My Not So Perfect Life

I’ve called it @mynotsoperfectlife and I’ve already got 267 followers! I post utterly unvarnished, unposed, un-Instagrammy photos with captions, and it’s turned into one of the most fun hobbies I’ve ever had.

A photo of bad-tempered crowds on a tube platform: My not-so-perfect commute. A picture of the revolting blister on my heel: My not-so-perfect new shoes. A photo of my hair, drenched: The not-so-perfect London weather.

The amazing thing is how many other people have joined in. Mark from work posted a picture of himself eating a doughnut, captioned My not-so-perfect eat-clean regime. Biddy posted a picture of some ripped trousers, which she’d obviously caught on some barbed wire, entitled My not-so-perfect rural existence, which made me laugh.

Even Steve’s fiancée, Kayla, has posted a picture of a receipt for the deposit on a tent (£3,500). She called it My not-so-perfect wedding and I’m really hoping that Steve knows all about it and sees the joke too.

Fi has deluged my page with photos from New York, and to be honest, it’s totally changed the way I see her and her life. For a start, I hadn’t quite realized how small her apartment was. She’s posted lots of pictures of her shower—which I have to admit is really unappealing—all captioned My not-so-perfect New York rental. Then she posted a photo of a text message that some guy sent her, dumping her as she arrived for their date. She could actually see him at the bar, chatting up another girl. She called that one My not-so-perfect New York date, and got about thirty responses from people with even worse stories.

After Fi had posted about six times, I called her up and we had a bit of a heart to heart. In fact, it lasted all evening. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her voice. Words on a screen just aren’t the same.

And it’s not as if she said, Guess what, my fabulous life was all made up, I haven’t really got quirky friends, nor do I drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. Because she has got quirky friends, and she did drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. At least once. But there’s other stuff in her life too. Stuff that balances out the bright-and-shiny. Just like there is for all of us. Bright-and-shiny on the one side; the crappy truth on the other.

I think I’ve finally worked out how to feel good about life. Every time you see someone’s bright-and-shiny, remember: They have their own crappy truths too. Of course they do. And every time you see your own crappy truth and feel despair and think, Is this my life, remember: It’s not. Everyone’s got a bright-and-shiny, even if it’s hard to find sometimes.

“Katie?”

I raise my head and smile. There’s my bright-and-shiny, right in front of me—at least, two big chunks of it. Dad and Biddy have come into the kitchen, dressed up in their visiting-London outfits. They’re both wearing stiff blue jeans (Dave Yarnett) and gleaming white sneakers (Dave Yarnett). Dad has a new I LONDON T-shirt, which he bought yesterday at the Tower of London, while Biddy’s wearing a sweatshirt with Big Ben on it. Dad’s holding the tube map and Biddy’s clutching a flask of water. They’re going to Kew Gardens today, and I think they’ll love it.

They promised me they’d come to stay after I’d had “time to settle in,” and I thought they meant in the autumn, after the season was over. But I’m only six weeks into my new job and here they are, leaving Steve and Denise in charge of the glampers for a couple of days. It must have meant heroic amounts of organization, and I’m truly appreciative.

The only snag is, I haven’t been able to take time off work—but they insist that they don’t mind. This way they can “enjoy London,” as they keep putting it. Dad has told me about five times how he’s been finding London “extremely enjoyable” this visit and how he “never really looked at it the right way before.”

I smile at them. “All ready?”

Biddy nods. “All set! Goodness, you do have an early start, darling—” Then she stops herself, flushes, and glances at Dad.

I think Biddy and Dad must have made a joint vow on this visit: We will not utter one single even slightly negative opinion. I can tell they think my new bedroom is a little small (they should have seen the last one) and they think my commute is a bit long (I think it’s a picnic). But all they’ve done since they arrived is shower me with positive comments about London, Londoners, jobs in offices, and basically everything about my life.

“Handy window,” comments Dad now, looking at my nondescript little kitchen window. “Makes the kitchen very light.”

“Very nice!” chimes in Biddy eagerly. “And I noticed you have a Japanese restaurant at the end of the road. Very exotic! Very glamorous! Isn’t it, Mick? That’s what you get in London. The restaurants.”

