“Yes, I did! I totally gave up on you!” I’m hoping to shock him into reality, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Think about it,” he says, taps his phone, and winks.
He’s insane.
“I’m really happy you’re engaged,” I say briskly. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful life together. I must go and help Biddy.”
As I leave the room, I want to scream. And Biddy asks me if I want to move back here? She must be bloody joking.
By the beginning of February, Dad and Biddy have bought yurts, feather duvets, fire pits, vintage-style kettles, one hundred meters of bunting, and two hundred labels reading ANSTERS FARM JAM. Dad’s midway through converting a barn into a shower-and-loo block, with nice rustic tiles on the floor. (Not the vicious bright-blue lino he was going to get cheap from his mate in the trade. Honestly, you can’t trust him for a minute.)
Meanwhile, the website for the Ansters Farm Country Retreat is up and running, and it looks amazing! I got Alan to do it for a reduced fee, by saying that if he did, I wouldn’t phone the landlord to complain about his whey and chicken stock. And so he agreed. The boxes are still all over the flat but I don’t care, because the website is awesome. There are pages after pages of wonderful country images, with alluring descriptions and a really easy booking form, plus a link to the Pinterest page I’ve created. There’s even a children’s page where you run your mouse over pictures of the farm animals and find out what their names are. (I’ve given all the cows names, like Florence and Mabel and Dulcie. I’ll just have to coach Dad.) Alan knows how to bump our site up on search engines too. He’s been rather a star.
My brochures are all printed. The final versions arrived yesterday and they’re perfect. The paper is just rustic enough, the font is evocative, the pictures are amazing…the whole thing works. I’m so proud of it. Not only of the farm—but of the brochure. I’m proud of my work.
And as I sit here at my desk, proofreading some endless report on the new brand architecture of Associated Soap, what I keep thinking is: Could I get my brochure to Demeter? Could I get her to look at it properly, really see it?
If I leave a brochure on her desk, she won’t look at it. If I give it to her at the wrong moment, she won’t look at it. Alex’s voice keeps running through my head, which makes me cringe, but I have to admit his advice was good. Pitch her exactly the right idea, exactly when she needs it. After all, he knows how Demeter works.
(Actually, that’s a thought I could do without. Move on.)
I need to make it count. Because I think if she truly focuses on it, she’ll love it. I’ve learned so much from Demeter. I finished that book of hers, Our Vision, and at the back I found some old sketches she’d done. Just studying those taught me something. At my most positive, optimistic moments, I even think: Could I become her protégée? If she sees my work and likes it, might she give me a chance? All I have to do is find a moment when she’s available and receptive….
But that won’t be easy. Demeter has never been less receptive or available. In fact, to be honest, the atmosphere at work has never been weirder.
A lot’s gone wrong since Christmas. No one’s happy; everyone’s tense. And even I, the lowliest of the low, am aware that Demeter’s at the eye of the storm. Flora gets the inside track from Rosa, and she’s told me all about it. First of all there was The Email. It was sent by Demeter—by mistake—and it insulted one of our clients. He’s head of marketing at the Forest Food restaurant chain, and apparently after some stormy meeting Demeter called him suburban with no handle on style in a draft email to Rosa. And then sent it to him by mistake. Ouch.
So that was a whole big incident, and Demeter walked around for a while with a pale, panicky face. Then, last week, things got worse. Rosa’s been working with Mark and some others on a new brief for Sensiquo—one of our beauty clients—and it’s been a shambles, with deadlines coming and being missed. Apparently it’s not their fault—Demeter’s been sitting on everything they send to her and not getting back to them. The final straw came last week when Demeter finally set up a meeting with Sensiquo, then had to cancel it. Apparently she didn’t seem to know what stage the project was at and it was quite embarrassing.
So the Sensiquo people got furious and complained to Adrian. As a result, Demeter’s in a real state. She keeps coming into the room, stopping dead, and looking at us all as though she doesn’t know who we are. And the other day, I came across her and Rosa having a furious row in the ladies’. Demeter was talking in a low, frenzied voice, saying: “I should have checked. Rosa, I don’t hold this against you. I should have checked the facts for myself. I’m your boss; it’s my responsibility.”
