“No,” I say evenly. “I haven’t read it.”
“Well, there we are.” Demeter looks pleased with herself. “Here’s a goal for you. When you leave here, go straight to Waterstones and buy it. You’ll find it inspiring. Listen to this quote.” She scrolls through her phone, then reads aloud: “Take your future into your own hands. Make it happen. Life is a coloring book, but you have the pens.”
I’m trying to stay polite, but my distress is seething up. Doesn’t she understand anything about anything? I can’t afford to buy a hardback book telling me to color in my life.
I try not to be envious; I really, really try. But right now all I want to do is yell, It’s all right for you! Your life is already colored in and you didn’t even go over the edges!
The voice in my head is so loud, I feel like she must be able to hear it. But Demeter’s still looking at me with that complacent expression. She’ll probably boast later about how she gave me lots of marvelous advice and I was really grateful.
And then, just to cap off a perfect day, I spot Alex. He’s walking along the corridor toward us with a questioning look. He glances at Demeter, and she makes a quick answering face and my humiliation is complete.
“So,” I say stiffly to him. “I’m off. Thanks for the job and everything.”
“I thought you knew.” I can hear the wince in Alex’s voice. “Earlier on. I’m sorry.”
I’m aware of Alex and Demeter exchanging expressions in a kind of shorthand. They have a body language I never picked up on before. A kind of easy, close naturalness that you don’t get with a professional colleague. I wonder if they shag here at work? Well, of course they do.
Demeter’s phone buzzes, and she answers it. “Hello? Oh, Michael. Yes, I did get your email….” She lifts up five fingers at me, which I guess means, “Wait five minutes,” and steps into a nearby empty room. And I’m left with Alex. Again.
I glance up at him and see his kind, tactful eyes, and I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. The horror of my job loss is so devastating, you’d think nothing else would even sting. You’d think I’d be numb to lesser feelings like humiliation and crushed pride. But I’m not. They just smart in a different way.
And suddenly I don’t want to keep quiet anymore. Why do we all do that? Why do we all pretend? I know what the rules say: Salvage your dignity; walk away; admit nothing. But I’m never going to see this man again in my life. And suddenly the desire to say what I really think is bigger than any other.
“You know what?” I say abruptly. “Let’s address what happened at the Christmas party.”
“What?” Alex looks so gobsmacked at the idea, I nearly want to laugh.
“Flora said I was in love with you,” I press on. “Well, of course I’m not; that’s ridiculous.”
“Look.” Alex seems to be seeking escape. “We really don’t have to do this—”
“All I thought was that you and I had…” I search for the best way to put it. “A spark. A tiny little spark of…I don’t know. Connection. Possibility. I liked spending time with you. At the time, I didn’t know anything about you and—”
I break off. I’m not going to say “Demeter” out loud in a company corridor. He’ll know what I mean.
“So I’m embarrassed now,” I resume. “Really embarrassed. Of course I am. But you know something? I’m owning my embarrassment. I’m not hiding or playing games.” I lift my chin, high and resolute. “Here I am: Katie Brenner, Embarrassed. There are worse things to be.”
The wrong name has slipped out, I realize, but I don’t care.
Alex looks stupefied by my little speech. Well, good. I feel liberated and even kind of exhilarated. So my cheeks are blazing. So my legs are a bit wobbly. So bloody what?
“OK, then,” I add. “So that was all I had to say, except goodbye. Tell Demeter I’ve gone up. Good luck with everything.” I jab the lift button and stare fixedly at it, waiting.
“Cat—” Alex begins, then stops. “Katie—” he tries again, but he doesn’t seem to know where he wants to go next. And despite the fact that everything about my situation is horrendous—and will seem even more horrendous when I get home—I feel a tiny twinge of satisfaction. At least that patronizing expression has disappeared from his face.
“Cat—” Alex tries a third time. “What are you going to do now?”
“Now?”
“I mean, job-wise.”
“Now, I’ve spoken to Cath.” Demeter comes swooping back into the conversation from nowhere. “I’ve told her to stay positive. She’s going to buy Grasp the Nettle and take her inspiration from that.”