I want to give Biddy a hug. My little road in Hanwell is not exotic. Nor glamorous. It’s well priced and the commute is half what I had before, and there’s room for a sofa bed. Those are the main attractions of my flat, as well as not having to share with weirdo flatmates. But if Biddy’s going to call it exotic and glamorous, then I can too.

The truth is, Biddy and Dad will never see or feel or understand the London-ness that gives me a spring in my step, every single day. It’s intangible. It’s not about being glossy and it’s not about trying to live up to an image; it’s about who I am. I love Ansters Farm, and I always will—and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll end up back there. But something about this life I’m leading now makes me feel super-alive. The people, the buzz, the horizons, the connections…Like, for example, I’m having a meeting with some people at Disney this afternoon. Disney!

OK, full disclosure: It’s not really my meeting. Demeter and Adrian are having the meeting, but they said I could come along. Still, I’ll be meeting the Disney people, won’t I? I’ll be learning, won’t I?

I check my reflection in the mirror and run a last-minute dollop of serum through my curls. I’m doing London differently this time. More confidently. I’m not trying to be a girl with straight, tortured, unfamiliar hair. I’m being me.

“So, let’s go.” I pick up my bag and usher Dad and Biddy out of my flat, through the little communal hall, out of the main front door…and to the top of the steps.

Yes! I have steps!

They aren’t quite as grand as Demeter’s steps. And she’s right: They are a pain to lug shopping up. But they’re gray stone and kind-of-almost elegant, and every time I open the front door in the morning, they give me a spark of joy.

“Nice…um…bus stop!” says Dad, gesturing ahead. “Very handy, love.” He looks up, as though to check I’m listening, and I feel a tweak of love for him. He’s praised everything in this street, from the houses to the scrubby trees to the bench outside the newsagent’s. Now he’s reduced to admiring the bus stop?

“It’s useful,” I agree. “Cuts my traveling time down.” (Let’s not mention the bus fumes or the crowds of schoolchildren who use it.)

As the bus draws up, it’s a bit of a scrum, and by the time we’re all inside, I’ve ended up separated from Dad and Biddy. I gesture reassuringly at them and take the opportunity to check a text which just beeped in my phone.

Hi Katie, how’s it going? Jeff

I blink at it for a moment. Jeff is this guy that I’ve dated, like, twice. We met at a conference. And he’s…polite. Nice-looking. Nondescript.

No, not nondescript. Quickly I steer my own thoughts onto a strictly positive, upbeat path: Wow. Jeff texted. We’ve only dated a couple of times, so this is a sweet gesture of his, to check in like that. It’s nice of him. Really, really nice. Considerate. He’s a really considerate guy, in fact. It’s a really good quality of his, being considerate.

This is my new guiding principle: Find a man of quality. Not a man who excites me but one who values me. Not a man who takes me to the moon and then vanishes off to New York but one who takes me to…Bracknell, maybe. (Jeff is from Bracknell and keeps telling me how great it is.)

Well, OK. Obviously the moon would be even better than Bracknell. But maybe Jeff will take me to the moon. I just need to get to know him. I text a reply:

Hi Jeff! How are you?

As I’m typing I have a sudden flashback to a memory which I must not keep having. It was just before I moved in here and Alex left for New York, and I texted him from a very dull residents’ meeting in my upstairs neighbor’s flat:

Help! I’m surrounded by biscuit people!

He started sending me photos of all sorts of biscuits. Then he started Photoshopping them with faces. And I got the giggles and I felt that glow, that warmth, that you-and-me feeling he gives me.

But the you-and-me feeling is a mirage, I tell myself sternly, a mirage. Let’s look at the facts. Alex is in New York on his one-way lifelong spree around the world. I haven’t heard a word from him. Whereas Jeff is here, in Bracknell, actually being interested in my life.

To be fair to Alex, he didn’t break off contact; I did. More self-preservation. Really, I should have broken off the whole affair that day in Demeter’s office, when he first told me about New York. But I was weak. I couldn’t resist a night in his flat, and then another night…and another…

So we had these golden, heady few days: spending time with each other and being in the moment. I didn’t dare to peer into the future. I didn’t dare think too hard about things. We cast the whole thing as “fun.” We both used that word, a lot, until it started sounding hollow. Where other people might tentatively have talked about love or connection or a relationship, we resolutely pitched the word “fun” at each other. I’ve been having so much fun. You’re so much fun. That evening was just…fun!