Whereupon Rosa looked at her with something close to hatred and said evenly, “You knew we weren’t ready, Demeter. I told you.”
“No, no.” Demeter shook her head. “You told me you were ready.”
“No, I didn’t!” Rosa practically screamed, and I hastily backed out of the ladies’ altogether. At times like this, you basically want to be invisible. So that’s what I’m trying to be. Invisible.
Today, though, everything’s pretty quiet, and I wonder if the worst has blown over. I’m just getting up from my desk to make a coffee, when Flora comes bounding up.
“Hey!” she says. “So are you on for a drink at lunchtime? We’re starting our Wednesday meetings up again.”
“Oh, right.” My spirits whoosh straight up. “Great! Yes!”
I’ve been wondering what happened to the Wednesday thing, only I haven’t wanted to ask. To be honest, immediately after the Christmas party I was pretty furious with Flora. But my anger gradually blew over. She was drunk. We all get drunk and say stupid things. And she doesn’t even remember it, so at least I can pretend it never happened.
“Everything’s been so crazy, we haven’t been able to do it. But we’re all determined. We need to crack on.” She sits on my desk and starts plaiting her hair. “God, this place. It’s insane. Everyone’s imploding.”
“So what’s the latest?” I lower my voice. I know Flora loves relaying gossip to me—and the truth is, I love hearing it.
“Well.” She leans closer. “Apparently Demeter’s going to talk to Sensiquo. Like, try to win them back? Because they’re worth a lot. And if we lose Forest Food too…” Flora pulls a face.
“So is the company in trouble?” I feel tendrils of alarm.
“Demeter’s in trouble. Vile cow. Except Alex will stand up for her, so…” Flora shrugs. “If you’re shagging one of the partners, you’re never in that much trouble, right?”
My insides squirm at the image of Demeter shagging Alex. I don’t want to think about it.
“Anyway, see you later,” says Flora. “Shall we go along together?”
“Great.” I beam back. “See you then.”
I’m feeling more positive than I have for ages as I head to the kitchen. I’m looking forward to this lunchtime drink so much, it’s actually quite uncool. But I’m starved of fun. It’ll be so great to kick back, have a drink, and maybe talk about stuff other than how the company’s imploding and Demeter’s a monster.
To my surprise, I can hear Adrian’s voice as I get near the kitchen. It’s unusual for him to be on our floor, and I suddenly stop dead with a new thought: Shall I give my Ansters Farm brochure to Adrian? I barely know him—he’s quite a remote figure—but his smile is always kind. He looks like the sort of guy who might give a junior a chance. I dash back to my desk, grab the brochure, and approach the kitchen again. I feel a bit keyed up, but I’m determined that I won’t be coy. I’ll just tell him: I want to be noticed and this is my calling card.
It’s only as I’m halfway through the door that I actually hear what he’s saying. He’s speaking in a low voice, his brows knitted.
“…can’t understand what’s going on, and, frankly, nor can I. Alex, you told me Demeter was the real deal.”
Oh God. It’s just Adrian and Alex, having some high-level poww
ow, and I’ve stumbled in. Should I back out again?
“She is the real deal,” Alex retorts. “At least…Jesus.” He thrusts his hands through his hair. “I’ll talk to her.”
“You’d better.”
Alex draws breath—then notices me standing there, frozen. “Oh.” He gives Adrian a warning look, and Adrian turns too.
“Sorry,” I stutter. “I didn’t hear—I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no.” Adrian’s urbane bonhomie is back. “Go ahead. I’ll talk to you later.” He shoots a meaningful look at Alex and strides out.
So now it’s just Alex and me. Alone together. Which is pretty much exactly what I was hoping would never happen again. Trying to ignore him, I head over to the Nespresso machine, shove a pod in, and turn it on.
Alex seems a bit lost for words, which is unlike him.
