My Not So Perfect Life

I start next month. The salary’s pretty much what I was on before and the offices are in Marylebone, and I’m thinking about living somewhere west this time. I’ve been looking in Hanwell, which is quite cheap.

They were really friendly, the two women who interviewed me. They loved my portfolio and said I had to join their pub quiz team. It’s a great place to work—I can tell that already. And they phoned to offer me the job while I was on the train back home. They really want me! I’ve got everything I ever wanted. So I don’t know why I don’t feel more euphoric.

OK. Full disclosure: I know exactly why I don’t feel more euphoric.

First of all, two weeks have passed, but I haven’t seen Alex since we were in London together. After that extraordinary, heady day, I ended up staying the night at his place, and it was so exactly what I’d always dreamed of that I felt like I must have taken some mind-altering drug. He lives in this big, light flat in Battersea, with a balcony and a view of the river (if you lean over the balustrade to look), and we had sex all night with all of London’s lights twinkling along as accompaniment. And then we had the perfect morning-after breakfast of croissants and more sex. And then he said he’d call, but—

OK. Stop.

I am not going to be that person. Nor am I going to tot up how many times I’ve texted Alex. (Five.) Or how many times he’s texted me in return. (Once.)

And, anyway, this isn’t all about him. The honest truth is that it’s not just Alex who’s left me feeling a little bit small and disappointed. It’s Demeter. She, unlike Alex, has been good at keeping in touch. We’ve spoken on the phone nearly every day, in fact. But her reactions have been a bit weird.

I thought when I told her about my new job, she’d be delighted for me. But she’s been all prickly. She even said at first I shouldn’t take the job, as she was sure I could do better. (What? Is she nuts?) Then she backtracked and said, “No, you have to take it.” Then she fired a whole load of questions at me about the job and exactly what my deal was—then seemed to lose interest. We haven’t really talked about it, the last few days.

And all the time there’s this big, unanswered question which, every time I think about it, makes me feel a bit hollow: Why didn’t she offer me a job?

She could have done. I mean, they need new staff. It’s been carnage at Cooper Clemmow since it all came out. Sarah’s been fired. Rosa’s been fired. Flora was leaving to travel, anyway, so she wasn’t fired, but she won’t get a reference. None of them will get references, in fact. Which means they’ll find it very, very hard to find work now.

Although that’s better than prosecution, which is what it could have been. Should have been. They deserve it, especially Sarah, and I’ve told Demeter so loads of times. Sometimes I think I’m more angry about what happened than she is. I’d love to see Sarah standing in the dock, weeping into her retro-print hankie, mascara smeared everywhere….

But Demeter’s decided that she’s not going to press charges. Her point of view is that sometimes you have to be pragmatic. She doesn’t want the whole story coming out in the press; she doesn’t want to testify in court; she doesn’t want to become known as the woman whose staff stitched her up. She wants to move on. And Adrian is willing to support her, whatever she decides. So. Case closed.

Demeter did take the rest of the department out to lunch, though, and explain a few things. She told Mark that she’d nominated him for the Stylesign Award. She explained that Rosa never had been selected for the mayor’s project. She apologized for being scatty and tactless. Then she explained exactly why the other three had been fired. Apparently there was stunned silence for a full three minutes. I wish I’d been there.

So the department is up and running again—apparently much more happily than before. But it has some holes in it now, obviously. And I don’t know what they’re doing about it. Nor can I bring myself to ask.

Anyway, who cares? I have a job. A fab job. There’s no point feeling hurt by Demeter. Or Alex. I have more important things to do, like training up Denise to take my place here.

“OK, let’s try again.” I adopt a wide-eyed glamper’s expression. “Hello! We’ve just arrived! Is this Ansters Farm?”

I’m in the kitchen, doing some role play with Denise, who needs a bit of work on the charm side of things.

“ ’Course it’s Ansters Farm,” Denise responds flatly. “Says so on the sign.”

“No, don’t say that. Just say, ‘Yes, it is! Well done!’ ”

“ ‘Well done’ for coming on holiday?” says Denise sardonically, but I ignore her.

“OK, now, smile. Say something like, ‘What a lovely dog!’ ”

“Them ones with dogs are the worst,” counters Denise. “Bloody pain, they are.”

“Well, they pay your wages. So smile and pat the dog. Got it?”

