My Not So Perfect Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  He falls silent. Somehow I manage an encouraging smile, even though there’s a hot, looming sadness in my head. I thought…

  No. Stop. It doesn’t matter what I thought.

  “Wow. New York. I mean, that’s—” I break off, my voice not quite steady. “It’s a great idea.”

  “It is, right?” Alex nods eagerly. “And it was you who gave me that idea.”

  “Great!” I say shrilly. “I’m so pleased.”

  The more brightly I talk, the tighter my throat feels and the harder I have to blink. I’m in shock. I hadn’t realized. I did let him into my heart. I did. I didn’t even know I was doing it, but somehow there he is, wrapped up with everything that I love.

  Suddenly I notice Demeter watching us from the open doorway. She must have arrived back a while ago, because I can tell from her expression that she’s heard. And although she says nothing, I can hear her voice in my head, clear as a bell. One-Way Alex…never touches the same ground twice…a lot of broken hearts…don’t get smitten…protect yourself.

  Protect myself. I can feel my mental armies springing into action. I can feel every self-defensive instinct waking up. Because here’s the thing I need to remember: Life is good at the moment. And I’m not about to blight it by pining after a man. I’m not about to hope for impossible things. However well we seemed to work together.

  “Actually, Demeter?” I say, in the most nonchalant tone I can manage. “Could you give us another moment?”

  Demeter turns away with one last, sympathetic look at me. I turn to Alex and draw breath, my heart hammering.

  “So, I don’t know how you saw things working out between us, but…you know.” I force a bright, carefree smile. “We’ll both probably find…different paths from now on. So. No hard feelings. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh.” Alex seems a bit discomfited. “I see. Got it.”

  “I mean, New York’s a long way away!” I give a breezy laugh. “You’ll be busy…I’ll be busy….”

  “Yes. I mean, I had thought…” He trails off and shakes his head, as though dispelling an uncomfortable thought. “But…OK. Right. Understood.”

  “So.” I clear my throat. “That’s…good. Sorted.”

  There’s an awkward silence in the office. I breathe out a few times, my gaze distant, trying to keep my cool. I feel a bit like giving myself a high five, for sorting my life so efficiently, and a bit like bursting into tears.

  “I’m not going for a week or two,” says Alex eventually, in wary tones. “I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come round to my flat tonight?”

  “Right.” I swallow, trying to maintain my indifferent demeanor and not give away how much I want him.

  It’s not only the sex or the way he makes me laugh or his sudden, random, always-entertaining ideas. It’s the sharing, the confiding, the peeling away the layers of him. Which is, I guess, how I ended up letting him into my heart. And so, really, I should say, No, let’s end it here. But I’m not quite that strong.

  “Well, OK,” I say at last. “That might be fun. Just fun,” I add for emphasis. “Fun.”

  “Absolutely. Just fun.” Alex seems about to say something else when his phone rings. As he pulls it out of his pocket, he winces at the display. “Sorry. Do you mind if I—”

  “Of course! Go ahead!”

  The interruption is exactly what I need to get my thoughts in order and stiffen my inner resolve. I walk over to the window, my chin set, talking firmly to myself.

  OK. This is what it is. It’s fun. It’s an interlude. And I’m going to enjoy it simply as that. Repeat: Life is good at the moment. No, it’s brilliant. And when Alex disappears out of the picture again, it will not throw me. Because the thing about letting people into your heart is, you can just push them out again. Easy.

  I’ve called it @mynotsoperfectlife and I’ve already got 267 followers! I post utterly unvarnished, unposed, un-Instagrammy photos with captions, and it’s turned into one of the most fun hobbies I’ve ever had.

  A photo of bad-tempered crowds on a tube platform: My not-so-perfect commute. A picture of the revolting blister on my heel: My not-so-perfect new shoes. A photo of my hair, drenched: The not-so-perfect London weather.

  The amazing thing is how many other people have joined in. Mark from work posted a picture of himself eating a doughnut, captioned My not-so-perfect eat-clean regime. Biddy posted a picture of some ripped trousers, which she’d obviously caught on some barbed wire, entitled My not-so-perfect rural existence, which made me laugh.

  Even Steve’s fiancée, Kayla, has posted a picture of a receipt for the deposit on a tent (£3,500). She called it My not-so-perfect wedding and I’m really hoping that Steve knows all about it and sees the joke too.

  Fi has deluged my page with photos from New York, and to be honest, it’s totally changed the way I see her and her life. For a start, I hadn’t quite realized how small her apartment was. She’s posted lots of pictures of her shower—which I have to admit is really unappealing—all captioned My not-so-perfect New York rental. Then she posted a photo of a text message that some guy sent her, dumping her as she arrived for their date. She could actually see him at the bar, chatting up another girl. She called that one My not-so-perfect New York date, and got about thirty responses from people with even worse stories.

