My Not So Perfect Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Do you want to do baking?” suggests Biddy. “I could help you with that.” But slowly I shake my head.

  “No, don’t worry. I’ll come up with something else.” I give Biddy a bland little smile. “This might be Demeter’s last activity with me. I want to think of something absolutely perfect.”

  I meet Demeter at ten o’clock the next morning with my brightest, friendliest, “hello, campers” manner. She’s wearing a gray tank top teamed with denim shorts just like Coco’s, plus Hunter wellies. (I told her to wear something suitable for walking.) She has pretty good legs, actually. Of course she does. She probably thinks she looks like Kate Moss at Glastonbury. She’s probably wearing those teeny shorts to look super-sexy for Alex.

  I feel a surge of hatred that’s a bit like bile but manage to suppress it under a smile.

  “So!” I greet her. “Demeter! Welcome to our bespoke nature walk. We’ll head up into the woods, stretch our legs, and see a huge variety of wildlife. Sound good?”

  “Well, all right.” Demeter looks a bit unconvinced. “Is there a lot to see in the woods?”

  “Oh yes,” I say, with a bland smile. “Don’t worry. You won’t be bored. Do you have sunscreen on?” I add. “It’s hot today.”

  It’s not just hot, it’s baking. Biddy slathered all the children with sunscreen earlier on, and she’s made some ice lollies, which will be ready for lunchtime.

  “I’m wearing factor fifty, actually,” says Demeter smugly. “I use this wonderful brand which I get at Space NK; it has neroli oil and argan milk—”

  “Great,” I cut her off before she can do my head in with her boasting. “Let’s start, then.”

  I only mentioned sunscreen to sound professional. Where Demeter’s going, she won’t need sunscreen. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

  I lead the way briskly across the fields, the blood pumping through my veins. I’m a little hyper this morning. I woke at 5:00 A.M., fully alert, my head already full of Demeter.

  And Alex. Both, I suppose.

  OK, full disclosure: My head was actually full of Alex, with Demeter popping in for the odd cameo. Which is ridiculous. This is a guy I met a handful of times. A guy who’ll have already forgotten I exist. Why should he have got inside my brain? Why should I feel so…what, exactly?

  Betrayed. That’s what I feel, I realize. I feel betrayed that he should go for someone like Demeter, who’s so married, so inappropriate, so Demeter-ish. When he could have had—

  Well. All right. Before I sound totally tragic, here’s the thing. I’m not just saying, Oh, I wish he’d fallen in love with meeee….I mean, obviously I do wish that, kind of. But it’s bigger than that. It’s like: Are you really a Demeter person, Alex? Because I can’t see it. She doesn’t have your humor. She doesn’t have your flippant airiness, your live-wire irreverence. I can’t see the pair of you gelling, I just can’t, I can’t, I can’t…

  “Sorry?” says Demeter, and I realize I’m muttering, “I can’t,” under my breath.

  “Just doing a Vedari chant,” I say hastily. “Helps me focus. Now, keep your eyes peeled for voles.”

  “Voles!” exclaims Demeter.

  “They’re tiny creatures, rather like mice, but much more special.” I nod. “And there are stacks of them in this field.”

  There’s no chance that she’ll catch sight of a vole, but at least it’ll keep her off my case for a bit. Sure enough, we walk on in silence, Demeter determinedly scanning the ground.

  “So!” As we arrive at the edge of the woods, I turn like a tour leader. “Welcome to Ansters Woods. In here we’ll find a biodiverse world of animals, plants, and even fish, all working together in harmony.”

  “Fish?” queries Demeter, and I nod.

  “There are streams and ponds in the woods which are home to several very rare species.”

  Which is, you know. Probably true. Whatever.

  I’ve deliberately headed toward the thickest, most tangled part of the wood, and Demeter’s eyeing the brambles nervously. Well, what an idiot she is, wearing shorts.

  “Ow!” Demeter’s voice suddenly rings out. “I’ve been stung by a nettle!”

  “Bad luck,” I say blandly. As we walk on, I can’t help adding, “The trick with nettles is to grasp them. Grasp the nettle and everything will be OK. Don’t you agree?”

