“I think it was a…a political thing?” I hazard desperately. “Anti-austerity sandwiches or something? I’ll have it later, when I’m feeling better—”
“No, you won’t!” Flora grabs it out of my hand, looking horrified. “You can’t trust some random sandwich from a stranger! Especially if you’re ill!” She throws it in a litter bin and I try to hide my dismay. That was my lunch. And now it’s in the bin.
“They gave us these freebies.” She holds out the cupcake sorrowfully. “But if you’re feeling sick, you won’t want one, will you?”
I’ve read rapturous descriptions of Butterfly Bakery cupcakes. This one is an exquisite chocolate creation, with swirly marbled icing. My stomach is growling at the sight.
“You’re right,” I force myself to say. “Just seeing it makes me feel…you know. Ill. Yuck,” I add. “Urgh.”
“Such a shame.” Flora takes a bite. “God, that’s yummy. Well, you look after yourself. You’re sure I can’t get you a taxi?”
“No, you go.” I make a batting motion. “Go back to Ant. Please. Just go.”
“Well, OK. See you on Monday.”
Shooting me a last, uncertain look, Flora blows me a kiss, then disappears. When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly rise from my crouched position. I’m gazing fixedly at my sandwich. Yes, it’s in a street bin. Which is gross. Unspeakable. But it’s still fully wrapped in cling film. So…in theory…
No, Katie.
I’m not getting my lunch back out of the bin. I’m not sinking that low.
But it’s wrapped up. It’s fine.
No.
But why shouldn’t I?
Without quite meaning to, I’m edging toward the bin. No one’s even looking.
“I’ll just take a picture of this bin for my blog on food wastage,” I say in loud, self-conscious tones. I take a photo of the bin and move still closer. “Wow, an untouched sandwich. So…I’ll just take a photo of this sandwich for my research about how food wastage is a real problem these days.”
Flushing slightly, I pick the sandwich out of the rubbish and take a photo of it. A little girl, aged about five, is watching me, and she pulls at the sleeve of a pale-pink cashmere coat.
“Mummy, that lady gets her food from the bin,” she says in high-pitched tones.
“It’s for my blog on food wastage,” I say hastily.
“She took that sandwich out of the bin,” says the girl, ignoring me. “The bin, Mummy.” She tugs at her mother’s arm, looking distressed. “We must give her some money. Mummy, the poor lady needs money.” Finally her mother looks up and shoots me a distracted glance.
“There’s a hostel a few streets away, you know,” she says disapprovingly. “You should get help, not harass people for money.”
Seriously?
“I’m not harassing people!” I erupt with indignation. “I don’t want your bloody money! And it’s my sandwich! I made it, OK? With my own ingredients.” Tears have started to my eyes, which is all I need. I grab the sandwich and stuff it into my bag with trembling hands. And I’m just starting to stride off when I feel a hand on my arm.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was insensitive. You’re a nice-looking girl.” The pink-cashmere woman runs her eye up and down my shabby Topshop coat. “I don’t know why you’re on the streets or what your story might be…but you should have hope. Everyone deserves hope. So, here. Happy Christmas.” She produces a fifty-pound note and offers it to me.
“Oh God,” I say in horror. “No. You don’t under—”
“Please.” The woman suddenly sounds fervent. “Let me do this for you. At Christmastime.”
She tucks the note into my hand, and I can see the little girl’s eyes shining with pride at her generous mummy. Clearly both of them are carried away with the romance of helping out a homeless stranger.
OK, this is the most excruciating moment of my life. There’s no point explaining the truth to this woman; it’ll be too mortifying for both of us. And, by the way, I know my hair isn’t blow-dried or anything and I know my shoes need re-heeling—but do I really look to her like someone who lives on the streets? Are my clothes that terrible compared to the average Notting Hill outfit?
(Actually, maybe they are.)
“Well, thanks,” I say stiltedly, at last. “You’re a good woman. God bless you,” I add for good measure. “God bless us, every one.”
I walk swiftly away and, as soon as I’ve turned the corner, approach a Salvation Army officer holding out a tin. And full disclosure: I do feel a slight wrench as I put the money in. I mean, fifty quid is fifty quid. But I couldn’t do anything else, could I?
