My Not So Perfect Life Page 4

  “Worked out” is an understatement. It was a sensation, and the sales of Redfern Raisins rocketed. I’ve read articles about it.

  “So, how did you do it?” I persist. “How did you persuade the client?”

  I’m not just asking to make conversation; I really want to know. Because maybe one day I’ll work on a project and want to push through some super-expensive feature, and the client will be all stroppy, but I’ll remember Demeter’s wise advice and win the day. I’ll be Kung Fu Panda to her Master Shifu, only with less kung fu. (Probably.)

  Demeter has stopped typing and she turns round as though she’s actually quite interested in the question herself.

  “What we do in our job,” she says thoughtfully, “it’s a balance. On the one hand it’s about listening to the client. Interpreting. Responding. But on the other, it’s about having the courage to go with big ideas. It’s about standing up for your convictions. You need a bit of tenacity. Yes?”

  “Definitely,” I say, trying to look as tenacious as possible. I lower my brows and hold the hair dye wand firmly. Altogether, I hope I’m giving off the vibe: Tenacious. Alert. A Surprisingly Interesting Junior Member Of Staff Whose Name It’s Worth Remembering.

  But Demeter doesn’t seem to have noticed my tenacious, alert demeanor. She’s turned back to her computer. Quick, what else can we talk about? Before she can start typing again, I say hastily, “So, um, have you been to that new restaurant in Marylebone? The Nepalese–British fusion place?”

  It’s like catnip. I’ve mentioned the hottest restaurant of the moment, and Demeter stops dead.

  “I have, actually,” she says, sounding surprised that I’ve asked. “I went a couple of weeks ago. Have you?”

  Have I?

  What does she think, that I can afford to spend £25 on a plate of dumplings?

  But I can’t bear to say, No, I just read about it on a blog, because that’s all I can afford to do, because London is the sixth-most-expensive city in the world, hadn’t you noticed?

  (On the plus side, it’s not as expensive as Singapore. Which makes you wonder: What on earth does everything cost in Singapore?)

  “I’m planning to,” I say after a pause. “What did you think?”

  “I was impressed.” Demeter nods. “You know that the tables are handmade in Kathmandu? And the food is challenging but earthy. Very authentic. All organic, of course.”

  “Of course.” I match her serious, this-is-no-joking-matter tone. I think, if Demeter had to put her religion down on a form, she’d put Organic.

  “Isn’t the chef the same guy who was at Sit, Eat?” I say, dabbing the brush into more gloopy dye. “He’s not Nepalese.”

  “No, but he’s got a Nepalese adviser and he spent two years out there….” Demeter swivels round and looks at me more appraisingly. “You know your restaurants, don’t you?”

  “I like food.”

  Which is true. I read restaurant reviews like some people read horoscopes. I even keep a list in my bag of all the top restaurants I’d like to go to sometime. I wrote it out as a jokey thing with my friend Fi one day, and it’s just kind of stuck around, like a talisman.

  “What do you think of Salt Block?” Demeter demands, as though testing me.

  “I think the dish to have is the sea urchin,” I say without missing a beat.

  I’ve read that everywhere. Every review, every blog. It’s all about the sea urchin.

  “The sea urchin.” Demeter nods, frowning. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. I should have ordered it.”

  I can tell she’s fretting now. She’s missed out on the must-eat dish. She’ll have to go back and have it.

  Demeter turns and gives me a short, penetrating look—then swivels back to her computer. “Next time we get a food project, I’m putting you on it.”

  I feel a flicker of disbelieving delight. Was that a vote of approval from Demeter? Am I actually getting somewhere?

  “I worked on the re-launch of the Awesome Pizza Place in Birmingham,” I quickly remind her. It was on my CV, but she’ll have forgotten that.

  “Birmingham,” echoes Demeter absently. “That’s right.” She types furiously for a few moments, then adds, “You don’t sound Brummie.”

  Oh God. I’m not going into the whole ditching-the-West-Country-accent story. It’s too embarrassing. And who cares where I’m originally from, anyway? I’m a Londoner now.

