“How…how do you know?” I manage at last.
“Everyone does,” she says, as though in surprise. “You know Demeter was Alex’s boss, years ago? Well, apparently the chemistry between them was sizzling. Mark told me. He knew them then. And now Alex is Demeter’s boss. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
I nod dumbly. I’m picturing a youthful Demeter…a fresh-faced Alex…sizzling chemistry….
I think I’m back into bad-dream land.
“Demeter was married, even then,” Flora carries on. “But I guess she didn’t want to break that up or whatever….Anyway, that’s why she came to Cooper Clemmow. Alex went into partnership with Adrian and straightaway he headhunted her. So unsubtle. Look, here she is. Doesn’t she look vile?”
She hands me her phone, showing a photo of Demeter in a minidress, standing by an ice sculpture, but I can barely see it. I feel a bit cold. And deflated. And above all, incredibly stupid. It’s so obvious now. I can see them together. Both lithe. Both intelligent. Both at the top of their game. Of course they’re lovers.
It suddenly hits me: That’s why they’re both in Copenhagen. I can see them now, in a Scandi hotel room, having sex in some amazing athletic position that nobody else does except Demeter, because she’s the first person on the whole planet to have found out about it.
I’m still holding Flora’s phone, staring blindly down, my thoughts scudding around. Demeter really has it all, doesn’t she? She bloody has it all. The job, the house, the husband, the children, the fashionable paint shades—and Alex. Because obviously when you’re Demeter, a devoted husband isn’t enough. You need a lover too. A sexy, authentic, organic lover.
But…what about me?
My mind keeps torturing me, replaying those little moments I had with Alex. The way he smiled…the way he gently fixed my hair…glancing over as we pedaled along…I didn’t make it up. There was something; we did have a spark….
But what’s a spark with me when you’ve got a sizzling inferno going on with the goddess of sex, or whatever she is? I was just a diversion. I suddenly recall him after the Santa ride, scrutinizing his phone, saying, “I just need to text…them.”
He didn’t want to say “text her.” He was being discreet. But that’s who he meant.
“Hasn’t her husband guessed?” I try to sound like this is all breezy office gossip.
“I doubt it.” Flora shrugs. “She’s really good at lying….Oh, Ant!”
“Here we go.” Ant dumps two trays on the table. One is Flora’s, with her muffin, salad, and all the rest of it. The other has a bowl of soup. “Yours is up there.” He nods at me. “They’ve put it aside for you to pay.”
Me to pay?
All thoughts of Alex are swept aside and I stare up, feeling a bit hollow. I thought…
“Ant, you brute!” Flora pushes him. “You should have paid! Now Cat will have to queue.”
“No, she won’t,” he retorts. “I told them she was coming and they’ve put it aside. Because I’m thoughtful like that.”
“But honestly, Ant.” Flora sounds exasperated. “Why didn’t you just get her stuff?”
“Because I’m out of cash, OK?” He glares at her.
Oh God. Now they’re going to start fighting about my lunch.
“It’s fine!” I say brightly. “No problem! Thanks so much for keeping my place in the queue, Ant!”
But as I head to the checkout, I feel mounting dread. I thought Ant was buying us all lunch. I never would have come in here otherwise. I would have made an excuse and left. I’ve even got a tuna sandwich in my bag, all wrapped up in cling film.
It might not be that much, I tell myself as I approach the checkout. Don’t overreact. It might be OK.
The girl at the checkout is waiting for me and beams as she places my tray carefully in front of the till.
“So that’s the muffin…the salad…”
She rings up each item, and I try to look relaxed. Like a cool, rich Notting Hill girl. Not someone who’s holding her breath and making frantic calculations as each item is added. It’s got to be fifteen…eighteen…twenty quid, maybe?
“So, your total is thirty-four pounds, eighty-five.” She smiles at me and I stare back, dazed. It’s far, far worse than I imagined. Thirty-five pounds? For snacks? That’s a week’s supermarket shopping.
I can’t.
I just can’t do it. I can’t spend thirty-five quid on a few little bits. Not after the laptop disaster. I have to leave. I’ll text Flora and tell her I suddenly felt ill. She’s totally engrossed in Ant, anyway; it won’t matter.
“Actually, I’ve had a change of plan,” I say awkwardly. “I can’t stay for lunch. Sorry.”
“You don’t want any of this?” The girl looks taken aback.
“Um, no. Sorry. I feel a bit ill, I have to go….”
With shaking legs I head for the exit, take my coat from its hook, and push the door open. I don’t look back. If Flora asks, I’ll say I didn’t want to pass on any germs to her. I mean, it’ll sound lame. But lame is better than broke.
The cold air hits me sharply as I step out of the café, and I shove my hands in my pockets. Well, that’s it, then. I’d better head home. And just for an instant I want to cry. I want to sit on the pavement and bury my face in my arms. I can’t afford this life; I can’t be these people. I don’t have a mother saying, Darling, here’s a hundred quid.
Or a mother.
I know I must have sunk very low, because this isn’t a thought I let myself have. Much. Tears have actually started shimmering at my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. Come on, Katie. Don’t be wet. I’ve probably just got low blood sugar. I’ll eat my sandwich; that’ll make me feel better.
I send a quick text to Flora: Not feeling good, had to go, sorry, enjoy lunch xxx Then I find an unobtrusive spot on the pavement, crouch down, and get out my cling-filmed sandwich. It doesn’t look as appealing as the pumpkin muffin, but it’ll taste better than it looks, and in any case—
“Cat?” My head jerks up so sharply, I nearly crick my neck. Flora is standing three feet away, staring down at me in astonishment, holding a cupcake.
“Flora?” I manage. “Didn’t you get my text?”
“What text?” she demands, looking upset. “What happened? Why did you leave? I saw you go. You didn’t even say goodbye!”
“Ill,” I say, in croaky tones. “Suddenly ill. Sick,” I add for good measure, and pull a tissue out of my pocket. I retch into it, turning away as though for politeness’s sake.
“Oh my God,” says Flora, sounding shocked.
“It’s a bug. Don’t come near.”
“But you were fine a minute ago!” Her eyes are wide. “Should I get you…a doctor? A taxi?”
“No!” I cry, sounding like a scalded cat. “No taxis. I need…fresh air. I need to walk. I’ll walk. You go back and have lunch.”
“Why are you holding a sandwich?” Flora’s gaze drops curiously to my hand.
Shit.
“It…um…” I can feel my face flaming. “Someone gave it to me. Someone thought I looked unwell, so they gave me a sandwich.”
“A stranger?” Flora looks perplexed.
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“They said…” My mind scrabbles around. “?‘You don’t look well. Here’s a sandwich.’?”
“They just gave you a sandwich?” Flora seems even more flabbergasted. “But why?”
“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.