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.