“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.”
To Nicki Kennedy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No one’s life is perfect. But mine was made a lot more perfect by the brilliant people who helped me create this book.
Jenny Bond and Sarah Frampton offered me insight and ideas on city life and country life alike. I’m especially grateful to Jenny for her expert help on the corporate world of advertising, marketing, and brands.
Meanwhile, I am constantly in awe of the amazing work of “Team Kinsella” in the UK, the U.S., and around the world. Thank you to everyone who works so hard on my books—and a special thank-you to my agents and publishers in the UK and U.S.:
At LAW: Araminta Whitley, Peta Nightingale, Jennifer Hunt
At Inkwell: Kim Witherspoon, David Forrer
At ILA: Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Jenny Robson, Katherine West, Simone Smith
At Transworld: Francesca Best, Bill Scott-Kerr, Larry Finlay, Claire Evans, Nicola Wright, Alice Murphy-Pyle, Becky Short, Tom Chicken and his team, Giulia Giordano, Matt Watterson and his team, Richard Ogle, Kate Samano, Judith Welsh, Jo Williamson, Bradley “Bradmobile” Rose
At Penguin Random House U.S.: Gina Centrello, Susan Kamil, Kara Cesare, Avideh Bashirrad, Debbie Aroff, Jess Bonet, Sanyu Dillon, Sharon Propson, Sally Marvin, Theresa Zoro, Loren Noveck
May your lives always live up to your Instagram posts….
By Sophie Kinsella
Confessions of a Shopaholic
Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Shopaholic Ties the Knot
Can You Keep a Secret?
Shopaholic & Sister
The Undomestic Goddess
Shopaholic & Baby
Remember Me?
Twenties Girl
Mini Shopaholic
I’ve Got Your Number
Wedding Night
Shopaholic to the Stars
Finding Audrey
>
Shopaholic to the Rescue
My Not So Perfect Life
About the Author
SOPHIE KINSELLA is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as the novels Can You Keep a Secret?, The Undomestic Goddess, Remember Me?, Twenties Girl, I’ve Got Your Number, Wedding Night, and Finding Audrey. She lives in London.
sophiekinsella.com
Facebook.com/SophieKinsellaOfficial
Twitter: @KinsellaSophie
Instagram: @sophiekinsellawriter
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My Not So Perfect Life Page 36