The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  She starts to feel a light panic in her chest but closes her eyes and forces herself to inhale deeply. She thinks of Cecily, all the places she visited, the adventures she and Samuel had – Cecily made the absolute most of her life. Kate can’t bear the thought of looking back when she’s ninety-seven on a career devoted to carrots and Annalex and oh, so many petty tediums.

  Kate clicks onto the original email about redundancy and rereads the terms and deadlines. Even last week Devron confirmed they could still take the cash option up until December. She hasn’t had a new contract yet; that will surely work in her favour. She picks up the phone and calls Kavita, who briefs her on exactly what she needs to say to HR, which sinister buzz words to sprinkle in, what tone to take if they start being obstructive.

  Then she calls HR, and after a thirty-minute protracted ‘hypothetical’ conversation, she hangs up with a surge of excitement and heads off to find Devron.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ says Devron, his smile rapidly fading as he begins to understand she is not.

  Kate can afford to be gracious because she’s just won herself five months of freedom. ‘Devron, I really appreciate everything Fletchers has done for me, but I’ve worked here longer than I haven’t. It’s time to move on.’

  ‘Can’t you just stay until Christmas? Give Annalex some support in her new role?’

  ‘That won’t work for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You must have something else lined up,’ he says, sourly.

  Kate shakes her head. ‘Not yet . . .’

  ‘Huh. November’s never a good time to be job-hunting.’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll have a few lie-ins,’ says Kate, smiling at the thought.

  ‘Quitting without a job to go to? Pretty bold move. I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  It’s not a compliment but Kate decides to take it as one. ‘Thanks. You know what? Neither did I.’

  As she walks out of the revolving door into the cold, clear evening, she takes her phone from her pocket. The first person she’d like to tell is Cecily; for once, Kate thinks she’d be proud, but Cecily refuses to take her call, so instead she phones Nick, who insists on cooking her a celebratory steak-and-chips dinner.

  All those times in the past when Kate had commended herself for staying put when she wasn’t enjoying herself – that terrible nineties gig at Wembley Arena, that appalling four-hour Japanese art-house film at the BFI, innumerable bad dates with men who only talked about themselves. All those books she’d disliked from the first paragraph but persevered with because the Guardian had called them ‘exquisite’ – when they should have said ‘pretentious’. People, places, things she’d stuck with that hadn’t improved – that had ultimately proved a waste of her time.

  She laughs as she realises that she is now the quitter. It’s taken her a long time, but she’s finally come to understand that sometimes walking away is the right thing to do. It shows strength and courage, it is not an admission of failure. Or rather, an admission of failure is not really failure; it’s the first step towards the future.

  PART FOUR

  Choosing well is one of the most difficult things in a difficult world . . . whether applied to food, drink, companionships or occupations.

  Agnes Jekyll, A Little Dinner Before the Play

  Chapter Forty-four

  KATE HASN’T FELT this good in months. Her fortieth is fast approaching, but she and Nick are firmly back on track – not long now till she moves in. Her new part-time job is surprisingly enjoyable. And tonight she’s about to meet Bailey, who’s joining her for one of Cara’s free-food-and-drink events, and even though the food sounds suspect, surely the booze can’t be?

  ‘You look amazing,’ says Bailey, greeting Kate at the entrance to the food hall with a huge hug. ‘I haven’t seen you for a month and now you look ten years younger. Are you sure you haven’t been to Brazil for a face lift?’

  ‘What, blow all my redundancy on a birthday present to myself? Fat chance. No, I’ve been washing up coffee cups and bingeing on Netflix with Nick. It’s hardly been the most glamorous of times.’

  ‘Well, it suits you, you’re glowing.’

  ‘That’s probably irritation, Cara’s an hour late to her own event,’ says Kate, scanning the room for a glimpse of her friend. ‘And surely A Night Celebrating Dairy and Gluten-Free Food is an oxymoron?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Cara since that taco festival you took me to in Battersea Park.’

  ‘Has it been that long? That was before I even met Nick, that’s nearly three years ago. Well, she’s still as blunt as ever,’ says Kate, laughing.

  ‘Why did she choose Deptford for this party? It’s nowhere near anywhere,’ says Bailey, who rarely complains about anything.

  ‘Deptford’s the new Peckham, or is it the new Dalston? One of the two – it must be true, it says so on her press release,’ says Kate, taking the crumpled page from her pocket.

  ‘We’re too old for the old Deptford let alone the new,’ says Bailey, casting her gaze around the aeroplane-hangar-sized space. It’s packed with dozens of food stands adorned with fluorescent graffitied awnings, and mobbed with twenty-somethings drinking cocktails out of Mason jars, nodding along to a heavy bass soundtrack.

  ‘London’s finest dairy and gluten-free pop-ups under one roof,’ reads Kate. ‘Bao, bun, poke, pho—’

  ‘Sounds like Teletubbies.’