“Oh, great!” says Alex weakly. “Good idea.”
“I thought so.” Demeter nods, and they both look at me as though: Phew! We recommended a book. Our consciences can be clear now.
They have no idea, either of them. Educated people talk about ignorance. Well, how ignorant are these two? Do they know what it’s like to live in Catford on a tiny, scraping, heart-juddering budget?
“I’m not going to buy that book, Demeter,” I say in a voice which suddenly trembles. “Because it’ll be eighteen pounds and I can’t afford it. I can’t afford anything. Don’t you understand? I’m not like you! I’m not like you!”
Demeter is peering at me with a blank frown. “Really, Cath, I think if you can afford to eat at Salt Block, you can afford to buy a very inspiring book—”
“I can’t afford to eat at Salt Block! How do you think I could ever afford to do that? That was all bullshit! I was trying to impress you!” My anguish spills out in a scream. “I don’t have a financial cushion. Or a famous daddy to give me a career.” A dart of shock passes across Alex’s face, but I don’t care. It’s true. “You’re so fucking entitled. Both of you.” I spread my arms wide, encompassing Alex. “Do you know that? Do you have any idea, any sense of—” I break off and give a little odd-sounding laugh. “Of course you don’t. OK. Well, I’m leaving now. So. Enjoy your perfect lives.”
The lift doors have opened, and I step inside. I jab the button for the third floor and begin to rise, thankfully without either of them trying to follow me. My eyes are stinging and my heart is miserably pounding. So much for a dignified exit. So much for keeping the door open. But right now…I really don’t care.
It’s funny how life works like a seesaw: Some things go up while others plunge down. My life is swiftly unraveling while Dad’s is finally, it seems, coming together. He’s sent me pictures of the constructed yurts, and they look wonderful. The bathroom block is gleaming, the fire pits look picturesque, the bunting is charming, and Biddy has stockpiled homemade jam. Meanwhile, we’ve sent out the brochures to everyone we can think of. Dad has left piles of them in every trendy café around Somerset, while I’ve targeted likely places in London. (I left a pile in a café in Wandsworth, and a woman in a Boden mac picked one up while I was still there. It was like magic.)
But that’s not the half of it. That’s not even the 10 percent of it. What’s happened to Dad and Biddy this week is like a lottery win, like a freak pot of gold under the rainbow. I still can’t quite believe it’s happened. The Guardian has profiled Ansters Farm Country Retreat in its “Glamping Roundup.”
It’s nuts! I mean, Ansters Farm isn’t even a thing yet! But clearly some journalist was under a deadline and found the website and thought, This’ll do. It’s all in the piece—the yurts, the chickens, even my prose about children being children. They printed a photo of a campfire in front of a yurt and captioned it: Ansters Farm is the latest family haven for hip glampers, and I nearly died when I saw it. I mean, The Guardian!
And if I’d still been at work, it would have been my greatest-ever triumph. I could have marched into Demeter’s office and said, There’s branding for you.
But I’m not.
It’s the last week of February and I don’t have a job. I don’t have the prospect of a job. I just have aching hands from typing job applications, googling brand agencies, and writing spec
letters.
I’ve written an individual email for each application. I’ve researched every single possible company in the UK that I might suit. My mind is reeling with product names, campaigns, contacts. I’m exhausted. And panicky. Occasionally I glance in the mirror and see my own stricken face, and it’s so not the face I want to see that I quickly look away again.
I’m trying to keep the fear at bay by doing stuff. I’ve reorganized my hammock. I’ve re-drafted my monthly budget to make it last two months. I’m doing a ton of walking, because, you know, walking’s free. Plus it gives you endorphins and will therefore, in theory, cheer me up. Although I can’t say that’s really working. And I’m still up to date with Instagram. I’ve posted moody images of London streets at 4:00 A.M. (I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t mention that.) I’ve posted a photo of the new pretzel stand at Victoria. I sound bright and breezy and employed. You’d never know the truth.
Flora’s been in touch, quite a bit. She’s left phone messages and texts and a long email starting: Oh my GOOOOOOOD. I can’t believe the witch FIRED you, that is SO UNFAIR!!!!!!!!