“Fine!” explodes Denise. “What a beautiful dog,” she says in syrupy tones, an unnerving smile on her face. “We can’t wait to welcome your wonderful dog. In fact, we love him already, on account of him being so marvelous. See, I can do it,” she adds with a sniff. “Now can I get on with my cleaning?”

I give an inward grin. I think she’ll rise to the challenge.

“How’s it going?” Biddy comes into the kitchen, holding a bundle of carrots from the garden, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt run through me. It happens every time I see Dad or Biddy—i.e., about a hundred times a day.

Not that I let on. Biddy won’t allow me to feel guilty for a moment. Not a sliver of a moment. The minute I started saying how bad I felt at leaving them, she got quite cross.

“We are so, so proud of you,” she said, clutching my hands. “You’ve given us so much, Katie. Without you, we’d have none of this, none of it. You’ve done your bit, my love. Now you go and follow your dreams. You deserve it.”

And I know she means it. But it’s another reason I don’t feel as euphoric as I expected. I love this place. Maybe I’m allowing myself to love it more now. I’m proud of the business, of Dad in his Farmer Mick outfit, of the yurts all lit up by lanterns at night. Ansters Farm has turned into such a thing. It’s going to be hard to leave.

“Do you need help with those?” I say to Biddy, nodding at the carrots. And I’m just rolling up my sleeves when I hear a voice behind me that makes me think I’m hallucinating.

“Hi, Katie.”

Is that…Alex?

“Katie! Oh, good, you’re here.” Another voice greets me, and I blink. Demeter?

I whip round—and I’m not hallucinating. They’re both here in Somerset. Standing in the kitchen doorway. Demeter’s wearing one of her edgy London outfits, and Alex has had a haircut, I dimly notice. I’m so flummoxed, I can barely speak.

“What—” I look from face to face. “What are you doing here?”

Alex grins. “As ever, you get straight to the point. It was Demeter’s idea, so blame her. We could have just got on the phone….”

“Katie deserves more than a phone call,” says Demeter.

“You wanted an excuse to come down here again and eat Biddy’s scones.” Alex prods Demeter on the shoulder. “Admit it. We both did.”

“Maybe,” says Demeter, starting to laugh.

“But what are you doing here?” I try again.

“Right,” says Demeter. “Let me do this properly,” she says mock-reprovingly to Alex. “No interruptions.” Then she turns back to me. “Katie, I’ve been talking to Adrian about you. And we would very much like it if you would come to Cooper Clemmow for an interview.”

My mouth falls open. I try to frame some sensible words, but they’re not coming out properly.

“ ‘Please.’ ” Alex nudges Demeter. “You didn’t say ‘please.’ No manners.”

“I’ve got a job already,” I manage.

“With Broth.” Alex nods. “Don’t worry, those guys owe me one. We’ll sort it out if need be. You haven’t signed anything yet?”

“No, not yet—”

“Great!” says Demeter crisply. “As you know, we have some gaps to fill at Cooper Clemmow, and we’re hoping to lure you into one of them. Subject to your impressing Adrian, which you most certainly will. Please?” she adds, and gives me one of her sudden radiant smiles.

“You’re fighting them off!” exclaims Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You go, Katie girl!”

“Mick!” Alex greets him in delight. “Mick, I’ve missed you. How are the wigwams?”

“Not so good.” Dad’s mood dims. “That Dave Yarnett’s a lying scoundrel. Wigwams for kiddies, weren’t they? No bloody good for us.” He shakes his head dismally—then brightens. “So, are you offering Katie a job?”

“It’s only an interview,” I put in quickly.

“If you can spare her for an afternoon,” says Demeter, eyeing my ensemble of jeans and Factory Shop T-shirt. “Have you got an outfit?”

“You mean…now?” The truth dawns on me. “We’re going now?”

“After lunch,” says Alex firmly. “Biddy, put us both down for the full Somerset farmhouse blowout.”

“But my clothes.” I’m trying to think what I’ve got that’s clean and ironed. Then I put my hands to my head. “My hair.”

“Nothing a quick blow-dry won’t sort out. Although…” Demeter peers more closely. “Katie, what’s going on with your color?”

“Oh, that.” I chew my lip. “Well, I wanted to get rid of the blue, so I went for a chestnut rinse. Only…” I can hardly bear to admit the truth. “It was a knockoff pack of dye from Dave Yarnett.”

