are just getting up from their lunch and high-fives me as we slide into our seats.

“Result! This place gets sooo crowded.” Flora pulls out her sequined dress and looks at it lovingly. “So, what are you wearing to the Christmas party?”

“Little black dress,” I say. “Tried and tested.”

Flora nods. “Good choice. Last year, Demeter wore such a short dress, you could practically see her Spanx,” she adds disparagingly. “Who’s she kidding? I mean, just because you have a toyboy, it doesn’t mean you’re suddenly, like, twenty years younger. She’s such a crone. Here, I’ll show you a picture of what she looked like.”

“Toyboy?” I say with interest.

“You know.” Flora’s busily flicking through photos on her phone. “Alex Astalis.”

It takes a moment for the words to imprint on my mind.

“Alex Astalis?” I echo stupidly.

“That guy you met.”

“You mean…”

“Demeter and Alex? Oh God, yes.” Flora nods. “They’ve been having a totally un-secret affair, like, forever.”

My throat has clenched up. I can barely speak.

“How…how do you know?” I manage at last.

“Everyone does,” she says, as though in surprise. “You know Demeter was Alex’s boss, years ago? Well, apparently the chemistry between them was sizzling. Mark told me. He knew them then. And now Alex is Demeter’s boss. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

I nod dumbly. I’m picturing a youthful Demeter…a fresh-faced Alex…sizzling chemistry….

I think I’m back into bad-dream land.

“Demeter was married, even then,” Flora carries on. “But I guess she didn’t want to break that up or whatever….Anyway, that’s why she came to Cooper Clemmow. Alex went into partnership with Adrian and straightaway he headhunted her. So unsubtle. Look, here she is. Doesn’t she look vile?”

She hands me her phone, showing a photo of Demeter in a minidress, standing by an ice sculpture, but I can barely see it. I feel a bit cold. And deflated. And above all, incredibly stupid. It’s so obvious now. I can see them together. Both lithe. Both intelligent. Both at the top of their game. Of course they’re lovers.

It suddenly hits me: That’s why they’re both in Copenhagen. I can see them now, in a Scandi hotel room, having sex in some amazing athletic position that nobody else does except Demeter, because she’s the first person on the whole planet to have found out about it.

I’m still holding Flora’s phone, staring blindly down, my thoughts scudding around. Demeter really has it all, doesn’t she? She bloody has it all. The job, the house, the husband, the children, the fashionable paint shades—and Alex. Because obviously when you’re Demeter, a devoted husband isn’t enough. You need a lover too. A sexy, authentic, organic lover.

But…what about me?

My mind keeps torturing me, replaying those little moments I had with Alex. The way he smiled…the way he gently fixed my hair…glancing over as we pedaled along…I didn’t make it up. There was something; we did have a spark….

But what’s a spark with me when you’ve got a sizzling inferno going on with the goddess of sex, or whatever she is? I was just a diversion. I suddenly recall him after the Santa ride, scrutinizing his phone, saying, “I just need to text…them.”

He didn’t want to say “text her.” He was being discreet. But that’s who he meant.

“Hasn’t her husband guessed?” I try to sound like this is all breezy office gossip.

“I doubt it.” Flora shrugs. “She’s really good at lying….Oh, Ant!”

“Here we go.” Ant dumps two trays on the table. One is Flora’s, with her muffin, salad, and all the rest of it. The other has a bowl of soup. “Yours is up there.” He nods at me. “They’ve put it aside for you to pay.”

Me to pay?

All thoughts of Alex are swept aside and I stare up, feeling a bit hollow. I thought…

“Ant, you brute!” Flora pushes him. “You should have paid! Now Cat will have to queue.”

“No, she won’t,” he retorts. “I told them she was coming and they’ve put it aside. Because I’m thoughtful like that.”

“But honestly, Ant.” Flora sounds exasperated. “Why didn’t you just get her stuff?”

“Because I’m out of cash, OK?” He glares at her.

Oh God. Now they’re going to start fighting about my lunch.

“It’s fine!” I say brightly. “No problem! Thanks so much for keeping my place in the queue, Ant!”