The Salvation Army officer’s eyes light up—but as he starts exclaiming at my apparent generosity, I turn away and start walking even faster. What a bloody fiasco. What a bloody day.
And now, before I can stop it, my mind miserably fills with a vision of Alex. Alex and Demeter in their hotel room, lying entwined on some Danish designer rug, toasting each other for being so successful and hot and über…
No. Enough. There’s no point thinking about it. I just need to avoid him at the Christmas party. And then it’ll be Christmas and a whole new year and everything will be different. Exactly. It’s going to be fine.
Shit. There he is, standing by the bar. Shit.
I hastily duck away and reach for a balloon to hide behind. Maybe I can disguise myself with Christmas decorations. Or maybe I should just leave.
The Christmas party has been going for about two hours. We’re all in an upstairs room at the Corkscrew, and it’s the coolest Christmas party I’ve ever been to. Which figures.
From the office chat last week, I learned that no one at Cooper Clemmow, at least in our department, does bog-standard Christmas dinner, or “norm-Christmas,” as Rosa jokily put it. Demeter and Flora and Rosa are all having goose rather than turkey. (Organic, of course.) Mark is having nut roast because his partner is vegan. Liz is doing an Ottolenghi quail recipe. Sarah’s doing lobster and is styling her table with a centerpiece made from driftwood that she collected in the summer. (I have no idea what that has to do with Christmas.)
Then someone said, “What about you, Cat?” and I had an instant vision of my dad, at our ancient kitchen table, wearing a paper hat from the Cash & Carry, slathering a turkey with some cut-price margarine he got in bulk. You couldn’t get more “norm-Christmas.” So I just smiled and said, “Not sure yet,” and the conversation moved on.
This party is also very much not “norm-Christmas.” There’s a photo booth in the corner, and black and white balloons reading Naughty and Nice float everywhere. The snacks are themed after the brands on our client list, and the DJ is firmly un-Christmassy—Slade hasn’t been played once. And there’d been no sign of Alex all evening. I thought I’d got away with it. I was actually quite enjoying myself.
But now, suddenly, here he is, looking gorgeous in a black-and-white geometric-print shirt. There’s a little grin playing at his mouth as he looks around, a glass in his hand. Before he can spot me, I turn around and head to the dance floor. Not that I’m planning to dance, but it’s a safe place to hide.
After Portobello, the rest of the weekend passed in a dispiriting nothingness. I watched telly, went on Instagram. Then I came into the office this morning, finally finished my surveys, answered Flora’s concerned questions about my sudden bug, and wondered whether to pull out of the Christmas party.
But no. That would be pathetic. Anyway, it’s a free evening out, and I have been having a good time. I keep remembering Flora’s invitation to join the pub gang and feeling a glow of warmth. These guys are my friends. At least…they will be my friends. Maybe I’ll work here for five years, ten years, rise up through the ranks….
My eyes have swiveled back to the bar. I can see Alex talking intently to Demeter and feel a fresh pang at my own stupidity. Look at the pair of them. Their eyes are about five inches apart. They’re unaware of anyone else. Of course they’re sleeping together.
“Hey, Cat!” Flora comes dancing up to me, all glittery in her sequins. “I’m going to go and fess up to my Secret Santa.” Her words are slurred and I realize she’s got quite pissed. Actually, I think everyone’s quite pissed. Free drink will do that to you.
“You can’t!” I say. “It’s Secret Santa. That’s the point.”
“But I want to get credit for it!” She pouts. “I found such a cool present. I spent much more than the limit,” she adds in loud, drunken, confidential tones. “I spent fifty quid.”
“Flora!” I laugh in shock. “You’re not supposed to do that. And you’re not supposed to tell the person who you are either.”
“Don’t care. Come on!” She grabs my arm, tottering on her heels. “Shit. I should not have had those mojitos….” She drags me across the room, and before I can blink, or think, or escape, we’re standing in front of Alex Astalis.
My face floods with color and I glance at Demeter, who has briefly turned away to talk to Adrian.
“Hi, Katie-Cat,” says Alex easily, and my face gets even hotter. But thankfully Flora doesn’t seem to have noticed. She really is very drunk.