“No!” says Alex in mock horror.

“I know! What was I thinking? But he was round here, and he had the boxes in his car, so…And there wasn’t enough stuff in the packet to cover all my hair. Is it really bad?”

“Not really bad, but…” Demeter hesitates diplomatically. “Maybe you should touch it up.” Then she gives me an odd little smile. “I’ll do it, if you like.”

—

It’s a pretty intimate thing, doing someone’s hair. It’s certainly an icebreaker. As Demeter brushes the dye onto my hair, we chat like old, close friends.

I tell her about the evening I spent with Dad last week, looking over old photos. There were pictures of Mum that I’d never seen, images of my childhood I’d completely forgotten. Biddy hovered by the stove for a while, busying herself with pans, as though she was too diffident to join in—but then I summoned her to look at a picture of me on a donkey at the seaside and patted the chair beside me. We spent the rest of the evening, all three of us, leafing through the photographs, listening to Dad reminisce, and I felt more like we were a proper family than I ever had before.

Then Demeter tells me all about James starting his big job in Brussels.

“The first night, I was really lonely,” she says with a grimace. “We have a very large bed, you know—custom-made French oak, actually—and when only one of us is in it…Well.” She exhales. “It’s a big old empty bed.”

“I bet,” I say, biting my lip at the custom-made French oak bed. I almost want to ask, Is the oak organic? But I hold my tongue. Demeter’s unbending to me here, and it’s nice.

“So the next night, I did it differently,” Demeter continues. “I piled a whole lot of cushions on the bed and I let our new puppy sleep there too. He’s not supposed to go upstairs. And it was fine.”

“What’s James going to say about the puppy?” I can’t help asking.

“He’ll be furious.” She gives me a sparky grin in the mirror. “Well, he shouldn’t have gone to Brussels.”

She seems far lighter in spirits than usual. Her brow is less drawn; she hasn’t looked swivelly-eyed once. Her life seems manageable and enjoyable, even with James away. She seems like a different Demeter.

And I find myself thinking: Maybe the Demeter I got to know wasn’t ever the real her. It was the stressed-out, beleaguered, victim-of-bullying version of Demeter. Maybe this confident, happy woman is the real Demeter. This is who Alex headhunted; this is who she was meant to be, all the time.

When the dye has done its magic and been rinsed out, we set up a blow-drying station in front of my dressing-table mirror. Demeter wields the hairdryer and sprays products randomly into my hair, while I tell her about my life in London. My real life in London. The flat in Catford, the hammock, and Alan’s boxes of whey. Shopping with Flora and panicking about money and being mistaken for a homeless person. We both end up in fits of laughter, and I remember thinking, all that time ago: Can Demeter laugh? Well, yes, she can. When there’s something to laugh about.

But then she becomes more thoughtful. “I looked at your old Instagram feed,” she says, and I feel the color rush to my face. I haven’t posted anything on my personal Instagram page for months. “You projected quite a different image there.”

“Well.” I shrug. “You know. That’s Instagram for you.”

“Fair enough.” She nods. “Everything’s hype and spin. But you can’t believe it all. Not of yourself…and not of other people.” Her eyes flick to me and away again.

I know what she means. She means: Why did you believe my hype when you knew your own hype was all fiction? And it’s a fair point.

I’ve had time to reflect about this—and I think I believed it because I wanted to believe it so badly. I wanted London to be full of perfect princesses like Demeter, living their perfect-princess lives.

“So, this interview,” I say, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “What do I say?”

“Just be yourself,” says Demeter at once. “Nothing to worry about. Alex and I know you’re brilliant already. We just need Adrian to see it for himself, which he will.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

I’m actually quite nervous about it.

OK, full disclosure: I’m petrified.

“I’ll tell you something, Katie,” says Demeter, playing with the hairdryer cord. “I got back to work and I missed you. I wanted to consult you about stuff. I wanted you to be there.”

“I missed you too,” I admit.

And it’s true. I missed her voice. Her opinionated, annoying, dynamic voice. No one attacks life quite like Demeter.

“OK. Serum.” Demeter starts squirting the serum onto her fingers. “Now, the trick to serum is the touch,” she adds, in her usual show-offy way.

“Demeter.” I roll my eyes. “What do you know about hairdressing?”

“Nothing,” she says without blinking. She flicks at my hair a few times. “There. Brilliant, no?”