  After Fi had posted about six times, I called her up and we had a bit of a heart to heart. In fact, it lasted all evening. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her voice. Words on a screen just aren’t the same.

  And it’s not as if she said, Guess what, my fabulous life was all made up, I haven’t really got quirky friends, nor do I drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. Because she has got quirky friends, and she did drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. At least once. But there’s other stuff in her life too. Stuff that balances out the bright-and-shiny. Just like there is for all of us. Bright-and-shiny on the one side; the crappy truth on the other.

  I think I’ve finally worked out how to feel good about life. Every time you see someone’s bright-and-shiny, remember: They have their own crappy truths too. Of course they do. And every time you see your own crappy truth and feel despair and think, Is this my life, remember: It’s not. Everyone’s got a bright-and-shiny, even if it’s hard to find sometimes.

  “Katie?”

  I raise my head and smile. There’s my bright-and-shiny, right in front of me—at least, two big chunks of it. Dad and Biddy have come into the kitchen, dressed up in their visiting-London outfits. They’re both wearing stiff blue jeans (Dave Yarnett) and gleaming white sneakers (Dave Yarnett). Dad has a new I LONDON T-shirt, which he bought yesterday at the Tower of London, while Biddy’s wearing a sweatshirt with Big Ben on it. Dad’s holding the tube map and Biddy’s clutching a flask of water. They’re going to Kew Gardens today, and I think they’ll love it.

  They promised me they’d come to stay after I’d had “time to settle in,” and I thought they meant in the autumn, after the season was over. But I’m only six weeks into my new job and here they are, leaving Steve and Denise in charge of the glampers for a couple of days. It must have meant heroic amounts of organization, and I’m truly appreciative.

  The only snag is, I haven’t been able to take time off work—but they insist that they don’t mind. This way they can “enjoy London,” as they keep putting it. Dad has told me about five times how he’s been finding London “extremely enjoyable” this visit and how he “never really looked at it the right way before.”

  I smile at them. “All ready?”

  Biddy nods. “All set! Goodness, you do have an early start, darling—” Then she stops herself, flushes, and glances at Dad.

  I think Biddy and Dad must have made a joint vow on this visit: We will not utter one single even slightly negative opinion. I can tell they think my new bedroom is a little small (they should have seen the last one) and they think my commute is a bit long (I think it’s a picnic). But all they’ve done since they arriv
ed is shower me with positive comments about London, Londoners, jobs in offices, and basically everything about my life.

  “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.

  Head over head, I guess.

  Thankfully we’ve arrived at the bus stop where we need to change, so I’m able to quit this train of thought. Shake my head clear of old memories and hopes and whatever else rubbish is in there. I put my phone away and shepherd Dad and B
iddy through the whole fight-your-way-through-the-schoolkids process. (I can see it from their point of view; it is a bit stressy. Although I will say: They’re both getting very good at tapping their Oyster cards.)

  The second bus whizzes along straight to Chiswick (well, as much as you can whiz in London), and there’s summer sunlight glinting in through the window and Biddy even gets a seat. It really could be worse. At Turnham Green, I put Dad and Biddy on a tube to Kew, tell them I can’t wait to hear all about it later, and then walk briskly the rest of the way to Cooper Clemmow.

  “Morning, Katie,” Jade greets me from reception as I walk in.

  That’s another change I’ve made. I’m Katie these days, and I don’t know why I ever tried being anyone else.

  “Morning, Jade.” I smile back. “Is Demeter in?”

  “Not yet,” says Jade. And I’m about to head to the lift when she clears her throat and motions toward someone sitting in the reception area. I turn and blink a few times as I see the figure, feeling a sudden rush of emotions. It’s me. OK, it’s not me. But it’s like looking at myself.

  Sitting there, fiddling with her handbag strap, is our new research associate, Carly. She’s wearing cheap black trousers and her hair in a plastic clasp and an anxious expression. As she sees me, she leaps up, practically knocking over her glass of water.

  “Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Hi, Katie, isn’t it? We met at my interview? I wanted to get here early on my first day, so…Hi.”

  She looks so apprehensive, I want to give her a hug. Except that would probably freak her out.

  “Hi.” I shake her hand warmly. “Welcome to Cooper Clemmow. You’re going to love it here. Demeter’s not here yet, but I’ll get you settled in….How was your commute?” I add, as we head toward the lift. “Miserable?”