“So,” he says after a lengthy pause. “Hi. Did you have a good Christmas? Porcini stuffing, wasn’t it?”
And I know I’m über-prickly at the moment—but even the way he says “Porcini stuffing” seems patronizing. I can sense the pity seeping out of him: through his words, through his sympathetic expression.
My entire body is seething. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want him to “let me down lightly.” What’s he thinking right now? Poor tragic girl, got a crush on the boss; must be kind to her.
Well, fuck off.
And I know that’s not reasonable.
“It was great, thanks,” I say stiffly. “Yours?”
“Yes, good.” He nods, surveying me with those quick, clever eyes, then takes a deep breath as though he wants to say something awkward.
Immediately, alarm bells ring all over my body. I’m not doing that. I’m not standing here listening to him dole out platitudes while my cheeks burn and my mouth goes to sawdust.
“So,” I say shrilly. “Actually, I’m not in the mood for coffee after all.”
“Cat—”
“See you later.” I walk briskly out of the kitchen, like someone who has a super-brilliant life with lots to get done. As I reach the corridor, a lift is waiting with its doors open, and, without thinking, I get in. The doors close and I utter a tiny scream, my hands clamped over my face, still holding the Ansters Farm brochure.
But then, within ten seconds, I’m pulling myself together. I’m not going to lose it. Not over a man. It’s fine, I tell myself sternly. Everyone has the odd embarrassing moment in their life and I just need to get this in perspective. What I’ll do is: I’ll go up to the top and then back down again, and that will give me some breathing space.
The lift travels up to the top floor, where Demeter gets in. I find myself eyeing her curiously—she really looks in a state. Her makeup isn’t quite as immaculate as usual, for a start. Her eyes are distant and she keeps muttering something to herself. She doesn’t even seem to notice me as she jabs the button for our floor.
And I know this isn’t the best time. But something’s coming over me, a need to be something. I’m still smarting from Alex’s pity. So he’s sleeping with Demeter—so what? It doesn’t mean I’m a tragic nothing. Standing there, watching Demeter scrolling agitatedly through her phone, I have this desperate, overwhelming urge to prove myself.
“Demeter.” I rouse her from her reverie. “Can I give you this?” I hold the brochure out and she takes it automatically.
“Cath.” She peers at me as if she’s only just realized there’s another person in the lift.
“Yes! So, let me explain what this is—”
“Cath…” Demeter wrinkles her brow as though the sight of me is throwing her into fresh disarray. “Cath…” She scrolls back and forth on her phone even more dementedly, frowning at her screen as though it’s in Ancient Greek. “I did talk to you. We did talk?”
She really seems quite crazy. Flora says the truth is, she’s not up to running a department, and to look at her now, I’d have to agree. I mean, what’s she on about? Is she worried about not communicating with the junior staff?
I nod reassuringly. “We’ve talked loads.” Then I gesture at the brochure, trying to get her to focus on it. “So, this is a project I’ve…well, masterminded, I suppose….”
Demeter’s gaze sweeps over the brochure, but I’m not sure she sees it.
“Because, Cath, what I want to say to you is…” Her eyes zoom in on my face as though finally she’s found her topic. “What I really want to say to you—”
To my shock, she stops the lift, then turns to face me.
“Demeter?” I say uncertainly.
“Cath, I know it’s difficult for you to hear this,” she says, in those firm, strident tones of hers. “But it will turn out all for the good. In fact, this could be the best thing that ever happened to you.” She nods emphatically. “The best thing.”
OK, she really has lost it. I don’t know what she’s on about.
“The best thing?” I echo. “I don’t quite—”
“You just have to stay positive, OK?” She gives me an encouraging smile. “You’re so talented and bright. I know you’ll do well in life. I know you’ll get there.”
There’s an angle to this speech that is making me feel…not worried, exactly. But—
Worried.
It’s almost as if—
“Get where?” I say, more desperately than I meant to. “Positive about what? What are you talking about?”
There’s a long, still silence in the lift. Demeter looks at me. She looks at her phone. The wild, starey look has come back to her eyes, a hundredfold.