I can’t help smiling back. “It’s perfect, thank you. Let’s go.” And it’s only as we reach the door that I ask the question that’s been humming round my brain but I haven’t quite dared ask: “So…am I being interviewed for my old job?”

“Everything’s changed,” says Demeter after a slight pause. “So not exactly.”

I feel a sudden plunge in spirits, which I try to conceal. She’s not going to offer me some crappy unpaid internship, is she? She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.

“It’s pretty much the same level, though?” Somehow I manage to sound light and nonchalant.

But Demeter is searching for something in her bag and doesn’t seem to hear the question. “Come on,” she says, raising her head. “Time’s ticking. Let’s go.”

—

We don’t talk about the job at all, throughout lunch, farewells to Dad and Biddy, and the journey up to London. Alex tells outrageous stories about his childhood, and Demeter takes several work calls on the car speakerphone, and then both of them want to know how the glamping business is going.

By four o’clock, we’re in W6. By half past four I’m sitting outside Adrian’s office, trying to remember all the branding jargon I ever knew. By five o’clock, I’m sitting in Adrian’s office, my nerves shredded, as he and Demeter leaf through my portfolio. Adrian has this calm, unhurried demeanor about him, and he’s examining everything carefully.

“I like this,” he says occasionally, pointing to a page, and Demeter nods, and I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m actually quite glad of the respite.

My last interview wasn’t anything like this. It wasn’t nearly so intense. Adrian’s already grilled me on a million different topics, some really technical, and I feel a bit battered. I keep rerunning my answers, thinking: Did I tackle the logo question right? Should I have voiced more views on the Fresh ’n Breezy rebrand? Am I using the phrase “design DNA” too much? (Is that possible?)

And now there’s this ominous silence as they both pass judgment on my work. I feel as though I might be sick from nerves, from anticipation, from hope….

“So.” Adrian suddenly looks up, making me jump. “Demeter tells me that in the time since you left us, you’ve set up a business from scratch.” He pulls out the brochure from where it’s got hidden underneath my portfolio. “I’ve seen this. It’s good.” He nods. “And you can pitch?”

“Katie can bullshit like no one else,” says Demeter. “I was convinced you’d been to every top restaurant in London.” She winks at me. “And I’ve seen her think on her feet. She’s like lightning.”

“As you know, we’re rebuilding our staff levels right now,” continues Adrian. “But we’re not there yet. It’s going to be hard work meanwhile. You up for that?”

“Absolutely,” I say, trying not to gabble. “Of course.”

“And you can manage a team?” He regards me intently, as though this is the most important question of all.

Through my head flashes: Why is he asking that? But I don’t let it distract me; I just answer as professionally as I can.

“Yes.” I nod. “I’ve managed and trained the staff at the farm. I’ve managed vacationers. I’m good with people.”

“Believe me,” says Demeter, with feeling, “she can make people do things they don’t want to do. This girl can manage a team.”

“Well, then.” Adrian surveys my portfolio again, then looks up at me, his craggy face easing into a smile. “It’s a yes. Welcome back, Katie. We’ll sort out a package that I think you’ll like.”

Package. That means…An almighty relief crashes over me. It’s paid. It’s a paid job! This entire interview, I haven’t liked to ask—but it’s paid! Thank God, thank God—

“It’s a yes.” Demeter looks at him alertly. “But is it a yes yes?”

Clearly she’s using some code that only Adrian will understand.

“It’s a yes yes.” Adrian nods at her. “No doubt about that.”

Demeter looks ecstatic. “Good decision,” she says. Then she leans over to hug me, so tightly that I gasp. “Well done, Katie.” Her voice is strangely constricted, as if some emotion is spilling out. “I’m so proud.”

“Thanks!” As she releases me, I rub my nose, still feeling puzzled. “But I don’t get…Why did you ask about managing a team? A research associate doesn’t manage a team.”

“No,” says Demeter, and she looks at me fondly. “But a creative director does.”

—

I’m in shock. Creative director. Creative director.

I’m sitting in Demeter’s office, holding a cup of tea but not daring to drink from it in case I drop it.

Creative director. Me. Katie Brenner.