A couple of times, I caught him looking at me uncertainly, as though he sensed the element of charade. Catching my hand; taking it to his lips. A couple of times I couldn’t resist sweet, small murmurings into his neck, which sounded closer to love than fun.

But the word “love,” even uttered in my mind, made me jolt in alarm. No, no, no, DON’T fall….Protect yourself….He’ll be off; he’ll leave you….

And he was, and he did.

“Look, Katie, you don’t mind me going, do you?” Alex said once as we lay together, as though the thought was slowly dawning on him. “I mean…this has been fun. This is fun. But…”

“Mind?” And I laughed, an incredulous, bubbling, carefree laugh; I could have got an Oscar for it.

Oh, just jogging along.

The beep of Jeff’s text brings me out of my thoughts. This is reality, I remind myself. Jeff is reality. Alex is gone. A memory. A myth.

I try to think of some witty response to jogging along, but the very phrase seems to dull my fingers. Jogging along. Oh God. Very slowly, I begin to type.

Sounds…

I have literally no idea what to say next. Sounds what? Sounds super-fun? Sounds like my idea of hell?

And now, despite myself, I’m remembering another painful–magical Alex moment. It was a night that we had martinis, and Alex suddenly announced, only a little drunkenly, “I do admire you, Katie Brenner. I do so admire you.”

“Admire me?” I felt my jaw sag. No one had ever admired me before. “What on earth—”

“You’re tough. And you’re…” He seemed to search for the word. “You’re straight. You fought for Demeter because you thought it was right. You didn’t have to fight for her; in fact, you had every reason not to—but you did.”

“Actually, I was a mercenary,” I replied with a shrug. “Did I never tell you that? Made five grand. Result.” And Alex laughed and laughed, until martini came out of his nose. I could always manage to tickle him; I’m not even sure how.

I remember that we lapsed into silence then, and I gazed at him, while jazz played in the background and soft lights danced on his face. And although I knew full well in one part of my head that he was planning to leave, right at that moment it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t always be there with me. Entertaining me with his random comments and impulsive plans and infectious smile. I just couldn’t compute the idea of him gone.

Head over head, I guess.

Thankfully we’ve arrived at the bus stop where we need to change, so I’m able to quit this train of thought. Shake my head clear of old memories and hopes and whatever else rubbish is in there. I put my phone away and shepherd Dad and Biddy through the whole fight-your-way-through-the-schoolkids process. (I can see it from their point of view; it is a bit stressy. Although I will say: They’re both getting very good at tapping their Oyster cards.)

The second bus whizzes along straight to Chiswick (well, as much as you can whiz in London), and there’s summer sunlight glinting in through the window and Biddy even gets a seat. It really could be worse. At Turnham Green, I put Dad and Biddy on a tube to Kew, tell them I can’t wait to hear all about it later, and then walk briskly the rest of the way to Cooper Clemmow.

“Morning, Katie,” Jade greets me from reception as I walk in.

That’s another change I’ve made. I’m Katie these days, and I don’t know why I ever tried being anyone else.

“Morning, Jade.” I smile back. “Is Demeter in?”

“Not yet,” says Jade. And I’m about to head to the lift when she clears her throat and motions toward someone sitting in the reception area. I turn and blink a few times as I see the figure, feeling a sudden rush of emotions. It’s me. OK, it’s not me. But it’s like looking at myself.

Sitting there, fiddling with her handbag strap, is our new research associate, Carly. She’s wearing cheap black trousers and her hair in a plastic clasp and an anxious expression. As she sees me, she leaps up, practically knocking over her glass of water.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Hi, Katie, isn’t it? We met at my interview? I wanted to get here early on my first day, so…Hi.”

She looks so apprehensive, I want to give her a hug. Except that would probably freak her out.

“Hi.” I shake her hand warmly. “Welcome to Cooper Clemmow. You’re going to love it here. Demeter’s not here yet, but I’ll get you settled in….How was your commute?” I add, as we head toward the lift. “Miserable?”

“Not too bad,” says Carly robustly. “I mean, I’m in Wembley, so…but it’s not too bad.”

