“Really?” Demeter looks astonished. “But that was a massive success. We’ve won awards. It’s boosted his career.”
“Well, I know. But he had his own ideas, and you came barging in and took over and embarrassed him….” I bite my lip. “I’m only telling you what people say—” I break off, unnerved at the anger suddenly flashing in Demeter’s face.
“I saved him,” she says hotly. “I bloody saved him. Those designs he came up with were rushed and substandard. He’s talented, Mark, but he does too much freelance work on the side. I know that’s what he’s up to at home. He’s greedy; he takes on too much, and it shows.” She falls silent and seems to simmer down. “But I could have been more diplomatic,” she adds. “When I get a good idea I forget everything else. It’s a bad fault of mine.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I’m quiet for a while. I can see that Demeter’s head is teeming with thoughts, and no wonder.
“So, Rosa hates me and Mark hates me,” she says, in an odd voice. “Anyone else?”
“Hate’s the wrong word,” I say hurriedly, even though it’s exactly the right word. “It’s just…I suppose…they don’t feel very respected. For example, did you even know that Mark won the Stylesign Award for Innovation?”
Demeter turns her head and surveys me as though I’m mad.
“Of course I bloody knew. I put him up for it. I’m on the contributing panel. And I sent him a card afterward.” Then her brow creases. “Actually, did I send it? I know I wrote it….”
“You what?” I gape at her. “Well, did you tell him you nominated him?”
“Of course I didn’t tell him,” she retorts. “It’s anonymous.”
“So no one at the office has any idea you helped him?”
“I don’t know,” says Demeter impatiently.
“Well, you should!” I practically yell. “You should get some credit! Demeter, you’re driving me mad here! You’re so much nicer than you make out you are. But you’ve got to help yourself!”
“I don’t understand,” says Demeter, a little haughtily, and I nearly pop with exasperation.
“Don’t make people do up your corset dress. Don’t make people do your roots. Don’t tell Hannah she’s being a drama queen because she’s had a panic attack.”
“What?” Demeter looks horrified. “I never said that. I would never say something like that. I’ve been very supportive of Hannah and her issues—”
“I remember it exactly,” I cut her off. “You said to Hannah, ‘No one thinks you’re a drama queen.’ To her that sounded like, You’re a drama queen.”
“Oh.” Demeter sounds chastened. “Oh. I see.”
There’s a long silence, and I can tell she’s mulling. “I think perhaps I don’t always communicate what I want to communicate,” she says at last.
“We have an expression for it,” I say. If I’m going to be honest, I might as well tell her the lot. “We call it ‘being Demetered.’?”
“Oh my God.” She looks even more shell-shocked. As well she might.
There’s another long silence, and I know some thought or other is bubbling to the top of Demeter’s head. Sure enough, a moment later she exclaims, “But the roots! Do you hate me because I asked you to do my roots?”
“Well…” I’m not sure how to reply, but luckily Demeter doesn’t seem to need an answer.
“Because that I do not understand,” she continues emphatically. “I thought we were all in the sisterhood. If you asked me to do your roots, Katie, and I had time, then of course I would. Of course I would.”
She meets my gaze, unblinking, and I realize that I believe her. I think she means it. She’d do my roots in a heartbeat and not be remotely offended.
With every revelation, more of a pattern has started to form. I think in some ways Demeter’s the opposite of what we all thought. Maybe she’s careless—but she’s not vindictive. She isn’t deliberately stamping everyone with her Miu Miu shoes—she’s just not being careful enough about where she places them. She obviously thinks that everyone’s like her: focused on having great ideas and making them work and not fussing too much about the details. The trouble is, people—employees—do mind about the details.
The more I realize the truth, the more frustrated I’m feeling with her. It could all be so different, if she took more care.
“You know, it really doesn’t help that you always mix up people’s names,” I say bluntly. “And the way you look at people as if you can’t remember who they are? That’s bad.”
For the first time in our conversation, Demeter looks truly mortified. “I have a very small visual-recognition issue,” she says with dignity. “But it’s only a detail. I’ve masked it successfully all my life. It’s never held me back at work.”
God, she’s perverse. I feel like strangling her.
“You haven’t masked it successfully!” I retort. “And it has held you back! Because, look, you’re about to get fired, and that’s a factor. People think you don’t care about them. If you just told everyone you had a problem—” I break off as an idea hits me. “Maybe that’s why you get confused with stuff. I mean, it’s a thing. Like being dyslexic. You could get help; you could get support….” I trail off as Demeter shakes her head.
“I wish. It’s not that. It’s worse than that.” She gives me a bleak little smile. “I’ve googled early-onset dementia. I have all the signs.”
“But you’re totally with it!” I say, feeling quite distressed at this conversation. “You’re sane, you’re lucid, you’re young, for God’s sake….”
Demeter shakes her head. “I send emails I don’t remember sending. I get confused over dates. I don’t remember things I’ve agreed to. This issue with Allersons. I’m sure they told me to stall. They were waiting for some piece of research they’d commissioned.” Her face crumples. “But now everyone’s telling me they didn’t say that. So it must be me. I must be losing my sanity. Luckily I think quickly on my feet, so I’ve got myself out of a lot of situations. But not all of them.”
I have a flashback to Demeter in the office, peering at her phone as though nothing in the world makes sense, turning to Sarah with that confused, helpless expression, deflecting attention with some random loud announcement. And now, of course, it all looks like a coping mechanism.
The thought makes me squirm uncomfortably. I can’t believe Demeter is anything other than a powerful, intelligent woman, at the top of her game and just a bit crap at managing people.
She’s pacing around the woodshed now, her face tortured. She looks like she’s trying to solve some problem involving Pythagoras and string theory, all at once.
“I know I saw that email,” she suddenly declares. “I printed it out. I had it.”
“So where is it?”
“God knows. Not on my computer, I’ve checked enough times. But…” Her face jolts. “Wait. Did I put it in my raffia bag?”
She looks transfixed. I don’t even dare breathe, in case I disturb her.
“I did. I think I did. I took a bundle of emails home….” Demeter rubs her mud-strewn face. “They’re not on my desk. I’ve checked that too. But could they be in that bag? It’s been hanging on my bedroom-door handle for weeks. I never even…Is that where it went?”
She looks at me urgently, as though expecting an answer. I mean, honestly. What do I know about her raffia bag? On the other hand, leaving a bundle of emails in a bag is a totally Demeter thing to do.
“Maybe.” I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve got to try, at least.” Abruptly, she starts brushing herself down. “I’ve got to give it a go.”
“Give what a go?”
“I’m going to London.” She looks directly at me. “It’s only midday. I can get up there and back by evening. The children are busy; they won’t even know I’ve gone.”
“You’re going to the office?” I say, confused.
“No!” She gives a half bark of mirthless laughter. “I can’t risk going near the office. No, I’m going home. I need to see what I can salvage from my stuff there. If I’ve got any chance of fighting this, I need ammunition.”