But as I head to the checkout, I feel mounting dread. I thought Ant was buying us all lunch. I never would have come in here otherwise. I would have made an excuse and left. I’ve even got a tuna sandwich in my bag, all wrapped up in cling film.

It might not be that much, I tell myself as I approach the checkout. Don’t overreact. It might be OK.

The girl at the checkout is waiting for me and beams as she places my tray carefully in front of the till.

“So that’s the muffin…the salad…”

She rings up each item, and I try to look relaxed. Like a cool, rich Notting Hill girl. Not someone who’s holding her breath and making frantic calculations as each item is added. It’s got to be fifteen…eighteen…twenty quid, maybe?

“So, your total is thirty-four pounds, eighty-five.” She smiles at me and I stare back, dazed. It’s far, far worse than I imagined. Thirty-five pounds? For snacks? That’s a week’s supermarket shopping.

I can’t.

I just can’t do it. I can’t spend thirty-five quid on a few little bits. Not after the laptop disaster. I have to leave. I’ll text Flora and tell her I suddenly felt ill. She’s totally engrossed in Ant, anyway; it won’t matter.

“Actually, I’ve had a change of plan,” I say awkwardly. “I can’t stay for lunch. Sorry.”

“You don’t want any of this?” The girl looks taken aback.

“Um, no. Sorry. I feel a bit ill, I have to go….”

With shaking legs I head for the exit, take my coat from its hook, and push the door open. I don’t look back. If Flora asks, I’ll say I didn’t want to pass on any germs to her. I mean, it’ll sound lame. But lame is better than broke.

The cold air hits me sharply as I step out of the café, and I shove my hands in my pockets. Well, that’s it, then. I’d better head home. And just for an instant I want to cry. I want to sit on the pavement and bury my face in my arms. I can’t afford this life; I can’t be these people. I don’t have a mother saying, Darling, here’s a hundred quid.

Or a mother.

I know I must have sunk very low, because this isn’t a thought I let myself have. Much. Tears have actually started shimmering at my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. Come on, Katie. Don’t be wet. I’ve probably just got low blood sugar. I’ll eat my sandwich; that’ll make me feel better.

I send a quick text to Flora: Not feeling good, had to go, sorry, enjoy lunch xxx Then I find an unobtrusive spot on the pavement, crouch down, and get out my cling-filmed sandwich. It doesn’t look as appealing as the pumpkin muffin, but it’ll taste better than it looks, and in any case—

“Cat?” My head jerks up so sharply, I nearly crick my neck. Flora is standing three feet away, staring down at me in astonishment, holding a cupcake.

“Flora?” I manage. “Didn’t you get my text?”

“What text?” she demands, looking upset. “What happened? Why did you leave? I saw you go. You didn’t even say goodbye!”

“Ill,” I say, in croaky tones. “Suddenly ill. Sick,” I add for good measure, and pull a tissue out of my pocket. I retch into it, turning away as though for politeness’s sake.

“Oh my God,” says Flora, sounding shocked.

“It’s a bug. Don’t come near.”

“But you were fine a minute ago!” Her eyes are wide. “Should I get you…a doctor? A taxi?”

“No!” I cry, sounding like a scalded cat. “No taxis. I need…fresh air. I need to walk. I’ll walk. You go back and have lunch.”

“Why are you holding a sandwich?” Flora’s gaze drops curiously to my hand.

Shit.

“It…um…” I can feel my face flaming. “Someone gave it to me. Someone thought I looked unwell, so they gave me a sandwich.”

“A stranger?” Flora looks perplexed.

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“They said…” My mind scrabbles around. “ ‘You don’t look well. Here’s a sandwich.’ ”

“They just gave you a sandwich?” Flora seems even more flabbergasted. “But why?”

“I think it was a…a political thing?” I hazard desperately. “Anti-austerity sandwiches or something? I’ll have it later, when I’m feeling better—”

“No, you won’t!” Flora grabs it out of my hand, looking horrified. “You can’t trust some random sandwich from a stranger! Especially if you’re ill!” She throws it in a litter bin and I try to hide my dismay. That was my lunch. And now it’s in the bin.

“They gave us these freebies.” She holds out the cupcake sorrowfully. “But if you’re feeling sick, you won’t want one, will you?”

