“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.”