“You haven’t got dementia,” I say, appalled. “That’s ridiculous!”
But Demeter is shaking her head almost savagely, as though she can’t hear me.
“Things change. Things…they don’t make sense. Emails. Messages.” Her brow wrinkles as though with the memory. “Every day I get through in a state of, basically…panic. Yes. Panic. Trying to keep on top of everything and failing. Quite clearly failing, as my imminent dismissal goes to prove.” She wipes roughly at her eyes. “I do apologize. This is unlike me.”
“Look.” I gulp, feeling more and more uneasy. “You’re brilliant at what you do. You really inspired me, and you’ve got amazing ideas—”
“Tell me about the staff.” She cuts me off dead. “Where have I messed up? Why do they hate me?”
I’m about to give the pat answer: They don’t hate you. But something about Demeter’s expression stops me fobbing her off. I respect this woman. She deserves better than that.
“Well, take Rosa.” I pick a name at random. “She feels…” I hesitate, trying to decide how to put it.
She feels you stamp on her fingers with your Miu Miu shoes.
“She feels you don’t always encourage her to develop her career,” I say carefully. “Like, you wouldn’t let her do the mayor’s athletics project.”
“She’s holding that against me?” Demeter looks incredulous.
“Well, it would have showcased her talents….”
“Jesus.” Demeter closes her eyes. “I don’t believe this. Do you want to know the truth? They didn’t want her at the mayor’s project.”
“What?” It’s my turn to stare.
“I wrote an email recommending her, and we sent off a portfolio, but she didn’t make the grade.”
“But why didn’t you tell her?” I exclaim.
“Rosa always seems very sensitive. Oversensitive, even.” Demeter shrugs. “I thought I’d protect her feelings and say that I needed her. Keep her confidence levels up.”
“Oh.” I think about this. “Well, maybe you kept her confidence levels up, but…”
“Now she hates me,” finishes Demeter. “Yes. I can see how that might have happened. Unintended consequences and all that.” There’s a strange quiver to her face, and I think she’s quite upset but trying to mask it. “I won’t make that mistake again. Who else?”
“OK,” I say, feeling worse than ever. “So…Mark. He hates you because you stole his thunder with that Drench moisturizer rebrand.”
“Really?” Demeter looks astonished. “But that was a massive success. We’ve won awards. It’s boosted his career.”
“Well, I know. But he had his own ideas, and you came barging in and took over and embarrassed him….” I bite my lip. “I’m only telling you what people say—” I break off, unnerved at the anger suddenly flashing in Demeter’s face.
“I saved him,” she says hotly. “I bloody saved him. Those designs he came up with were rushed and substandard. He’s talented, Mark, but he does too much freelance work on the side. I know that’s what he’s up to at home. He’s greedy; he takes on too much, and it shows.” She falls silent and seems to simmer down. “But I could have been more diplomatic,” she adds. “When I get a good idea I forget everything else. It’s a bad fault of mine.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I’m quiet for a while. I can see that Demeter’s head is teeming with thoughts, and no wonder.
“So, Rosa hates me and Mark hates me,” she says, in an odd voice. “Anyone else?”
“Hate’s the wrong word,” I say hurriedly, even though it’s exactly the right word. “It’s just…I suppose…they don’t feel very respected. For example, did you even know that Mark won the Stylesign Award for Innovation?”
Demeter turns her head and surveys me as though I’m mad.
“Of course I bloody knew. I put him up for it. I’m on the contributing panel. And I sent him a card afterward.” Then her brow creases. “Actually, did I send it? I know I wrote it….”
“You what?” I gape at her. “Well, did you tell him you nominated him?”
“Of course I didn’t tell him,” she retorts. “It’s anonymous.”
“So no one at the office has any idea you helped him?”
“I don’t know,” says Demeter impatiently.
“Well, you should!” I practically yell. “You should get some credit! Demeter, you’re driving me mad here! You’re so much nicer than you make out you are. But you’ve got to help yourself!”