“I know what it’s like.” I catch her eye. “Truly.”

She nods. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen your Instagram page. My not-so-perfect commute.” She gives a sudden nervous half giggle. “And all the other photos. They’re brilliant. They’re really…real.”

“Well, yes.” I smile. “That’s the idea.”

As we head into the airy office space, I can see Carly looking around wide-eyed at the distressed bricks, the naked-man coat stand, the amazing giant plastic flowers that have just arrived from Sensiquo.

“It’s so cool,” she breathes.

“I know.” I can’t help catching her enthusiasm. “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

We had some kids over from the Catford community center last week—we set up an outreach day to complement our fundraising efforts. And they were fairly impressed by the office too. Even Sadiqua was, though she tried not to show it and asked everyone she met, “Can you get me on reality TV? ’Cause I want to be a presenter.”

That girl is going to go far. I have no idea in which direction—but she’ll go far.

“So,” I add, as we reach Carly’s desk, “I can’t remember, sorry—where are you from originally?”

“The Midlands,” she says, a touch defensively. “A place near Corby; you wouldn’t have heard of it….” She eyes up my print shift dress, which I bought when I got my first month’s salary. “So, are you a Londoner? You don’t sound like a Londoner. Are you…” She wrinkles her brow. “West Country?”

I haven’t tried to lose my accent this time round. I’m proud of it. My accent’s part of me, like Dad and Mum. And the farm. And the fresh country milk that’s made my hair so strong and curly. (That’s what Dad always said, anyway, to get me to drink up. It was probably bollocks.)

I am what I am. I’m just sorry it took me so long to realize it.

“I’m a Somerset girl through and through.” I smile at Carly. “But I live in London now, so…I guess I’m both.”

—

Demeter’s out at meetings all morning, so I keep an eye on Carly. She looks OK, but I know what it’s like to be that new girl, putting a brave face on. So at lunchtime I head to her desk.

“Come for a drink,” I say. “We’re all going to the Blue Bear. Give you a chance to get to know everyone.”

I can read her emotions like a book. A flash of delight—then hesitation. She glances at the homemade sandwich in her bag and instantly I know: She’s worried about money.

“On the company,” I say at once. “All on the company. It’s a thing we do.”

We’ll sort it later. Demeter and Liz and me. I’m quite friendly with Liz these days, now that the axis of evil has left.

On the way to the pub I text Demeter, telling her about our plans. She says she’s on her way, then texts back a picture of a vintage typeface she’s just seen: What do you think? I send back an enthusiastic reply, and we ping back and forth a few times.

We talk a lot by text message, Demeter and I. In fact, we talk a lot, full stop. Most evenings the pair of us will be the only ones left in the office, making herbal teas, talking over some issue or other. Once we even ordered Chinese food, just like in my old fantasy. We crack stuff. We work out solutions. (To be fairer, it’s often Demeter working out the solution and me listening avidly, thinking, Oh my God, I get it.)

I was always trying to learn from Demeter, but I only had scraps to work with. Now I’m exposed to the full Demeter creative mindset, and it’s great. No, it’s amazing. Don’t get me wrong—Demeter still has her flaws. She’s tricksy and unpredictable and the most disorganized woman on the planet…but, bloody hell, am I picking up a lot.

Then sometimes, when I’m in her office, we’ll relax a little and move on to family stuff. I’ll tell her the news from Ansters Farm and hear the latest gossip from the Wilton household. James’s job in Brussels is working out well, and they’re loads happier, apparently. In fact, seeing him only once a week has its advantages, Demeter added. (She didn’t spell out what the advantages are, but I can imagine.)

Coco has a boyfriend, and Hal wants to take up cage fighting, which Demeter is fiercely opposing. (“Cage fighting? I mean, cage fighting, Katie? What’s wrong with fencing?”)

I even went to supper with the family one midweek evening, in their amazing house in Shepherd’s Bush. It was lovely. Both Coco and Hal were on best behavior, and they’d made a lemon pudding as a joint effort. We sat round a reclaimed-oak table with Diptyque candles scenting the air, and the cutlery was some special French kind, and even the loo was like something out of a magazine (hand-printed wallpaper and a vintage basin). And I might have started sinking back into the belief that Demeter’s life was perfect, if Coco hadn’t shrieked, “Urrrrgh!” from the kitchen and we hadn’t all rushed in and seen that the puppy had been ill all over the floor.