  “I guess I’m just not an accent person,” I say, closing the subject. I don’t want to talk about where I’m from; I want to press on toward my goal. “So, um, Demeter? You know the Wash-Blu rebrand we’re pitching for? Well, I’ve done some mock-ups of my own for the new logo and packaging. In my spare time. And I wondered, could I show them to you?”

  “Absolutely.” Demeter nods encouragingly. “Good for you! Email them to me.”

  This is how she always reacts. She says, “Email them to me!” with great enthusiasm, and you do, and then you don’t hear anything back, ever.

  “Right.” I nod. “Perfect. Or I can show you right now?”

  “Now?” says Demeter vaguely, reaching for a plastic folder.

  She wanted tenacious, didn’t she? I carefully put down the hair dye on a shelf and hurry to get my designs.

  “So, this is the front of the box….” I put a printout in front of her. “You’ll see how I’ve treated the lettering, while keeping the very recognizable blue tone….”

  Demeter’s mobile phone buzzes and she grabs it.

  “Hello, Roy? Yes, I got your message.” She nods intently. “Let me just write that down….” She seizes my printout, turns it over, and scribbles a number on the back of it. “Six o’clock. Yes, absolutely.”

  She puts the phone down, absently folds the paper up into quarters, and puts it in her bag. Then she looks up at me and comes to. “Oh! Sorry. That’s your paper, isn’t it? Do you mind if I keep it? Rather an important number.”

  I stare back, blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know how to respond. That was my design. My design. That I was showing her. Not some piece of crappy scrap paper. Should I say something? Should I stand up for myself?

  My spirits have plummeted. I feel so stupid. There I was, believing—hoping—that we were bonding, that she was noticing me….

  “Shit.” Demeter interrupts my thoughts, staring at her computer in consternation. “Shit. Oh God.”

  She pushes her chair back with no warning and bashes my legs. I cry, “Ow!” but I’m not sure she hears: She’s too agitated. She peers out of her glass office wall, then ducks down.

  “What is it?” I gulp. “What’s happened?”

  “Alex is on his way!” she says, as though this is self-explanatory.

  “Alex?” I echo stupidly. Who’s Alex?

  “He just emailed. He can’t see me like this.” She gestures at her head, which is all messy with dye and needs to be left for at least another five minutes. “Go and meet the lift,” she says urgently. “Intercept him.”

  “I don’t know who he is!”

  “You’ll know him!” Demeter says impatiently. “Tell him to come back in half an hour. Or email. But don’t let him come in here.” Her hands rise to her head as though to shield it.

  “But what about your hair dye?”

  “It’s fine. You’re done. All I do now is wait and wash it off. Go! Go!”

  Oh God. Demeter’s panic is contagious, and as I scurry down the corridor I feel hyper-vigilant. But what if I don’t catch this Alex? What if I don’t recognize him? Who is he, anyway?

  I take up a position right outside the lift doors and wait. The first lift disgorges Liz and Rosa, who give me a slightly odd look as they pass by. The second lift whizzes straight past to the ground floor. Then the first lift arrives at our floor again and…Ping. The doors open and out steps a tall, slim guy I haven’t seen before. And Demeter’s right: I instantly know this must be him.

  He has brown hair, not mousy brown but proper dark chestnut, springing up from his brow
. He looks about thirty and has one of those wide-open, appealing faces that you get when you have good cheekbones and a broad smile. (He’s not smiling, but you can tell: When he does smile it’ll be broad, and I bet he’s got good teeth too.) He’s wearing jeans and a pale-purple shirt, and his arms are full of boxes covered in Chinese characters.

  “Alex?” I say.

  “Guilty.” He turns to look at me, his face interested. “Who are you?”

  “Um…Cat. I’m Cat.”

  “Hi, Cat.”

  His brown eyes are surveying me as though to extract the most information about me possible in the smallest amount of time. I’d feel uncomfortable, except I’m preoccupied by fulfilling my task.