“I don’t understand,” says Demeter, a little haughtily, and I nearly pop with exasperation.
“Don’t make people do up your corset dress. Don’t make people do your roots. Don’t tell Hannah she’s being a drama queen because she’s had a panic attack.”
“What?” Demeter looks horrified. “I never said that. I would never say something like that. I’ve been very supportive of Hannah and her issues—”
“I remember it exactly,” I cut her off. “You said to Hannah, ‘No one thinks you’re a drama queen.’ To her that sounded like, You’re a drama queen.”
“Oh.” Demeter sounds chastened. “Oh. I see.”
There’s a long silence, and I can tell she’s mulling. “I think perhaps I don’t always communicate what I want to communicate,” she says at last.
“We have an expression for it,” I say. If I’m going to be honest, I might as well tell her the lot. “We call it ‘being Demetered.’ ”
“Oh my God.” She looks even more shell-shocked. As well she might.
There’s another long silence, and I know some thought or other is bubbling to the top of Demeter’s head. Sure enough, a moment later she exclaims, “But the roots! Do you hate me because I asked you to do my roots?”
“Well…” I’m not sure how to reply, but luckily Demeter doesn’t seem to need an answer.
“Because that I do not understand,” she continues emphatically. “I thought we were all in the sisterhood. If you asked me to do your roots, Katie, and I had time, then of course I would. Of course I would.”
She meets my gaze, unblinking, and I realize that I believe her. I think she means it. She’d do my roots in a heartbeat and not be remotely offended.
With every revelation, more of a pattern has started to form. I think in some ways Demeter’s the opposite of what we all thought. Maybe she’s careless—but she’s not vindictive. She isn’t deliberately stamping everyone with her Miu Miu shoes—she’s just not being careful enough about where she places them. She obviously thinks that everyone’s like her: focused on having great ideas and making them work and not fussing too much about the details. The trouble is, people—employees—do mind about the details.
The more I realize the truth, the more frustrated I’m feeling with her. It could all be so different, if she took more care.
“You know, it really doesn’t help that you always mix up people’s names,” I say bluntly. “And the way you look at people as if you can’t remember who they are? That’s bad.”
For the first time in our conversation, Demeter looks truly mortified. “I have a very small visual-recognition issue,” she says with dignity. “But it’s only a detail. I’ve masked it successfully all my life. It’s never held me back at work.”
God, she’s perverse. I feel like strangling her.
“You haven’t masked it successfully!” I retort. “And it has held you back! Because, look, you’re about to get fired, and that’s a factor. People think you don’t care about them. If you just told everyone you had a problem—” I break off as an idea hits me. “Maybe that’s why you get confused with stuff. I mean, it’s a thing. Like being dyslexic. You could get help; you could get support….” I trail off as Demeter shakes her head.
“I wish. It’s not that. It’s worse than that.” She gives me a bleak little smile. “I’ve googled early-onset dementia. I have all the signs.”
“But you’re totally with it!” I say, feeling quite distressed at this conversati
on. “You’re sane, you’re lucid, you’re young, for God’s sake….”
Demeter shakes her head. “I send emails I don’t remember sending. I get confused over dates. I don’t remember things I’ve agreed to. This issue with Allersons. I’m sure they told me to stall. They were waiting for some piece of research they’d commissioned.” Her face crumples. “But now everyone’s telling me they didn’t say that. So it must be me. I must be losing my sanity. Luckily I think quickly on my feet, so I’ve got myself out of a lot of situations. But not all of them.”
I have a flashback to Demeter in the office, peering at her phone as though nothing in the world makes sense, turning to Sarah with that confused, helpless expression, deflecting attention with some random loud announcement. And now, of course, it all looks like a coping mechanism.
The thought makes me squirm uncomfortably. I can’t believe Demeter is anything other than a powerful, intelligent woman, at the top of her game and just a bit crap at managing people.
She’s pacing around the woodshed now, her face tortured. She looks like she’s trying to solve some problem involving Pythagoras and string theory, all at once.