  I can’t tell if Demeter gets the reference or not. She’s staring at the overgrown path ahead and seems unnerved.

  “Don’t worry,” I say reassuringly. “I’ll cut us through the undergrowth. Keep close behind me and that way you’ll find it easier.”

  I take a long, whippy stick and start slashing through the bushes, accidentally on purpose using such a vigorous, wheeling motion that I catch Demeter on the leg too.

  “Ow!” she says.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say in an innocent tone. “I totally didn’t mean to do that. Let’s carry on. Look around and you’ll see birch, ash, and sycamore trees, as well as oaks.” I give her about thirty seconds to peer at the trees, then continue: “So, what are you up to tonight, Demeter? It’s just you and the kids, isn’t it? You must be feeling so sad that your husband’s gone. So lonely, all alone in your yurt. Just you, no one else.”

  As I speak, I feel resentment simmering. Look at her, in her denim shorts, catching some sun, revving up for a night of torrid sex.

  “I know; it’s a shame. Just one of those things,” says Demeter with a shrug. She’s peering at the trees around us. “So, which is the sycamore?”

  “I mean, you came here as a family.” I smile so hard, my cheeks start to tremble. “With your lovely husband who you made those special vows to. How long have you been married?”

  “What?” Demeter looks puzzled. “Um…eighteen years. No, nineteen.”

  “Nineteen years! Congratulations! You must really, really love him!”

  “Er…yes,” says Demeter, looking bemused. “I mean, we have our ups and downs….”

  “Of course you do. Don’t we all?” I give a shrill laugh. All this time, I’ve managed to keep outwardly calm around Demeter. But today I’m losing it a bit.

  “So are there many interesting bird species in the woods?” asks Demeter, with her “alert and intelligent” expression that really rubs me the wrong way.

  “Oh yes,” I say, breathing hard. “Definitely.” As a crow flutters out of a tree, I point upward. “Look! Did you see that?”

  “No!” says Demeter, and immediately cranes upward too. “What was it?”

  “A very rare bird,” I say. “Very rare indeed. The great crested…boaster.”

  I nearly said, The great crested Demeter.

  “It’s related to the warbler but much more rare,” I say. “Very predatory. Very toxic, nasty bird.”

  “Really?” Demeter sounds fascinated.

  “Oh yes.” I’m on a roll now. “It pushes the younger females out of the way and it won’t let them thrive. You wouldn’t want to come across it in the wild. It’s vicious. Selfish. I mean, it looks good. It has very sleek plumage. But it’s very crafty. Very pretentious.”

  “How can a bird be pretentious?” Demeter sounds puzzled.

  “It preens itself all the time,” I say after a pause. “And then it gouges out the other birds’ eyes.”

  “Oh my God.” Demeter looks like she might be sick.

  “Because it’s got to be top bird. It’s got to have everything. It doesn’t care if the other birds in the wood are struggling.” I pause. “But then, when it’s off guard and vulnerable, the other birds take revenge on it.”

  “How?” Demeter looks utterly gripped.

  “They have their means,” I say with a bland smile. I wait for Demeter to ask another question, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a weird, appraising look.

  “I was reading a book about local birds last night,” she says slowly. “It didn’t mention the great crested boaster.”

  “Well, like I say, it’s very rare. One of our rarest. Shall we?”

  I m
otion for us to carry on, but Demeter doesn’t follow. Her eyes are running over me as though for the first time. Oh God, she doesn’t suspect something, does she? Was the great crested boaster a step too far?

  “Have you always lived in the country?” she asks.

  “Oh yes!” I laugh, relieved to be on firmer ground. “I was born in the farmhouse,” I add, broadening my burr. “My dad’ll show you the marks on the kitchen wall, measuring my height over the years. This is home for me.”

  “I see.” Demeter looks only partially reassured, but she starts following me again.

  “You’ll want to see the ponds,” I tell her over my shoulder. “Beautiful wildlife at the ponds. We’ll go there now.”

  They’re always called “the ponds,” but it’s one pond, really. One quite large, fairly deep pond and one shallower dip, right next to it, which is sometimes a pond and sometimes a swamp. At this time of year, it’s swamp. About three foot deep of swampy, froggy mud, all topped off with bright-green weed.

