“Mind?” And I laughed, an incredulous, bubbling, carefree laugh; I could have got an Oscar for it.
Oh, just jogging along.
The beep of Jeff’s text brings me out of my thoughts. This is reality, I remind myself. Jeff is reality. Alex is gone. A memory. A myth.
I try to think of some witty response to jogging along, but the very phrase seems to dull my fingers. Jogging along. Oh God. Very slowly, I begin to type.
Sounds…
I have literally no idea what to say next. Sounds what? Sounds super-fun? Sounds like my idea of hell?
And now, despite myself, I’m remembering another painful–magical Alex moment. It was a night that we had martinis, and Alex suddenly announced, only a little drunkenly, “I do admire you, Katie Brenner. I do so admire you.”
“Admire me?” I felt my jaw sag. No one had ever admired me before. “What on earth—”
“You’re tough. And you’re…” He seemed to search for the word. “You’re straight. You fought for Demeter because you thought it was right. You didn’t have to fight for her; in fact, you had every reason not to—but you did.”
“Actually, I was a mercenary,” I replied with a shrug. “Did I never tell you that? Made five grand. Result.” And Alex laughed and laughed, until martini came out of his nose. I could always manage to tickle him; I’m not even sure how.
I remember that we lapsed into silence then, and I gazed at him, while jazz played in the background and soft lights danced on his face. And although I knew full well in one part of my head that he was planning to leave, right at that moment it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t always be there with me. Entertaining me with his random comments and impulsive plans and infectious smile. I just couldn’t compute the idea of him gone.
Head over head, I guess.
Thankfully we’ve arrived at the bus stop where we need to change, so I’m able to quit this train of thought. Shake my head clear of old memories and hopes and whatever else rubbish is in there. I put my phone away and shepherd Dad and Biddy through the whole fight-your-way-through-the-schoolkids process. (I can see it from their point of view; it is a bit stressy. Although I will say: They’re both getting very good at tapping their Oyster cards.)
The second bus whizzes along straight to Chiswick (well, as much as you can whiz in London), and there’s summer sunlight glinting in through the window and Biddy even gets a seat. It really could be worse. At Turnham Green, I put Dad and Biddy on a tube to Kew, tell them I can’t wait to hear all about it later, and then walk briskly the rest of the way to Cooper Clemmow.
“Morning, Katie,” Jade greets me from reception as I walk in.
That’s another change I’ve made. I’m Katie these days, and I don’t know why I ever tried being anyone else.
“Morning, Jade.” I smile back. “Is Demeter in?”
“Not yet,” says Jade. And I’m about to head to the lift when she clears her throat and motions toward someone sitting in the reception area. I turn and blink a few times as I see the figure, feeling a sudden rush of emotions. It’s me. OK, it’s not me. But it’s like looking at myself.
Sitting there, fiddling with her handbag strap, is our new research associate, Carly. She’s wearing cheap black trousers and her hair in a plastic clasp and an anxious expression. As she sees me, she leaps up, practically knocking over her glass of water.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Hi, Katie, isn’t it? We met at my interview? I wanted to get here early on my first day, so…Hi.”
She looks so apprehensive, I want to give her a hug. Except that would probably freak her out.
“Hi.” I shake her hand warmly. “Welcome to Cooper Clemmow. You’re going to love it here. Demeter’s not here yet, but I’ll get you settled in….How was your commute?” I add, as we head toward the lift. “Miserable?”
“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?”