I sent an email back, but I haven’t spoken to her. I just feel too vulnerable right now. Sarah’s also been in contact—in fact, she sent me a surprisingly long and sympathetic card. Apparently Demeter got rid of Sarah’s boyfriend too, before I arrived at Cooper Clemmow. He’s called Jake and he’s a really good designer, did nothing wrong, but got made redundant. He’s still unemployed all these months later, and they’re both fairly devastated but trying to be positive. She ended with, I know how hard this is for you, and a string of sad faces.
And, you know, I’m sure she had the best of intentions, or whatever, but it didn’t altogether cheer me up. I never went to that drinks at the Blue Bear either—how could I? I’m not part of the gang anymore. And, anyway, I couldn’t afford to pay for my round.
I’m hanging out a lot at home, but even that’s stressful, because of our new flatmate. Anita has sublet her room while she’s away in Paris. It’s totally against the rules, but our landlord never comes round. (I wish he would. He might get rid of the whey.) Our new flatmate is a cheerful blond girl called Irena who has rosy cheeks and wears a floral headscarf a lot of the time, and I had great hopes of her until she invited all her friends round.
I say “friends.” That’s not exactly what it is. They’re a religion. It’s the Church of the Something (I didn’t quite catch the name and now I don’t like to ask). And they all meet in her room and sing and have talks and shout, “Yes!”
I have nothing against the Church of the Something. I’m sure they’re very good people. Only they’re also quite noisy. So, what with the singing and the whey boxes and Alan yelling, “Knobhead!” at himself, it’s getting quite oppressive in here.
I’ve come into the kitchen to make my vegetable stew, and I’m crouching on the cardboard boxes, which are now so battered they keep half-collapsing. Maybe I should join the Church of the Something? The thought crosses my mind and I give a wry smile. Maybe that’s the answer. Only I don’t think I have the energy to shout, “Yes!” twenty times a night. I don’t have much energy at all, is the truth. I feel drained. Defeated.
I stir my butternut squash and rutabaga stew (cheap and nutritious) and close my eyes with tiredness. And just for a moment, with my guard down, I let my mind roam into places it shouldn’t. Places that are cold and scary and full of questions I don’t want asked.
What if I don’t find a job?
I will.
But what if?
There’s a sudden dampness on my cheekbone. A tear is creeping out of one eye, I realize. It’s the steam, I tell myself furiously. It’s the onions. It’s the whey.
“All right, Cat?” Alan appears at the door of the kitchen, leaps up, and starts doing chin-ups from the lintel.
“Fine!” I force a bright smile. “Good!” I shake some dried herbs into my stew and give it a stir.
“Bunch of nutters, aren’t they?” He jerks his head toward Irena’s room.
“I think we should respect their beliefs,” I say, as another “Yesss!” resounds through the flat.
“Nooo!” Alan bellows over his shoulder, and grins at me. “Nutters. You know she wants another room for her friend? Asked if I’d move out. The nerve. They want to turn this place into a commune.”
“I’m sure they don’t.”
“D’you reckon they shag or whatever?”
“What?”
“Like, they haven’t all taken the pledge, have they?”
“I have no idea,” I say frostily.
“I was just wondering.” His eyes gleam. “A lot of these cults are into some crazy shit. Some of those girls are pretty hot.” He does a few more chin-ups, then adds, “I mean, Irena’s hot, come to that. Does she have someone?”
“I don’t know.” I scoop my stew into a bowl and say pointedly, “Excuse me.” I clamber down off the whey boxes and past Alan, heading back to my room. Please don’t let Alan hook up with Irena, I’m thinking. I’ve heard Alan having sex, and it’s like one of his motivational rants but ten times louder.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, start forking stew into my mouth, and try to find something positive to think about. Come on, Katie. It’s not all bad. I sent off a stack of applications today, so that’s good. Maybe I should go onto Instagram now. Post something fun.
But as I scroll through the images on my phone, they seem to be mocking me. Who am I kidding with all this fake, happy stuff? I mean, who am I kidding, exactly?
Tears are running openly down my face now, as though they don’t care who sees them. All my defenses are crumbling. There’s only so long you can tell yourself that a crap situation is good and believe it.