  And that’s where Demeter’s heading, whether she knows it or not. I want her plastered in mud, dripping with weed, screaming with fury, and then—final touch—immortalized in a viral photo, which I’m sure Flora will have great pleasure in disseminating to the world. My phone’s in my pocket, covered in protective plastic. I’m all set. The only issue is going to be getting her into the swamp. But even if I have to dive in first myself, I’m doing it.

  My breaths are coming fast as we walk along. My ears are buzzing; I’m twitching at every sound from the trees. Every so often, I have a spasm of nerves and think: Do I really want to do this?

  Shall we just go back to the farmhouse instead?

  But then I picture Demeter tapping at her phone with that smug smile, summoning Alex like a take-out order the minute her husband disappeared. Demeter making me do her roots…thrusting her Net-A-Porter boxes at me…complaining about her tiny journey to work…Demeter staring at me in the lift at Cooper Clemmow. She couldn’t even remember if she’d let me go, because, hey, what does the life of some junior girl sitting in the corner matter?

  There I was feeling sorry for her—well, what a joke. She doesn’t need my pity. I mean, look at her. I glance at her long legs, clad in designer wellies. Her confident, I’m-the-boss stride. If she had a brief moment of vulnerability, it’s long passed now, and I was a mug to fall for it. Because Demeter’s always been an expert at using other people to sort her life out. Husband disappeared? Order in your lover instead. Deleted a crucial email? Get your assistant to sort it out. Somehow she always manages to come out on top.

  Except today.

  “Somerset has amazing birds,” I say, leading her toward the ponds. “There are loads of rare species around here, so as we walk, you should look up, all the time. Look up.”

  Not down at your feet. Not down at the mud and slippery oil that I may possibly have planted earlier.

  As we round a clump of bushes, the ponds come into sight ahead of us. The swamp is a patch of lime-green weed. It couldn’t look more glistening and noxious. No one’s about. All the other glampers are miles away, doing their foraging in Warreton Forest, and no one else has access to these woods. The silence around us is eerie and expectant. All I can hear is my own breath and our footsteps on the increasingly muddy ground, sloping downward toward the swamp.

  “Look up,” I keep exhorting her. “Look up.”

  Everything becomes boggy around here. And very slippery, even before it’s been laced with hemp oil. It’s OK, as long as you’re careful, don’t walk too fast, and don’t even think about running.

  Which is why I’m about to make Demeter run.

  “Oh wow!” I whisper as though in sudden excitement. “Can you see the kingfishers? Millions of them! Hurry!” I up my pace to what looks like a run, although I’m careful to plant my feet carefully and stay balanced. “You go first.” I turn and make a generous gesture to Demeter. “Go ahead of me. But hurry! Hurry!”

  Like a shopper at the Harrods sale, Demeter starts pegging it in a tiptoe run, her eyes fixed upward, gathering momentum. She doesn’t see the point at which soggy mud turns to oil slick. She doesn’t even notice when she starts to skid—until her feet finally hit the slipperiest bit of the oil slick, and she hasn’t got a chance. She slides down toward the swamp, flailing her arms, looking like a really terrible snowboarder.

  “Oh my God!” she gasps. “Oh my—oh God!”

  “Careful!” I call out cheerfully. “It gets slippery….Oh no!”

  I’m watching with all my attention, not even letting myself blink. I want to enjoy this fully. I want to see every single moment: Demeter thrashing her arms in panic…Demeter sliding off the bank…Demeter poised in midair…Demeter’s horror as she realizes what’s about to happen…

  And Demeter landing in the swamp. With not so much of a splash as a thwump. It’s three solid feet of mud, and as she crashes into it, the mud sprays up in great gloopy splatters, landing on her face and hair. There’s green weed on her head and down her cheeks, and I can see some sort of bug crawling along her shoulder.

  Yes! This could not have gone better. Look at her!

  She immediately tries to scramble to her feet, but it’s not so easy—and she falls several times before she manages to stand up. By this time she’s in the middle of the swamp, and if I’d planned the perfect photo op, then this would have been it. Demeter looking drenched, muddy, undignified, and furious.