(Coco wanted to win Best Not-So-Perfect Life for the photo of the mess, which she posted on my Instagram page. Mmm, nice.)

As we approach the Blue Bear, I see Demeter coming from the opposite direction, wearing her new leather jacket and looking very impressive as she taps on her phone.

“Hi, Demeter!” I greet her. “You remember Carly, our new research associate?”

“Hello! Welcome!” Demeter shakes Carly’s hand and flashes her that slightly intimidating smile, and I can see Carly gulp. Demeter is quite a daunting prospect if you don’t know her. (Although not so much if you’ve seen her facedown in the mud, wearing a sack.)

In the Blue Bear we order three bottles of wine and hand out glasses, congregating around a couple of high bar tables. And I’m just wondering whether Demeter should make a little welcoming speech to Carly, or whether she’ll feel too conspicuous, when the door to the street opens and there’s a bit of a gasp and I hear someone saying, “Alex?”

Alex?

Alex?

My throat constricts and, very slowly, I turn.

It’s him. It’s Alex. He’s wearing a slightly crumpled linen jacket and his hair is disheveled and he hasn’t shaved. He fixes his gaze instantly on me, and I feel something lurch inside me.

“I know you said it was just fun,” he says without preamble. “I know that. But…”

He shakes his head as though trying to sort his troublesome thoughts. Then he looks up again, his eyes dark, frank, without any playful spark—and as they meet mine, everything stops. I feel as though I’ve divined everything he wants to say at once, in that one look. But I can’t believe it, can’t let myself believe it.

As we’re staring wordlessly at each other, Alex sways slightly and grabs a barstool for balance.

“Are you OK?” I take a step forward in alarm.

“Haven’t slept for a few days,” he says. “I’ve been thinking. I didn’t sleep on the flight either. Katie, I got things wrong. So wrong. Everything wrong.”

He rubs his forehead and I wait silently. He looks a little devastated, a little desperate.

“I’m tired of darting and weaving,” he says suddenly. “Spinning. Constantly spinning. Never being still, never being grounded…”

“I thought your dad was going to ground you,” I say tentatively. “I thought your dad was your moss.”

“Wrong moss,” he says, and his eyes delve into mine as though they never want to leave. “Wrong moss.” He seems to become aware of the gaping Cooper Clemmow staff members all around. “Can we go somewhere quieter?”

There isn’t really anywhere quieter, but we edge a few feet away from the rest of the crowd. My heart is pounding; I feel almost light-headed. Where do we go with this? What is this? Has he flown back…for me?

“So you didn’t get on with your dad?” I say carefully.

“Fuck him and all who fuck him,” says Alex with a flippant gesture. “But that’s another story.” He shoots me a charming half grin, but I can see pain in his face too. I wonder just what’s been going on in New York these last few weeks. And I feel an unwarranted, irrational spike of fury toward Alex’s dad. If he’s hurt him, even a little bit…

“Katie, I’ve finally realized. I don’t want what you and your dad have. I want—” Alex breaks off, locking his eyes on to mine. “You.”

At once I feel my throat thickening. I thought I was on top of the situation, but I’m really not feeling on top of it right now. I’m feeling like I might dissolve.

“All I’ve been thinking about is you,” he presses on. “All the time, you. No one else is funny like you. Or wise like you. You’re very wise, you know that? As well as having incredibly tough thighs,” he adds, glancing at my legs. “I mean, they’re superhuman.”

I open my mouth and close it. I don’t know what to say. “Alex—”

“No, wait.” He lifts a hand. “I haven’t finished. That’s what I want, and I was an idiot to leave, and I should have realized—” He interrupts himself. “Anyway. But I don’t know if I can have you. And that’s why I’m here. To ask you. If you say no, then I’ll go away, but that’s why I’m here. To ask you. I’m repeating myself, aren’t I?” he adds matter-of-factly. “I’m nervous. This isn’t my style. It’s really not my style. Coming back.”

“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I…I heard.”

“So, yes, I’m nervous, and, yes, I’m embarrassed right now, but you know what? I’m owning my embarrassment.”