“I know I saw that email,” she suddenly declares. “I printed it out. I had it.”
“So where is it?”
“God knows. Not on my computer, I’ve checked enough times. But…” Her face jolts. “Wait. Did I put it in my raffia bag?”
She looks transfixed. I don’t even dare breathe, in case I disturb her.
“I did. I think I did. I took a bundle of emails home….” Demeter rubs her mud-strewn face. “They’re not on my desk. I’ve checked that too. But could they be in that bag? It’s been hanging on my bedroom-door handle for weeks. I never even…Is that where it went?”
She looks at me urgently, as though expecting an answer. I mean, honestly. What do I know about her raffia bag? On the other hand, leaving a bundle of emails in a bag is a totally Demeter thing to do.
“Maybe.” I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve got to try, at least.” Abruptly, she starts brushing herself down. “I’ve got to give it a go.”
“Give what a go?”
“I’m going to London.” She looks directly at me. “It’s only midday. I can get up there and back by evening. The children are busy; they won’t even know I’ve gone.”
“You’re going to the office?” I say, confused.
“No!” She gives a half bark of mirthless laughter. “I can’t risk going near the office. No, I’m going home. I need to see what I can salvage from my stuff there. If I’ve got any chance of fighting this, I need ammunition.”
“But what about Alex?” I point out. “He’s here. He’s waiting for you.”
“You can tell him what I’m doing when I’ve gone. Either he’ll come chasing after me or, knowing Alex, he probably won’t….” Demeter gives me a wry look. “I’ll just ask you one more favor, Katie. Give me a head start. OK?”
A head start. How long is a head start?
It’s twenty minutes later and Demeter’s already gone. I smuggled her into the house, stood sentry while she took a lightning-quick shower, then kept a lookout while she drove away. Now I need to see what Alex is up to.
He isn’t in the garden anymore, and when I knock on his bedroom door, I don’t get an answer. So I head along to the kitchen and find him sitting at our Formica table, looking at Biddy’s array of jams. As I enter, he turns to me with a weird expression of—what, exactly? I can’t make it out. Is it amusement? Or disquiet?
Is it pity?
I look swiftly at Biddy—what’s going on?—but she smiles pleasantly back. Clearly she hasn’t picked up anything amiss.
“Hi,” I say warily.
“Hi, Katie,” says Alex, his voice sounding constrained. “So, I was just talking to your dad and I hear you’re on sabbatical from a company called Cooper Clemmow?”
It’s like someone drops a set of cymbals inside me. Everything seems to clash and fall, while outwardly I’m perfectly still. All I can do is gaze at him helplessly, thinking: No. Please no. Nooooo.
“Not that you’re getting any rest, are you, love?” says Dad, with a little laugh. “They call her all the time, wanting advice on this or that….”
“Do they?” says Alex, in the same odd voice. “How inconsiderate of them.”
I want to curl up. I want to shrivel.
“Oh, she’s always on her laptop or on the phone, talking about these ‘brands’ they do,” chimes in Biddy eagerly. “Everyone wants our Katie.”
“These London bosses.” Alex shakes his head.
“Too demanding,” asserts Dad. “I mean, is she on sabbatical or isn’t she?”
“Very good question,” says Alex, nodding. “I think you’ve got right to the nub of it, Mick, if I may say so.”
“Well.” Somehow I manage to speak, even though my lips are trembling. “It’s…it’s not that clear-cut.”
“Yes, I’m sensing that.” Alex’s eyes meet mine, and I can see he’s intrigued, he’s concerned, and he’s not going to give me away to Biddy and Dad. Not right now, anyway. “So, do you know where Demeter is?” he adds.
“She…er…doesn’t seem to be here,” I say, looking around the kitchen inanely. Which, to be fair, isn’t a lie.
“Why not give Alex a tour of the farm?” suggests Biddy. “You might run into Demeter on the way. Have you been to Somerset before, Alex?”
“Never,” says Alex firmly. “I know nothing about the country. It’s all a mystery to me. Don’t even own a pair of wellies.”
