“Handy window,” comments Dad now, looking at my nondescript little kitchen window. “Makes the kitchen very light.”
“Very nice!” chimes in Biddy eagerly. “And I noticed you have a Japanese restaurant at the end of the road. Very exotic! Very glamorous! Isn’t it, Mick? That’s what you get in London. The restaurants.”
I want to give Biddy a hug. My little road in Hanwell is not exotic. Nor glamorous. It’s well priced and the commute is half what I had before, and there’s room for a sofa bed. Those are the main attractions of my flat, as well as not having to share with weirdo flatmates. But if Biddy’s going to call it exotic and glamorous, then I can too.
The truth is, Biddy and Dad will never see or feel or understand the London-ness that gives me a spring in my step, every single day. It’s intangible. It’s not about being glossy and it’s not about trying to live up to an image; it’s about who I am. I love Ansters Farm, and I always will—and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll end up back there. But something about this life I’m leading now makes me feel super-alive. The people, the buzz, the horizons, the connections…Like, for example, I’m having a meeting with some people at Disney this afternoon. Disney!
OK, full disclosure: It’s not really my meeting. Demeter and Adrian are having the meeting, but they said I could come along. Still, I’ll be meeting the Disney people, won’t I? I’ll be learning, won’t I?
I check my reflection in the mirror and run a last-minute dollop of serum through my curls. I’m doing London differently this time. More confidently. I’m not trying to be a girl with straight, tortured, unfamiliar hair. I’m being me.
“So, let’s go.” I pick up my bag and usher Dad and Biddy out of my flat, through the little communal hall, out of the main front door…and to the top of the steps.
Yes! I have steps!
They aren’t quite as grand as Demeter’s steps. And she’s right: They are a pain to lug shopping up. But they’re gray stone and kind-of-almost elegant, and every time I open the front door in the morning, they give me a spark of joy.
“Nice…um…bus stop!” says Dad, gesturing ahead. “Very handy, love.” He looks up, as though to check I’m listening, and I feel a tweak of love for him. He’s praised everything in this street, from the houses to the scrubby trees to the bench outside the newsagent’s. Now he’s reduced to admiring the bus stop?
“It’s useful,” I agree. “Cuts my traveling time down.” (Let’s not mention the bus fumes or the crowds of schoolchildren who use it.)
As the bus draws up, it’s a bit of a scrum, and by the time we’re all inside, I’ve ended up separated from Dad and Biddy. I gesture reassuringly at them and take the opportunity to check a text which just beeped in my phone.
Hi Katie, how’s it going? Jeff
I blink at it for a moment. Jeff is this guy that I’ve dated, like, twice. We met at a conference. And he’s…polite. Nice-looking. Nondescript.
No, not nondescript. Quickly I steer my own thoughts onto a strictly positive, upbeat path: Wow. Jeff texted. We’ve only dated a couple of times, so this is a sweet gesture of his, to check in like that. It’s nice of him. Really, really nice. Considerate. He’s a really considerate guy, in fact. It’s a really good quality of his, being considerate.
This is my new guiding principle: Find a man of quality. Not a man who excites me but one who values me. Not a man who takes me to the moon and then vanishes off to New York but one who takes me to…Bracknell, maybe. (Jeff is from Bracknell and keeps telling me how great it is.)
Well, OK. Obviously the moon would be even better than Bracknell. But maybe Jeff will take me to the moon. I just need to get to know him. I text a reply:
Hi Jeff! How are you?
As I’m typing I have a sudden flashback to a memory which I must not keep having. It was just before I moved in here and Alex left for New York, and I texted him from a very dull residents’ meeting in my upstairs neighbor’s flat:
Help! I’m surrounded by biscuit people!
He started sending me photos of all sorts of biscuits. Then he started Photoshopping them with faces. And I got the giggles and I felt that glow, that warmth, that you-and-me feeling he gives me.
But the you-and-me feeling is a mirage, I tell myself sternly, a mirage. Let’s look at the facts. Alex is in New York on his one-way lifelong spree around the world. I haven’t heard a word from him. Whereas Jeff is here, in Bracknell, actually being interested in my life.
To be fair to Alex, he didn’t break off contact; I did. More self-preservation. Really, I should have broken off the whole affair that day in Demeter’s office, when he first told me about New York. But I was weak. I couldn’t resist a night in his flat, and then another night…and another…
So we had these golden, heady few days: spending time with each other and being in the moment. I didn’t dare to peer into the future. I didn’t dare think too hard about things. We cast the whole thing as “fun.” We both used that word, a lot, until it started sounding hollow. Where other people might tentatively have talked about love or connection or a relationship, we resolutely pitched the word “fun” at each other. I’ve been having so much fun. You’re so much fun. That evening was just…fun!
A couple of times, I caught him looking at me uncertainly, as though he sensed the element of charade. Catching my hand; taking it to his lips. A couple of times I couldn’t resist sweet, small murmurings into his neck, which sounded closer to love than fun.
But the word “love,” even uttered in my mind, made me jolt in alarm. No, no, no, DON’T fall….Protect yourself….He’ll be off; he’ll leave you….
And he was, and he did.
“Look, Katie, you don’t mind me going, do you?” Alex said once as we lay together, as though the thought was slowly dawning on him. “I mean…this has been fun. This is fun. But…”
“Mind?” And I laughed, an incredulous, bubbling, carefree laugh; I could have got an Oscar for it.
Oh, just jogging along.
The beep of Jeff’s text brings me out of my thoughts. This is reality, I remind myself. Jeff is reality. Alex is gone. A memory. A myth.
I try to think of some witty response to jogging along, but the very phrase seems to dull my fingers. Jogging along. Oh God. Very slowly, I begin to type.
Sounds…
I have literally no idea what to say next. Sounds what? Sounds super-fun? Sounds like my idea of hell?
And now, despite myself, I’m remembering another painful–magical Alex moment. It was a night that we had martinis, and Alex suddenly announced, only a little drunkenly, “I do admire you, Katie Brenner. I do so admire you.”
“Admire me?” I felt my jaw sag. No one had ever admired me before. “What on earth—”
“You’re tough. And you’re…” He seemed to search for the word. “You’re straight. You fought for Demeter because you thought it was right. You didn’t have to fight for her; in fact, you had every reason not to—but you did.”
“Actually, I was a mercenary,” I replied with a shrug. “Did I never tell you that? Made five grand. Result.” And Alex laughed and laughed, until martini came out of his nose. I could always manage to tickle him; I’m not even sure how.
I remember that we lapsed into silence then, and I gazed at him, while jazz played in the background and soft lights danced on his face. And although I knew full well in one part of my head that he was planning to leave, right at that moment it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t always be there with me. Entertaining me with his random comments and impulsive plans and infectious smile. I just couldn’t compute the idea of him gone.