  ‘Bringing global street-food highlights from Sri Lanka to San Francisco—’ She tuts noisily. ‘Cara should have asked me to write this copy. San Francisco’s a city, Sri Lanka’s a country, you shouldn’t mix the two.’

  ‘What’s the capital of Sri Lanka, then, smarty-pants?’

  ‘Ooh, Colombo, isn’t it? Like Peter Falk – hold on, I’ll check,’ says Kate, getting her phone out. ‘Oh no, I’m definitely pronouncing this wrong but it’s Sri Jaya-warden-epura Kotte.’

  ‘Columbo’s spelled with a “u”, anyway,’ says Bailey. ‘The detective, that is, not the city.’

  ‘If you can find one man in this place without pretentious facial hair, I’ll give you a fiver,’ says Kate, surveying the group of men in front of them queueing for brisket, all of whom sport frizzy, mid-length beards or spiky waxed moustaches. ‘Adam doesn’t have a stupid beard, does he?’

  ‘He has delightful stubble on his very square jaw. Did I tell you he’s taking me to Kew Gardens next weekend? There’s apparently an amazing gallery there, and he’s really into art.’

  ‘I cannot wait to meet this man. Meanwhile, I bet Cara’s in the back office with the Great Dane. Speak of the devil, your ears must be burning, where have you been? You’re an hour late.’

  ‘Guys, crazy night,’ says Cara, sweeping over, kissing Kate hello and giving Bailey a hug. ‘I had to do a meet-and-greet with the bloggers, entitled bunch of twerps – “Where’s my goody bag?”, “Don’t you know I’m London’s premier kale influencer and burger curator?” . . .’

  ‘What’s a burger curator?’ says Bailey.

  ‘She is,’ says Cara, pointing discreetly towards a stick-thin blonde surrounded by a group of over-coiffed men engrossed in their iPhones.

  ‘Wow, she might be curating burgers but she sure ain’t eating them,’ says Kate, counting the girl’s ribs on display.

  ‘You don’t get a million followers on Instagram by being honest,’ says Cara, checking her phone. ‘Shit. I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to greet the grime artist’s entourage.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ says Kate.

  ‘Grime?’ says Bailey.

  ‘And punishment . . . Cara, isn’t there a bar area for OAPs like us that has actual seating?’

  ‘Oh, come to the VIP cocktail area! It’s being hosted by Friko.’

  Friko? mouths Bailey.

  No idea, mouths Kate.

  ‘Can he make me a Piña Colada?’ says Bailey.

  ‘Will there definitely be seats?’ says Kate.

  They head up a rickety staircas
e to a small bar area done up like a speakeasy. They settle at a table and Cara orders three Negronis which arrive ‘deconstructed’: the gin served in a giant syringe, the vermouth and Campari as two giant ice cubes and the orange peel in the form of a paper square like an acid tab.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ says Cara, appraising Kate. ‘Have you changed your hair?’

  ‘Nope, I’m just not miserable anymore,’ says Kate, smiling.

  ‘You’re back with him, then,’ says Cara, taking one of the ice cubes from the dish and sniffing it suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, I am. I cooked him a lovely dinner a month ago and it’s been brilliant ever since. You know, I think the break’s made us closer. Nick’s really opening up,’ says Kate, noticing the look Cara flashes Bailey. ‘Cara, it would be nice if you could be happy for me.’

  ‘I’m happy that you’re happy.’

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’

  Cara gives Kate a stare as if surely it’s obvious.

  Kate takes a deep breath. ‘How’s the Dane?’

  ‘Dumped him, two weeks ago.’

  ‘I thought you were moving in with him?’

  ‘You find out a lot about a person when you move in with them.’

  ‘Yes, which is why it’s generally best to get to know them first – what was the problem, wet towels left on the bed? Cupboards full of Pot Noodles?’

  Cara looks at Kate as if she’s deranged. ‘He’s a Harvard-educated Danish banker, not a student.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’

  ‘He’s in the gym at 5 a.m. and at his desk by 6 a.m. for when trading starts. He likes to be in bed on weeknights by 9 p.m., asleep. 9 p.m.? I haven’t even put on my make-up by 9 p.m.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have found a compromise?’ says Bailey.

  ‘Try wearing less eyeshadow?’ says Kate, laughing. ‘That’s surely a small sacrifice to make for true love. You dumped the last bloke because he didn’t work hard enough, and that music producer before that because he never went to the gym.’

  ‘Pete? He had zero upper-body definition.’

  ‘Outrage, I hope they’ve locked him up and thrown away the key,’ says Kate, turning to Bailey with a raised brow.

  ‘Kate: I know what I want and I’m not the type who’s willing to compromise.’

  Kate looks at Bailey again but Bailey maintains a diplomatic neutral gaze into the distance.

  ‘You’re saying Nick is a compromise?’ says Kate.