“Fuck,” she says, almost in a whisper.
I have no idea how to respond to this. But there’s a new sensation creeping over me. It’s gray and clammy. It’s foreboding.
“We haven’t spoken.” Demeter knocks a fist to her head. “I didn’t think we had, but…” She peers at her phone and her eyes dim. “I’m going insane.”
“Spoken about—” I can’t finish the sentence. The words feel like glass marbles, crowding my throat, making me choke.
For thirty seconds, there’s silence in the lift. I feel almost light-headed. This can’t be happening; this isn’t happening….Then, as though breaking the spell, Demeter thumps the lift button and we start to travel again.
“We need a meeting, Cath,” she says, in the briskest of businesslike tones. “Why not come to my office straightaway?”
“A meeting about what?” I force myself to say the words, but Demeter doesn’t answer.
“Just come along,” she says, sweeping out of the lift.
And I follow.
—
I think there must be a script to these things, and Demeter follows it to the letter. “Difficult times…current financial challenges…department contracting…budget constraints…been such a wonderful addition…so deeply and personally sorry…wonderful reference…anything we can do…”
And I sit and listen, with my hands clamped so tightly in my lap, they ache. My face is immobile. My demeanor is calm. But all the time, my brain is crying out like a child: There is something you can do. You can let me keep my job. You can let me keep my job. Please, let me keep my job. It’s all I want. Please. Please. Please. I can’t have no job, I can’t, I can’t…
No job. The thought is so frightening, so engulfing, it feels like a real physical threat, like a hundred-foot tsunami looming out of nowhere, paralyzing me with its enormity. I can’t run, or escape, or beg. It’s too late. It’s upon me.
I know there are difficult times and current financial challenges. I do read the news. And maybe I should have seen this coming…but I didn’t. I didn’t.
Demeter is now on to the generic stuff: “Looking forward…any help we can give you…proper paperwork…” She’s started glancing at her screen as she talks. She’s mentally moved on. Job done. Tick.
I feel as though I’m in a dream as she suggests I might like to work out my week’s notice or I might like to take money in lieu.
“Money,” I manage to utter. “
I need the money.”
There’s no point sticking around. If I leave now I can start making applications to other places.
“Fine,” says Demeter. “I’ll just call talent management….” She makes a quick call that I barely hear, my thoughts are such a whorl of terror. Then she turns back. “In fact, Megan in talent management needs to see you, so she suggested you pop up straightaway. Shall I walk you to the lift?”
And then I’ve stood up and I’m following her down the hall, and still I feel like I’m in a dream. I’m disembodied. This can’t be reality, it can’t….
But then we arrive at the lift, and something slices through my dream state. A sharp resentment. I’ve been so good up to now—such a model employee-being-fired-and-not-making-a-fuss—that it’s as if something in me breaks free in protest.
“So in the lift, you thought you’d already fired me,” I say bluntly. I can see I’ve hit home, from the flinch that passes across Demeter’s face.
“I apologize if there was any misunderstanding,” she says, and her weasel words make me want to slap her. If? If?
“Of course there was a misunderstanding.” My voice is tart, even to my own ears.
“Cath—”
“No, I get it. It’s such a trivial, unimportant detail to you, you couldn’t remember if you’d done it or not. I mean, I understand!” I throw up my hands. “You have a very full, exciting diary. Meetings…lunches…parties…fire your employee. No wonder you can’t keep track.”
I didn’t know I could sound quite so sarcastic. But if I thought I was going to make Demeter chastened, I was wrong.
“Cath,” she says calmly. “I appreciate this is an upsetting time for you. But it’s a mistake to become bitter. If we stay on good terms, keep the door open, who knows? Perhaps you’ll come back and work for us again. Have you read Grasp the Nettle by Marilyn D. Schulenberg? It’s a very inspiring book for all working women. It’s just been published. I read a proof copy, some time ago.”
Of course she read a proof copy. Demeter would never wait for a book to be actually available in the shops, like normal people.
My Not So Perfect Life Page 13