He finishes speaking into utter silence. Clearly everyone in the entire bar has surreptitiously stopped talking to eavesdrop on us. I glance up and catch sight of Demeter listening. Her hand is to her mouth as though in disbelief, and her eyes are a little sheeny.

“I’m owning my embarrassment,” Alex repeats, apparently oblivious to the audience. “Here I am, Alex Astalis, in love with you. Owning that too.”

I’m tingling in shock. Did he just say he was in love with me?

“But of course there are many, many reasons why this might not be a good idea,” he continues before I can reply, “and I wrote most of them down on the plane, just to torture myself.” He produces an airline sick bag with scrawled writing all over it. “And the one I kept coming back to was: All you ever wanted was fun. You told me. That’s what you wanted. And me turning up here like this, it’s not fun. Is it?” He takes a step toward me, his expression so agonized, so questioning, so quintessentially Alex, that I have to fight the urge to throw myself at him. “Is it?” he repeats. “Fun? This?”

“No.” Tears are shimmering in my eyes as I eventually manage to speak. “It’s not fun. It’s…us. It’s whatever we are. And that’s all I ever really wanted too. Not fun. Us.”

“Us.” Alex takes another step toward me. “That sounds good to me.” His voice is a little husky and hesitant. “That sounds…like what I want.”

“Me too.” I honestly can’t speak anymore. My throat is clogged and my nose is prickling. I never did push him out of my heart. How do you push Alex out of your heart?

And I’m frantically telling myself: We’re in a public place, behave with dignity…but then his face is a foot away…six inches away…and I inhale his scent and feel his strong arms around me…and, oh God, I’m lost.

I’m pretty sure that kissing your boss in full public is against protocol. Although…is he my boss right now?

Finally we draw apart, and everyone’s blatantly been watching us. Don’t they have lives? As the hubbub starts up again, I glance over at Demeter and she clasps her hands tightly, blows us both a kiss, then puts a tissue to her eyes, as though she’s my fairy godmother.

“Katie Brenner.” Alex cups my face as though drinking me in. “Katie Brenner. Why did I go to New York when I had you right here?”

“I can’t believe you left me,” I say, nestling into his jacket.

“I can’t believe you didn’t stop me.” He kisses me again, long and deep, and I find myself calculating whether I can take the afternoon off. Special circumstances.

Alex passes me a wineglass and I clink with his and lean against his chest again. And something in me unwinds, something I didn’t even realize was tense. I feel like: At last. At last. At last.

“Katie Brenner,” says Alex again, as though just saying my name makes him happy. “So, let me take you out to dinner tonight. I never take you out to dinner.” He frowns, as though we’re an old married couple. “Where would you like to go?”

“I’ve got Dad and Biddy staying with me at the moment,” I say, a little regretfully, but his face lights up.

“Even better. Family reunion. You do realize I’m only after you for Biddy’s cooking?”

“Oh, I know.” I laugh. “I’m not stupid.”

“So, family supper, then back to mine and…see how it goes? Let’s go somewhere really special.” His eyes are sparking with enthusiasm; I can feel the happiness emanating from him.

“Somewhere really special?” I eye him carefully. “You mean that?”

“Absolutely.” He nods. “Somewhere really, truly, extraordinarily special. Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

Is there anywhere I’d like to go?

“Hang on.” I scrabble in my bag. Right at the bottom is my ancient handwritten list of restaurants, the one I’ve been carrying around all this time.

“Any of those.” I point. “That. Or that. Or this one. Or that. Maybe there? Not there. And this one…hmm, not sure…”

Alex is staring at the list, a bit stunned, and I suddenly realize this is probably not how most girls react when they’re asked out to dinner.

“Or anywhere,” I amend hastily, crumpling the list. “I mean, really…you choose. I’m sure you’ve got loads of good ideas—”

“Bollocks I do.” He grins. “You’re the expert; you choose.”

“Oh,” I say, discomfited. “But don’t you want to—I mean, shouldn’t the man—”

“Own it, Katie.” He cuts me off. “Enjoy it. You’re choosing, OK? Over to you, my gorgeous Somerset girl.” He kisses my fingertips and pulls me close again, his voice soft in my ear. “You’re the boss.”