Of course she read a proof copy. Demeter would never wait for a book to be actually available in the shops, like normal people.
“No,” I say evenly. “I haven’t read it.”
“Well, there we are.” Demeter looks pleased with herself. “Here’s a goal for you. When you leave here, go straight to Waterstones and buy it. You’ll find it inspiring. Listen to this quote.” She scrolls through her phone, then reads aloud: “Take your future into your own hands. Make it happen. Life is a coloring book, but you have the pens.”
I’m trying to stay polite, but my distress is seething up. Doesn’t she understand anything about anything? I can’t afford to buy a hardback book telling me to color in my life.
I try not to be envious; I really, really try. But right now all I want to do is yell, It’s all right for you! Your life is already colored in and you didn’t even go over the edges!
The voice in my head is so loud, I feel like she must be able to hear it. But Demeter’s still looking at me with that complacent expression. She’ll probably boast later about how she gave me lots of marvelous advice and I was really grateful.
And then, just to cap off a perfect day, I spot Alex. He’s walking along the corridor toward us with a questioning look. He glances at Demeter, and she makes a quick answering face and my humiliation is complete.
“So,” I say stiffly to him. “I’m off. Thanks for the job and everything.”
“I thought you knew.” I can hear the wince in Alex’s voice. “Earlier on. I’m sorry.”
I’m aware of Alex and Demeter exchanging expressions in a kind of shorthand. They have a body language I never picked up on before. A kind of easy, close naturalness that you don’t get with a professional colleague. I wonder if they shag here at work? Well, of course they do.
Demeter’s phone buzzes, and she answers it. “Hello? Oh, Michael. Yes, I did get your email….” She lifts up five fingers at me, which I guess means, “Wait five minutes,” and steps into a nearby empty room. And I’m left with Alex. Again.
I glance up at him and see his kind, tactful eyes, and I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. The horror of my job loss is so devastating, you’d think nothing else would even sting. You’d think I’d be numb to lesser feelings like humiliation and crushed pride. But I’m not. They just smart in a different way.
And suddenly I don’t want to keep quiet anymore. Why do we all do that? Why do we all pretend? I know what the rules say: Salvage your dignity; walk away; admit nothing. But I’m never going to see this man again in my life. And suddenly the desire to say what I really think is bigger than any other.
“You know what?” I say abruptly. “Let’s address what happened at the Christmas party.”
“What?” Alex looks so gobsmacked at the idea, I nearly want to laugh.
“Flora said I was in love with you,” I press on. “Well, of course I’m not; that’s ridiculous.”
“Look.” Alex seems to be seeking escape. “We really don’t have to do this—”
“All I thought was that you and I had…” I search for the best way to put it. “A spark. A tiny little spark of…I don’t know. Connection. Possibility. I liked spending time with you. At the time, I didn’t know anything about you and—”
I break off. I’m not going to say “Demeter” out loud in a company corridor. He’ll know what I mean.
“So I’m embarrassed now,” I resume. “Really embarrassed. Of course I am. But you know something? I’m owning my embarrassment. I’m not hiding or playing games.” I lift my chin, high and resolute. “Here I am: Katie Brenner, Embarrassed. There are worse things to be.”
The wrong name has slipped out, I realize, but I don’t care.
Alex looks stupefied by my little speech. Well, good. I feel liberated and even kind of exhilarated. So my cheeks are blazing. So my legs are a bit wobbly. So bloody what?
“OK, then,” I add. “So that was all I had to say, except goodbye. Tell Demeter I’ve gone up. Good luck with everything.” I jab the lift button and stare fixedly at it, waiting.
“Cat—” Alex begins, then stops. “Katie—” he tries again, but he doesn’t seem to know where he wants to go next. And despite the fact that everything about my situation is horrendous—and will seem even more horrendous when I get home—I feel a tiny twinge of satisfaction. At least that patronizing expression has disappeared from his face.
“Cat—” Alex tries a third time. “What are you going to do now?”
“Now?”
“I mean, job-wise.”
“Now, I’ve spoken to Cath.” Demeter comes swooping back into the conversation from nowhere. “I’ve told her to stay positive. She’s going to buy Grasp the Nettle and take her inspiration from that.”
“Oh, great!” says Alex weakly. “Good idea.”
“I thought so.” Demeter nods, and they both look at me as though: Phew! We recommended a book. Our consciences can be clear now.
They have no idea, either of them. Educated people talk about ignorance. Well, how ignorant are these two? Do they know what it’s like to live in Catford on a tiny, scraping, heart-juddering budget?
“I’m not going to buy that book, Demeter,” I say in a voice which suddenly trembles. “Because it’ll be eighteen pounds and I can’t afford it. I can’t afford anything. Don’t you understand? I’m not like you! I’m not like you!”
Demeter is peering at me with a blank frown. “Really, Cath, I think if you can afford to eat at Salt Block, you can afford to buy a very inspiring book—”
“I can’t afford to eat at Salt Block! How do you think I could ever afford to do that? That was all bullshit! I was trying to impress you!” My anguish spills out in a scream. “I don’t have a financial cushion. Or a famous daddy to give me a career.” A dart of shock passes across Alex’s face, but I don’t care. It’s true. “You’re so fucking entitled. Both of you.” I spread my arms wide, encompassing Alex. “Do you know that? Do you have any idea, any sense of—” I break off and give a little odd-sounding laugh. “Of course you don’t. OK. Well, I’m leaving now. So. Enjoy your perfect lives.”
The lift doors have opened, and I step inside. I jab the button for the third floor and begin to rise, thankfully without either of them trying to follow me. My eyes are stinging and my heart is miserably pounding. So much for a dignified exit. So much for keeping the door open. But right now…I really don’t care.
It’s funny how life works like a seesaw: Some things go up while others plunge down. My life is swiftly unraveling while Dad’s is finally, it seems, coming together. He’s sent me pictures of the constructed yurts, and they look wonderful. The bathroom block is gleaming, the fire pits look picturesque, the bunting is charming, and Biddy has stockpiled homemade jam. Meanwhile, we’ve sent out the brochures to everyone we can think of. Dad has left piles of them in every trendy café around Somerset, while I’ve targeted likely places in London. (I left a pile in a café in Wandsworth, and a woman in a Boden mac picked one up while I was still there. It was like magic.)
But that’s not the half of it. That’s not even the 10 percent of it. What’s happened to Dad and Biddy this week is like a lottery win, like a freak pot of gold under the rainbow. I still can’t quite believe it’s happened. The Guardian has profiled Ansters Farm Country Retreat in its “Glamping Roundup.”
It’s nuts! I mean, Ansters Farm isn’t even a thing yet! But clearly some journalist was under a deadline and found the website and thought, This’ll do. It’s all in the piece—the yurts, the chickens, even my prose about children being children. They printed a photo of a campfire in front of a yurt and captioned it: Ansters Farm is the latest family haven for hip glampers, and I nearly died when I saw it. I mean, The Guardian!
And if I’d still been at work, it would have been my greatest-ever triumph. I could have marched into Demeter’s office and said, There’s branding for you.