“You have no idea how hard I’ve been pushing for this,” says Demeter, who’s striding around her office and seems almost more pumped than I am. “I knew you had the potential, but I had to work on Adrian.” She shakes her head dismissively. “Men. So narrow-minded. I told him, ‘This is the girl we should have kept! We should have fired all the others!’ Well, we did fire all the others,” she adds, as though in an afterthought.

“I still can’t believe it,” I say. “Are you sure…I mean, can I do this?”

“Of course you can,” says Demeter airily. “You’ll report straight to me and I’ll teach you everything. You’re quick. And you have the right instincts—that’s the main thing. That’s what can’t be taught. It’ll go perfectly, the pair of us working in tandem. I know it will. You’ll be a second me.”

I can’t help laughing. “Demeter, no one could be a second you.”

“I’m going to train you up.” She shoots me a glinting look. “Then you can start going to a few industry events on my behalf. And I’ll stay at home with Coco and Hal.”

“Sounds good.” I try to conceal my totally uncool excitement. Industry events!

“I think I need a bit of space in my life for…other stuff,” says Demeter. “Family. My children.”

I wander over to her pinboard and gaze at the familiar collage of Demeter images. Career success, family success, general coolness…Then I notice a new set of photos, which make me blink. It’s the whole family at Ansters Farm. There’s Demeter and James by their yurt, holding champagne glasses as bunting flutters behind them in the breeze. There’s Coco sitting on a hay bale, looking like a catalog ad with her endless tanned legs. There’s Hal, lolling against a gate, grinning at a curious cow. You’d look at those pictures and you’d think: Well, there’s a family with not a care in the world.

At least, other people might think that. But not me. Not anymore.

“Hey.” A voice at the door makes us both turn, and it’s Alex, beaming at me. “I’ve been pacing the floor,” he complains to Demeter. “You could have told me the news. Well done, Katie. Welcome back to Cooper Clemmow.”

“Thanks! Oh God.” I have a sudden thought. “I’ll have to tell Broth I can’t take their job.”

“In your face, Broth,” says Alex emphatically, making me laugh again. “Don’t worry,” he adds, as he sees my guilty expression. “Just think, some other lucky person will get that job now. It’s a win–win.”

I can’t help picturing some desperate job-seeking person like me, sitting on their bed with their hammock strung above, feeling desolate…then getting a call and hearing the wonderful news. Alex is right: It’s a win–win.

“So.” He glances meaningfully at Demeter. “Give us a minute?”

“This is my office,” says Demeter, rolling her eyes. “One minute.” She heads past him, through the door. Alex closes it, and we’re alone.

“Good day.” His eyes spark at me.

“Really good day.”

“Well, you deserve it, Katie Brenner. Of all people. Come here.”

He envelops me in a hug. Within about ten seconds we’re kissing, and I’m lost. I’m jelly.

No. I cannot be jelly in the office.

“Stop!” I pull away, my voice blurry. “I’ll get fired before I begin!”

“You’re delicious, you know that?” He strokes my hair.

“So are you.”

His hand is touching mine, playing with my fingers, and I can’t stop smiling up at him, and I think I’ve never felt as blissful as I do right now.

“You’ve done a lot for me, Katie,” Alex says, breaking the quiet. “Do you know that?”

“Same goes!”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. You got to me. You made me think about stuff.”

“Oh, right. What stuff?”

“What you have in Somerset. Your setup. Your moss.”

“My moss?” I give a little laugh.

“Biddy. Your dad. The farm.” He spreads his arms. “Moss, moss, moss. I want moss.” As he looks at me, I realize he’s not joking. He’s deadly serious. “I had the shittiest upbringing for moss.” A tiny spasm runs across his face, as though he’s trying to dodge the memory. “But it’s not too late, is it?”

“No, of course it isn’t. You just have to…” I pause, feeling as if I’m treading on eggshells. “Decide to stay. To commit. To reach out to people and be with them and…well…let them turn into your moss.”

There’s silence. Alex is gazing at my face, his brow furrowed, as though he’s trying to learn something very difficult and impenetrable from me.

“You’re right,” he says abruptly. “I run. I always fucking run. Well, I’m not running anymore. I want stability. I want love,” he adds, and I feel a tiny frisson as he says the word. “You know? Long-term proper love. I mean, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

“Well, I think so.” I feel a kind of spreading joy inside me. “I think you’ll be happy that way. And so…” I hesitate. “So will the people you love.”

There’s a taut silence between us. His dark eyes are still searching my face; he’s never seemed so intense.