  “I have a message from Demeter,” I announce. “She says, could you possibly come and see her in about half an hour? Or maybe email instead? She’s just a bit…um…tied up.”

  Dyed up crosses my mind, and I almost give a little snort of laughter.

  He picks up on it at once. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, it is. You nearly laughed.” His eyes spark at mine. “Tell me the joke.”

  “No joke,” I say, flustered. “So, anyway, that’s the message.”

  “Wait half an hour, or email.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He appears to think for a moment. “Trouble is, I don’t want to wait for half an hour. Or email. What’s she doing?” To my horror, he starts striding down the corridor, toward our office. In panic I run after him, dodge right past, and plant myself in his way.

  “No! She can’t…You mustn’t…” As he moves to get past me, I take a quick step to obstruct him. He dodges the other way, and I block him again, lifting my hands into a defensive martial-arts pose before I can stop myself.

  “We’re seriously doing this?” Alex looks like he might burst into laughter. “What are you, Special Forces?”

  My cheeks flame red, but I hold my ground. “My boss doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “You’re a fierce guard dog, aren’t you?” He surveys me with even more interest. “You’re not her assistant, though, are you?”

  “No. I’m a research associate.” I say the title with care. Associate. Not intern, associate.

  “Good for you.” He nods, as though impressed, and I wonder if he’s an intern.

  No. Too old. And, anyway, Demeter wouldn’t get bothered about seeing an intern, would she?

  “So, who are you?” I ask.

  “Well…” He looks vague. “I do a bit of everything. I’ve been working in the New York office.” He makes a sudden move to get past me, but I’m there, blocking him again.

  “You’re good.” He grins, and I feel a dart of anger. This guy is starting to piss me off.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you need Demeter for,” I say stonily. “But I told you, she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Got it?”

  He’s silent for a moment, regarding me, then a smile spreads over his face—and I was right, it’s broad and white and dazzling. He’s actually extremely handsome, I realize, and this belated recognition makes me blush.

  “I’m crazy,” he says suddenly, and steps aside with almost a courtly bow. “I don’t need Demeter, and I apologize for being so rude. If it’s any consolation, you win.”

  “That’s OK,” I say, a little stiffly.

  “I don’t need Demeter,” he continues cheerfully, “because I have you. I want to do some research; you’re a research associate. It’s a perfect fit.”

  I blink uncertainly at him. “What?”

  “We have work to do.” He brandishes the boxes with Chinese writing at me.

  “What?”

  “Twenty minutes, max. Luckily, Demeter is obviously so tied up, she won’t even notice you’re gone. Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “To the roof.”

  I shouldn’t be here. Simple as that. There are a million reasons I should not have come up to the roof with a strange man called Alex about whom I know nothing. Especially when I’ve got a stack of surveys still to input. But there are three good reasons that I am here, standing on the top of the building, shivering and gazing around at the rooftops of Chiswick.

  1. I reckon I could take him in a fight. You know, if he turned out to be a psychopath.

  2. I want to know what these Chinese boxes are all about.

  3. The idea of doing something that isn’t coffee surveys or hair dye is so overwhelmingly alluring, I can’t resist. It’s as if someone’s opened the door of my solitary-confinement cell and shone a light in and said, Psst, want to come out for a bit?

  And by out, I mean out. There’s no shelter up here, only an iron railing running round the edge and a few low concrete walls here and there. The December air is bitter and gusty, lifting my hair up and freezing my neck. The air seems almost gray-blue with cold. Or maybe it’s just the contrast between the chilly, gloomy midwinter sky and the cozy warm buildings around us, all lit up.

  From where I’m standing, I can see right into the office block next to ours, and it’s fascinating. It’s not a modern block like ours; it’s more old-fashioned, with cornices and proper windows. A girl in a navy jacket is painting her nails at her desk but keeps stopping to pretend she’s typing, and a guy in a gray suit has fallen asleep in his chair.

  In the next room along, a rather intense meeting is happening around a grand, shiny table. A woman in a frilly uniform is handing round tea while an elderly man sounds off at everyone and another man is opening a large window, as though things are getting so heated, they need air. I find myself wondering what kind of company it is. Something more stuffy than ours. The Royal Institution Of Something?