“I’m your Secret Santa!” she says in blurred tones. “Did you like it?”
“The Paul Smith hat.” He looks a bit taken aback. “That was you?”
“Cool, huh?” Flora sways a little, and I grab her.
“Very cool.” He shakes his head with mock disapproval. “But was it under a tenner?”
“A tenner? Are you kidding?” Flora lurches again, and this time Alex grabs her.
“I’m sorry,” I say apologetically. “I think she’s a bit…”
“I’m not drunk!” says Flora emphatically. “I’m not—” She topples and clutches Alex’s sleeve. As she does so, it rides up, and his tattoo becomes visible. “Hey!” she says in surprise. “You’ve got a tat-tat—” She’s so drunk she can’t say the word. “A tat-tat—”
“I am not losing control!” Demeter’s voice suddenly fires up in fury, and I start with shock. Is Demeter having a row with Adrian? At the Christmas party? Alex’s eyes are tense, and I can tell he’s listening to that conversation, not paying attention to us.
“Demeter, that’s not what I’m saying.” Adrian’s voice is calm and soothing. “But you must admit…quite concerned…” I can’t exactly hear what he’s saying over the hubbub.
“You’ve got a tat-too!” Finally Flora manages to articulate the word.
“Yes.” Alex nods, looking amused. “I’ve got a tattoo. Well done.”
“But…” Her eyes swivel to me. I can see her alcohol-addled mind working. “Hang on.” She looks back at Alex. “Dark hair, tattoo…and you were asking about him.”
My heart starts to thud along with the beat of the music. “Flora, let’s go,” I say quickly, and pull at her arm, but she doesn’t move.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Stop!” I feel a white-hot horror. “Let’s go.” But Flora can’t be shifted.
“This is your man, isn’t it?” She looks delighted. “I knew it was someone at work. She’s in love with you,” she tells Alex, poking me drunkenly for emphasis. “You know. Secretly.” She puts a finger to her lips.
My insides have collapsed. This can’t be happening. Can’t I just teleport out of this situation, out of this party, out of my life?
Alex meets my eyes and I can see it all in his expression. Shock…pity…more pity. And then even more pity.
“I’m not in love with you!” Somehow I muster a shrill laugh. “Honestly! I’m so sorry about my friend. I hardly even know you, so how could I be in love with you?”
“Isn’t it him?” Flora claps a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. It must be another guy with dark hair and a tat-tat—” She stumbles over the word again. “Tattoo,” she manages at last.
Both Alex and I glance at his wrist. He looks up and meets my eyes, and I can see he knows: It’s him.
I want to die.
“So, I’d better go,” I say in a miserable, flustered rush. “I need to pack, and…um…thanks for the party….”
“No problem,” says Alex, a curious tone to his voice. “Do you have to go now?”
“Yes!” I say desperately, as Demeter turns to join us again. Her face is pink and she looks rattled, for Demeter.
“So, Cath.” She makes a visible effort to put on a pleasant expression. “Are you off tomorrow?”
She’s clearly forgotten the fact I’m called Cat. But I can’t be bothered to correct her again. “That’s right! Absolutely.”
“And have you chosen yet? Turkey or goose?”
“Oh, turkey. But with a rather lovely porcini stuffing,” I hear myself adding a bit wildly. I shoot an overbright smile around this group of sophisticated Londoners. Everyone so hip and cool, treating Christmas like an ironic event that’s all about the styling.
“Porcini.” Demeter looks interested.
“Oh yes, from a little place in Tuscany,” I hear myself saying. “And…truffles from Sardinia…and vintage champagne, of course. So…Happy Christmas, everyone! See you after the break.”
I can see Alex opening his mouth, but I don’t wait to hear what he says. My face is burning as I head toward the exit, tripping a little in my hurry. I need to get out. Away. Home to my gourmet luxury Christmas. The porcini. The vintage champagne. Oh, and of course the truffles. I can’t wait.
“Come and sample my latest.” My dad turns from the kitchen counter and holds out a drink. It’s not a glass of vintage champagne or a sophisticated cocktail. It’s not even some artisan local organic cider. It’s Dad’s patented Christmas punch of whatever cut-price bottles of spirits he could get at the market, all mixed together with long-life orange juice, pineapple juice, and lime cordial. “Cheers, m’dear.”