“I agree,” he says softly. “I have a whole new outlook. I’m committing. This is it.” He bangs his fist in the other hand as though inspired. “I’m going to New York.”

What?

Did I hear that right?

“I’m going to find my dad,” he says with sudden passion. “Because I’ve ignored him. I’ve hated him. And that’s all wrong. Isn’t it? I mean, we’re in the same field. Maybe we should try working together.”

“You’re going to live in New York?” I’m so crestfallen, my voice breaks.

“Not sure yet. All I know is, I want the same relationship as you have with your dad. Maybe we are both tricksy sods, but shouldn’t we at least try?”

“But…” I’m still struggling to take in this hammer blow. “What about your job?”

“Oh, Cooper Clemmow need me back in New York next week,” he says as though this is some minor consideration. “American Electrics want me back on their rebrand—not in the role I’m in at the moment,” he adds firmly. “Forget that. I’ve realized I’m not cut out to be a manager. But what I can do is create. And I want to create a whole new life. A family-based life. Stable. Forever.”

He falls silent. Somehow I manage an encouraging smile, even though there’s a hot, looming sadness in my head. I thought…

No. Stop. It doesn’t matter what I thought.

“Wow. New York. I mean, that’s—” I break off, my voice not quite steady. “It’s a great idea.”

“It is, right?” Alex nods eagerly. “And it was you who gave me that idea.”

“Great!” I say shrilly. “I’m so pleased.”

The more brightly I talk, the tighter my throat feels and the harder I have to blink. I’m in shock. I hadn’t realized. I did let him into my heart. I did. I didn’t even know I was doing it, but somehow there he is, wrapped up with everything that I love.

Suddenly I notice Demeter watching us from the open doorway. She must have arrived back a while ago, because I can tell from her expression that she’s heard. And although she says nothing, I can hear her voice in my head, clear as a bell. One-Way Alex…never touches the same ground twice…a lot of broken hearts…don’t get smitten…protect yourself.

Protect myself. I can feel my mental armies springing into action. I can feel every self-defensive instinct waking up. Because here’s the thing I need to remember: Life is good at the moment. And I’m not about to blight it by pining after a man. I’m not about to hope for impossible things. However well we seemed to work together.

“Actually, Demeter?” I say, in the most nonchalant tone I can manage. “Could you give us another moment?”

Demeter turns away with one last, sympathetic look at me. I turn to Alex and draw breath, my heart hammering.

“So, I don’t know how you saw things working out between us, but…you know.” I force a bright, carefree smile. “We’ll both probably find…different paths from now on. So. No hard feelings. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Oh.” Alex seems a bit discomfited. “I see. Got it.”

“I mean, New York’s a long way away!” I give a breezy laugh. “You’ll be busy…I’ll be busy….”

“Yes. I mean, I had thought…” He trails off and shakes his head, as though dispelling an uncomfortable thought. “But…OK. Right. Understood.”

“So.” I clear my throat. “That’s…good. Sorted.”

There’s an awkward silence in the office. I breathe out a few times, my gaze distant, trying to keep my cool. I feel a bit like giving myself a high five, for sorting my life so efficiently, and a bit like bursting into tears.

“I’m not going for a week or two,” says Alex eventually, in wary tones. “I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come round to my flat tonight?”

“Right.” I swallow, trying to maintain my indifferent demeanor and not give away how much I want him.

It’s not only the sex or the way he makes me laugh or his sudden, random, always-entertaining ideas. It’s the sharing, the confiding, the peeling away the layers of him. Which is, I guess, how I ended up letting him into my heart. And so, really, I should say, No, let’s end it here. But I’m not quite that strong.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “That might be fun. Just fun,” I add for emphasis. “Fun.”

“Absolutely. Just fun.” Alex seems about to say something else when his phone rings. As he pulls it out of his pocket, he winces at the display. “Sorry. Do you mind if I—”

“Of course! Go ahead!”

The interruption is exactly what I need to get my thoughts in order and stiffen my inner resolve. I walk over to the window, my chin set, talking firmly to myself.

OK. This is what it is. It’s fun. It’s an interlude. And I’m going to enjoy it simply as that. Repeat: Life is good at the moment. No, it’s brilliant. And when Alex disappears out of the picture again, it will not throw me. Because the thing about letting people into your heart is, you can just push them out again. Easy.