  A ripping sound makes me turn, and I see Alex crouching down, tearing into one of the boxes with a Stanley knife.

  “So, what’s the work?” I say. “Unpacking?”

  “Toys,” he says, holding the Stanley knife in his mouth as he wrenches the box open. “Adult toys.”

  Adult toys?

  Oh my God, this was a mistake. This is Fifty Shades of the Roof. He’ll be tying me up to the railings any minute. I need to escape—

  “Not that kind of adult toys,” he adds with a grin. “Proper toys for playing with—except for grown-ups.” He lifts out something made of bright green rope and plastic. “This is a diabolo, I think. You know? The things you spin? And these are…” From another box he pulls out some steel tubes that look like telescopes. “I think they expand…yes. Stilts.”

  “Stilts?”

  “Look!” He pulls one out to its full length and snaps down a foot piece. “Grown-up stilts. Want to have a go?”

  “What is all this?” I take the stilts from him, climb on, instantly wobble, and fall off.

  “Like I said, toys for grown-ups. They’re huge in Asia. They’re supposed to be an antidote to modern stress. Now they want to expand globally. They’ve hired the Sidney Smith Agency…you know Sidney Smith?”

  I nod. I mean, I don’t know the Sidney Smith Agency, but I know they’re our rival.

  “Anyway, now they’ve asked us to come in on it too. I’ve been tasked with looking at the products. What do you think so far?”

  “Tricky,” I say, falling off my stilts for the third time. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  “I agree.” He comes over to me on a second pair of stilts, both of us constantly stepping back and forth as we try to keep balance.

  “But I like being taller. That’s quite cool.”

  “Useful for seeing over crowds,” he agrees. “Party stilts? That might work.” He tries to stand on one stilt, sways, and loses his balance. “Shit. You could not do this after a few beers. Can you dance on them?” He lifts a leg, wobbles, and falls down. “Nope. Also, where do you put your beer? Where’s the drink holder? This is a massive defect.”

  “They didn’t think it through,” I agree.

  “They have not seen the full potential.” He telescopes them back up. “OK
, next toy.”

  “How come they got you to do this?” I ask, as I fold my own stilts up.

  “Oh, you know.” He flashes me a grin. “I was the most immature.” He opens another box. “Hey. A drone.”

  The drone is a kind of military-looking helicopter, with a remote control the size of a small iPad. It must have demonstration batteries in it, because soon Alex has got it to float up in the air. As it comes flying toward me, I dodge with a yelp.

  “Sorry.” He lifts a hand. “Just getting the hang of it…” He presses a button on the remote, and the drone lights up like a spaceship. “Oh, this is great! And it’s got a camera. Look at the screen.”

  He sends up the drone, high in the air, and we both watch the picture of the rooftops of Chiswick, getting more and more distant.

  “You could see everything in the world with one of these,” enthuses Alex, swooping the drone down and up. “Think how many experiences you could have. You could see every church in Italy, every tree in the rain forest….”

  “Virtual experiences,” I correct. “You wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t feel the places or smell them….”

  “I didn’t say you could have perfect experiences, I said you could have experiences.”

  “But that’s not an experience, just floating by from a distance. Is it?”

  Alex doesn’t answer. He brings the helicopter downward, switches off its lights, and sends it toward the neighboring building.

  “No one’s even noticed it!” he exclaims, as he gets it to hover outside the window of the big meeting round the table. “Look, we can spy on them.” He taps at a control on the touch screen, and the camera tilts to film the table. “Focus in…” He taps again, and the camera zooms in on some papers.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I protest. “It’s sneaky. Stop it.”

  Alex turns to look at me, and something flickers across his face—as if he’s chastened and amused, all at the same time.

  “You’re right.” He nods. “Let’s not be sneaky. Let’s be up front.”

  He switches all the helicopter’s lights back on and sets them to flash red and white. Then he carefully maneuvers the drone toward the open window.