“We’ll have to put that right!” Biddy pushes open the kitchen door and ushers Alex out. “Breathe in that air,” she instructs. “That’ll clear out those city lungs of yours.”
A flash of amusement passes across Alex’s face and, obediently, he begins breathing in. He’s peering around at the view of the hills and fields, as though something has interested him, and suddenly he strides forward, squinting harder.
“I know nothing about the country,” he repeats, “and this is just an idea. But if you cut down that bunch of bushes there…wouldn’t you make more of the view?”
He’s gesturing at a thicket way over to the east. I guess it is a bit of an eyesore, only we’ve got used to it.
“Oh,” says Dad, sounding taken aback. “Maybe you’re right. Yes. I think you’re right.” He glances at Biddy. “What do you think?”
“I never saw it like that before, but yes.” Biddy sounds flummoxed. “My goodness, all these discussions we’ve had about how to improve the view…”
“And he saw it straightaway,” chimes in Dad. Both he and Biddy are eyeing Alex in slight awe.
“As I say,” says Alex politely, “it’s just an idea. The countryside is a mystery to me.” He looks at me. “So, are we doing this tour?”
—
There isn’t an official “tour” of Ansters Farm, so I just lead Alex toward the yard. Anything to get him away from Dad and Biddy.
“So, Sabbatical Girl,” says Alex as soon as we’re out of earshot.
“Stop it.” I don’t look up or stop walking.
“Why?”
“Because…lots of reasons. Well, one mostly. Dad.”
“Would he give you a hard time about losing your job?” Alex looks surprised. “He seems like the supportive type.”
“He is! It’s not that he would give me a hard time. It’s…”
I screw up my face, trying to separate my mass of feelings into ones I can articulate. I’ve never spoken about Dad to anyone before. I feel out of my comfort zone.
“I can’t bear to let him down,” I say at last. “And I can’t deal with him being disappointed for me. He’s almost too supportive, you know? He doesn’t cope well when things don’t go well for me. He hates London; he hates that I’ve chosen to be there….If I tell him about my job, it’ll be more confirmation to him that London’s a terrible place. And the point is, maybe I don’t need to tell him.” I force mysel
f to sound more upbeat. “Maybe I’ll get another job in time and I can fudge the truth. He’ll never need to know.”
Even as I’m saying the words, they sound hopelessly optimistic. But I’ve got to hope, haven’t I? There must be thousands of jobs in London. I only need one of them.
“Isn’t this a job?” Alex spreads his arms around. “Running this place?”
“Not the job I want.” I bite my lip. “I know it would be a dream come true for a lot of people, but I loved the world of branding. I loved the teamwork and the creativity and the…I don’t know. The spark. It’s fun.”
“Sometimes it is.” Alex meets my eye with a glint, and I suddenly remember the pair of us on the roof of Cooper Clemmow. That was fun. I can still remember the exhilaration of the biting winter air on my cheeks. Or was it the exhilaration of being with Alex? Even now my skin is prickling as we walk along together, just the two of us.
I wonder if his skin is prickling too. Probably not. I would glance over at him, to gauge his mood, but everything feels a bit loaded all of a sudden.
“So what are you going to do if the ‘sabbatical’ ends and you haven’t found a job?” Alex breaks the silence. “What will you tell your dad?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t got that far.” I pick up my pace slightly. I don’t want to confront that thought. “So, do you want to look at…” I pluck something random out of the air. “Sheep? We keep sheep, cows—”
“Wait a minute. What’s that?” We’ve reached the yard, and Alex seems to be peering into the biggest barn, where Dad’s stuffed all his crap. “Is that a brewing kit? Can I have a look?”
“Er…sure,” I say, distracted by the sight of Denise coming out of the farmhouse. “Hey, Denise,” I call. “Can I have a quick word? You know Susie’s not feeling well today? I wondered if you could pop in and offer her clean bedding if she’d like it, make sure she’s OK?”
My Not So Perfect Life Page 25