I’ve read rapturous descriptions of Butterfly Bakery cupcakes. This one is an exquisite chocolate creation, with swirly marbled icing. My stomach is growling at the sight.

“You’re right,” I force myself to say. “Just seeing it makes me feel…you know. Ill. Yuck,” I add. “Urgh.”

“Such a shame.” Flora takes a bite. “God, that’s yummy. Well, you look after yourself. You’re sure I can’t get you a taxi?”

“No, you go.” I make a batting motion. “Go back to Ant. Please. Just go.”

“Well, OK. See you on Monday.”

Shooting me a last, uncertain look, Flora blows me a kiss, then disappears. When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly rise from my crouched position. I’m gazing fixedly at my sandwich. Yes, it’s in a street bin. Which is gross. Unspeakable. But it’s still fully wrapped in cling film. So…in theory…

No, Katie.

I’m not getting my lunch back out of the bin. I’m not sinking that low.

But it’s wrapped up. It’s fine.

No.

But why shouldn’t I?

Without quite meaning to, I’m edging toward the bin. No one’s even looking.

“I’ll just take a picture of this bin for my blog on food wastage,” I say in loud, self-conscious tones. I take a photo of the bin and move still closer. “Wow, an untouched sandwich. So…I’ll just take a photo of this sandwich for my research about how food wastage is a real problem these days.”

Flushing slightly, I pick the sandwich out of the rubbish and take a photo of it. A little girl, aged about five, is watching me, and she pulls at the sleeve of a pale-pink cashmere coat.

“Mummy, that lady gets her food from the bin,” she says in high-pitched tones.

“It’s for my blog on food wastage,” I say hastily.

“She took that sandwich out of the bin,” says the girl, ignoring me. “The bin, Mummy.” She tugs at her mother’s arm, looking distressed. “We must give her some money. Mummy, the poor lady needs money.” Finally her mother looks up and shoots me a distracted glance.

“There’s a hostel a few streets away, you know,” she says disapprovingly. “You should get help, not harass people for money.”

Seriously?

“I’m not harassing people!” I erupt with indignation. “I don’t want your bloody money! And it’s my sandwich! I made it, OK? With my own ingredients.” Tears have started to my eyes, which is all I need. I grab the sandwich and stuff it into my bag with trembling hands. And I’m just starting to stride off when I feel a hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was insensitive. You’re a nice-looking girl.” The pink-cashmere woman runs her eye up and down my shabby Topshop coat. “I don’t know why you’re on the streets or what your story might be…but you should have hope. Everyone deserves hope. So, here. Happy Christmas.” She produces a fifty-pound note and offers it to me.

“Oh God,” I say in horror. “No. You don’t under—”

“Please.” The woman suddenly sounds fervent. “Let me do this for you. At Christmastime.”

She tucks the note into my hand, and I can see the little girl’s eyes shining with pride at her generous mummy. Clearly both of them are carried away with the romance of helping out a homeless stranger.

OK, this is the most excruciating moment of my life. There’s no point explaining the truth to this woman; it’ll be too mortifying for both of us. And, by the way, I know my hair isn’t blow-dried or anything and I know my shoes need re-heeling—but do I really look to her like someone who lives on the streets? Are my clothes that terrible compared to the average Notting Hill outfit?

(Actually, maybe they are.)

“Well, thanks,” I say stiltedly, at last. “You’re a good woman. God bless you,” I add for good measure. “God bless us, every one.”

I walk swiftly away and, as soon as I’ve turned the corner, approach a Salvation Army officer holding out a tin. And full disclosure: I do feel a slight wrench as I put the money in. I mean, fifty quid is fifty quid. But I couldn’t do anything else, could I?

The Salvation Army officer’s eyes light up—but as he starts exclaiming at my apparent generosity, I turn away and start walking even faster. What a bloody fiasco. What a bloody day.

And now, before I can stop it, my mind miserably fills with a vision of Alex. Alex and Demeter in their hotel room, lying entwined on some Danish designer rug, toasting each other for being so successful and hot and über…

No. Enough. There’s no point thinking about it. I just need to avoid him at the Christmas party. And then it’ll be Christmas and a whole new year and everything will be different. Exactly. It’s going to be fine.