  “Help me out!” She waves an indignant hand at me. “I’m stuck!”

  “Oh dear!” I call back, getting my phone out. Trying to hide my euphoria, I take a few photos, then carefully stash my phone back in its bag.

  “What are you doing?” shouts Demeter.

  “Just coming to help you,” I say soothingly. “You know, you should be careful around swamps. You should never hurry.”

  “But you told me to hurry!” Demeter explodes. “You said, ‘Hurry!’ ”

  “Never mind. We’ll soon get you back to your yurt. Come on,” I beckon.

  “I’m stuck,” Demeter repeats, giving me an accusing look. “My feet have sunk into the mud.”

  “Just lift up your leg.” I mime pulling a leg out of a swamp, and Demeter copies—but as she wrenches her leg out, her wellie is missing.

  “Shit!” she says, flailing her arms again. “My boot! Where’s my boot?”

  Oh for God’s sake.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, feeling like a mother with a three-year-old. I wade into the swamp, reach Demeter, and feel around in the mud for the boot. Demeter is meanwhile standing on one leg, clinging to my arm. “Here.” I fish out the missing wellie. “Shall we go?”

  I turn toward the bank, but Demeter doesn’t turn with me.

  “Why did you tell me to hurry?” she asks in even, ominous tones. “Did you want me to fall in?”

  I feel a tiny spasm of alarm, which I quell. She can’t prove anything.

  “Of course not! Why would I want that?”

  “I don’t know,” says Demeter in the same ominous way. “But it’s weird, isn’t it? And you know what else? I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

  She scrutinizes my face and I bow my head hastily under my baseball cap.

  “Well, that’s ridiculous.” I give a hasty laugh. “I’m a Zummerzet girl. Never been to Lunnon town in my life. I don’t even know where Chiswick is.”

  “Why did you say ‘Chiswick’?” snaps Demeter.

  At once I curse myself. Shit. Idiot. I’m losing concentration.

  “Didn’t you say you work in Chiswick?” I answer as lightly as I can. “Summat like that?”

  “No, I never mentioned it.” Demeter holds my wrist so tight that it hurts. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Katie!” I try to wriggle out of her grasp. “Now, let’s go and have a nice slap-up cream tea…or cake…jam tarts….”

  “You’re hiding something.” Demeter gives me an angry wrench and I lose my footing.

  “Aarg
h!” I land in the swamp and feel mud slapping onto my face. Oh my God, this is gross. I scramble into a sitting position, wipe my eyes, and glare at Demeter. All my self-control has gone. I feel as if my kite string has snapped; the kite is soaring away.

  “Don’t you dare do that!” I slap swamp mud at her.

  “Well, don’t you fucking dare!” Demeter slaps mud back at me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

  “I’m not up to anything!”

  I crawl to the side of the swamp and dip my head in the fresh water of the adjoining pond, trying to calm my adrenaline rush. OK. Regroup. This was not the plan. I have to keep it together. This may be Demeter, but she’s a guest too. I cannot be having a mud fight with her. I mean, it really wouldn’t sound good on TripAdvisor.

  Although—who’s to believe her word against mine? You know. If it came to it.

  Feeling steadier, I lift my head from the fresh water. My face is clean, all traces of mud gone. My baseball cap’s disappeared somewhere, but never mind. I pull my dripping hair back and scrunch it into a knot. Right. Back to my professional tour-leader act.

  “OK.” I turn to Demeter. “Well. I think we should finish the nature walk there. I do apologize for any—”

  “Wait,” she says, her voice suddenly quivering. “Wait right there. Cath.”

  My stomach does a loop the loop of terror.

  “No, Cat.” Demeter corrects herself, her eyes like gimlets. “Cat. Isn’t it?”

  “Who’s Cat?” I manage to keep in control of my voice.

  “Don’t give me that!” Demeter sounds so incandescent, I almost feel my skin shrivel. “Cat Brenner. It’s you, isn’t it? I can see it now.”

  I’ve wrecked my disguise, I realize with a sickening thud. The hat and the makeup and the curly hair. All gone. How could I have been so stupid?

  For a few petrified seconds, my mind gallops around my options. Deny…run away…other…