On impulse, I take a picture of my hammock. And then my rutabaga stew. It isn’t like any Instagram images of stew I’ve ever seen—it’s an unappealing pile of browny-orange slop, like prison food. Imagine if I posted that on Instagram. The crappy truth. See my cut-price supper. Look at my tights, falling out of their hammock. Look at all my job applications.
God, I’m losing it now. I’m just tired, I tell myself firmly. Just tired…
My phone suddenly rings and I jump, startled, nearly spilling my stew. And for a split second I think, A job, a job, a job?
But it’s Biddy. Of course it is.
I haven’t told Biddy—or Dad—about my job. Not yet. I mean, obviously I will tell them. I just don’t know when.
OK, full disclosure: I’m hoping desperately that I won’t ever have to tell them, ever. I’m hoping that I’ll somehow be able to sort things out quietly for myself, get a new job, and tell them after the event in a light and easy way: Yes, I’ve changed jobs; it’s no big deal, it was time to move on. Let them think it was my choice, a natural progression. Save them all that distress and worry. Save me all that distress and worry.
Because if I tell Dad I’ve been let go from my job at Cooper Clemmow…Oh God. Just the thought makes me wince. I won’t only be dealing with my own distress, I’ll be dealing with his righteous anger too. He’ll rail and fume and ask me what went wrong….And right now I don’t feel strong enough for that.
Biddy’s different, more reasonable. But now isn’t the moment to burden her. She’s got enough on her plate with the glamping venture—I can already tell she’s been overwhelmed. It’s been more money and work than she expected, and it’s consuming all her energy. I can’t make her load heavier with my problems.
Nor can I risk her offering me money, which I know she’d do like a shot. That’s her inheritance, and it’s going on the business, not on me. Honestly, I’d rather give up my flat in London than have Biddy subsidizing it.
And I may get a new job tomorrow. I may.
“Hi, Biddy!” I wipe my sleeve across my face. “How are you?”
Biddy’s been phoning me a lot, ever since Christmas. It’s actually been a real upside to this whole glamping thing—I’m talking to her so much more. I’ve helped her order furnitu
re for the yurts, and we’ve discussed where to put every fire pit and bench. She’s also had a lot of queries for Alan about the website, and, to be fair to him, he’s been super-patient. In fact, between us, Alan and I are the total architects of this project.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I, darling? You’re not eating? We’ve just been trying out a new lamb tagine recipe, actually. If we do offer dinners, I think it’ll be…quite good.”
Quite good. In the language of Biddy-understatement, that means utterly delicious. I have a sudden image of her doling out some fragrant marinated local lamb, sprinkled with herbs from the garden, while Dad pours some of his Cash & Carry red wine.
“Great!” I say. “Well done! So, did you want to talk about menus?”
“No. No, sorry, that wasn’t it. Katie, the thing is—” Biddy breaks off. She sounds nervous, I suddenly realize.
“Is everything OK?”
“Yes! Fine! Oh, love…” Biddy seems tongue-tied.
“What?” I demand. “Biddy, what?”
“Oh, Katie.” She gulps. “People have started booking.”
“What?”
“I know!” She sounds dumbfounded. “They’re using the website. It’s all working. I’ve taken five inquiries today alone. We’ve got three families booked in over the Easter weekend and four the week after. Four families, Katie!”
“Oh my God.”
Even I feel quite shocked. I mean, I knew people would come, in principle. But four families? All at once?
“Well, that’s amazing! Biddy, you’ve done it!”
“But we haven’t!” she wails. “That’s the point! Oh, darling, I’m petrified. We’re going to have real customers, and I don’t know how we’re going to manage them, or entertain them, or…what if something goes wrong? And your dad’s no help—I mean, he’s a good man, but…”
She trails off, and I gape at the phone. I’ve never heard Biddy sound so rattled.
“You’ll be great!” I say reassuringly. “I mean, you’ve got your lovely breakfasts and all the activities….”
“But how do we organize it all? I’ve asked Denise from the village to help out, but all she does is ask me questions I can’t answer.”
My Not So Perfect Life Page 14