It’s midday on Christmas Eve, and I’m at home in the country, and London seems a lifetime away. Everything’s different here. The air, the sounds, the expanse. We live on a farm in a part of Somerset which is so remote, no one’s ever heard of it. The papers keep talking about fashionable Somerset and celebrity Somerset….Well, believe me, we’re arse-end-of-nowhere Somerset.
Our house is in a valley, and all you can see from the kitchen window are fields, some sheep dotted around, the rise of the slope to Hexall Hill, and the odd hang glider in the distance. Some cows too, although Dad doesn’t go in for cows quite as much as he used to. Not enough money in them, he says. There are better games to be in. Although he doesn’t seem to have found any of those games yet.
Dad lifts his glass and gives me his crinkly, twinkly beam. No one can resist Dad’s smile, including me. All my life, I’ve seen him win people round with his charm, his bottomless optimism. Like that time I was ten and forgot about my holiday project. Dad just turned up at school, twinkled at the teacher, told her several times how certain he was that it wouldn’t be a problem…and sure enough, it wasn’t. Everything was magically OK.
I mean, I’m not stupid. There was a sympathy element there too. I was the girl with no mum….
Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Christmas Eve. I step outside the kitchen door, making my way through a cluster of chickens to breathe in the fresh West Country air. I must admit, the air is amazing here. In fact, the whole place is amazing. Dad thinks I’ve completely rejected Somerset, but I haven’t. I’ve just made a choice about how to live my life—
I close my eyes briefly. Stop it. How many imaginary conversations have I had with Dad about this? And now I’m having them when he’s standing three yards away?
I take a sip of punch and try to focus on the distant landscape rather than the farmyard, because the closer you get to the actual house, the less picturesque it becomes. Dad’s tried a lot of moneymaking wheezes over the years, none of which have worked—and all around the farmyard are the remains and detritus of them, which he’s never bothered clearing up. There’s the cider press, sitting in its barn, barely used. There’s the massage table, from when we were goin
g to have a spa. (He couldn’t find a massage therapist cheap enough.) There’s the matching turquoise swirly eighties headboard and bedside tables that he bought off a mate, intending to set up a B&B. They’re still wrapped up in their plastic, leaning against a gate. They look terrible.
And there’s Colin the alpaca, roaming around in his little paddock, looking like the miserable sod he is. God, the alpacas were a disaster. Dad bought six of them, about three years ago, and he reckoned they were going to make our fortune. They were going to be an attraction, and we were going to set up an alpaca wool factory, and all sorts. He actually charged tickets for some school party to come and visit, but then an alpaca bit one of the kids, and he hadn’t done a risk assessment or whatever and it was all a total hassle.
Although that wasn’t as bad as his ANSTERS FARM WINTER WONDERLAND! VISIT FATHER CHRISTMAS IN HIS GROTTO! with cotton wool for snow and Poundland tat for presents and me as a fourteen-year-old resentful elf. It was twelve years ago now, but I still shudder at the memory. Those bloody green tights.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to have you home, Katie!” Biddy has come out too, holding her glass. She gives me a hug and pats my shoulder. “We miss you, darling!”
Biddy has been Dad’s girlfriend for years now. Or partner. Common-law wife, I suppose. After Mum died, for the longest time it was just Dad and me. It worked fine. I thought Dad would be on his own forever. There were a few local women, mostly blond, who came and went, and I didn’t really distinguish between them.
But then Biddy arrived, right before I went off to uni. From the start, she was different. She’s a quiet, persistent, sensible person, Biddy. She’s pretty in her own way—dark, slightly graying hair, deep-brown eyes—but she’s not flashy or trendy. There’s grit to her too. She used to be a chef at the Fox and Hounds, till the late hours got too much for her. Now she makes jam and sells it at fairs. I’ve seen her stand there patiently at her stall, six hours at a time, always pleasant, always willing to chat. She’d never overcharge a customer but never undercharge either. She’s fair. True and fair. And for some reason—I have no idea why—she puts up with Dad.