  ‘I think we can all agree he’s punching above his weight,’ says Cara, picking up the syringe and squirting alcohol briskly onto her tongue.

  ‘Cara, I’m forty in three weeks. Am I supposed to hold out for mythical perfection forever?’

  ‘Forty, hon – not ninety.’

  ‘Look, Nick’s not perfect, but neither am I.’

  Cara shakes her head as if the air is too full of craziness to breathe, rather than simply full of smoked Cosmopolitan fumes. ‘My dad left Mum for his secretary after thirty years of marriage and four kids. When he came crawling back, Mum wouldn’t open the door to him.’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with me?’

  ‘You deserve better, so stop underselling yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum, Cara, but Nick didn’t even cheat on me.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s worse! He dumped you for no one.’

  Bailey, having chewed her vermouth ice cube, looks down at her syringe nervously.

  ‘At least if Nick had left you for the office slapper like Bailey’s husband did, then it wouldn’t be because he didn’t want you.’

  ‘Wow, thanks,’ says Kate, her shoulders dropping. ‘And really sensitive – I don’t think Bailey felt too marvellous when Tom left her for that particular skank-bag, did you?’

  Bailey, who is in the middle of injecting more alcohol into her mouth, shakes her head violently.

  ‘And anyway, for the hundredth time, Nick did not dump me, it was a time out.’

  ‘Semantics, it was so a dumping.’

  ‘Cara, you do sound pretty harsh sometimes,’ says Bailey.

  ‘Harsh? Me? I’ve got the biggest heart of anyone.’

  ‘No, you’ve got the biggest mouth,’ says Kate. ‘It’s not the same organ at all.’

  ‘Don’t you remember how devastated I was when Michael Jackson died? And George Michael. I cried for nearly a whole week.’

  ‘Yup, dead pop stars named Michael – then you’re pure compassion,’ mutters Kate. ‘When Michael Bublé dies, perhaps you’ll compose a requiem.’

  ‘Cara, Kate and Nick are happy,’ says Bailey.

  ‘I do want you to be happy,’ says Cara, rubbing Kate’s shoulder.

  ‘And I’ll be delirious if you keep your opinions to yourself,’ says Kate, shrugging her off. ‘You’re going to have to be polite to him at my fortieth.’

  ‘I’m always charming to everyone, that’s my job. What’s the plan again?’

  ‘I’m cooking for you lot on the Friday. Bailey’s bringing Adam, Pete will be there with his child bride, and Kavita with her husband, Dom. Cara, you can bring whatever hapless beefcake you happen to chance upon in the meantime.’

  ‘Well, I’ll bring pink champagne, seeing as it’s your ninetieth and all. Right – I’m going for a fag, come.’

  ‘I’ve stopped smoking.’

  ‘What? You’d only just started again.’

  ‘I don’t feel like it now I’m back to my normal self again.’

  ‘Look, Kate, sorry if you think I’m being harsh, but you know I’m always honest. There’s someone better for you out there, someone who cherishes you from the start, someone less messed up. Or – just you. Have you ever considered you are better for you? Just think about that. Nick’s not a project. You don’t get brownie points for fixing him.’

  ‘I’m not doing it for brownie points. I love Nick.’

  ‘Oooh, can we please get some brownies or something that tastes nice?’ says Bailey, wrinkling her nose. ‘I think they’ve put Windolene in this syringe.’

  ‘I think they’re doing lentil brownies down in the sweets section,’ says Cara.

  ‘Ooh, yippee,’ says Kate, clapping her hands. ‘How to make a brownie completely undesirable.’

  ‘You could have had a stall here if you’d wanted,’ says Cara. ‘We had a drop-out last week, I should have told you.’

  ‘Me? What would I have made?’

  ‘Those lush brownies with the cream cheese you made for my birthday? Or that amazing spicy cornbread?’

  ‘Yep, vital ingredients being gluten, dairy and butter.’

  ‘You should get involved in pop-ups now you’ve got time on your hands.’

  ‘I haven’t got much time, it’s pretty full on at the coffee shop.’

  ‘I’m so impressed you actually decided to leave Fletchers,’ says Cara. ‘I hope they gave you a good send-off.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ says Kate, laughing. ‘A stale Bobby the Butterfly cake, two bottles of warm Prosecco and a surly Devron refusing to make eye contact. He was so ungracious. It’s weird – the minute you get some distance you start seeing how taken for granted you were. He was trying to make me feel grateful for having that job, telling me I was the lucky one – when they were the ones getting so much more out of the situation than I was!’

  ‘Hmmm, no parallels between your work life and your personal life there, then,’ says Cara, chuckling.

  ‘What?’ says Kate, shaking her head in annoyance. ‘Cara, go and have your fag – in fact, have two. Seriously.’ She turns to Bailey. ‘Do I have a sign on my head saying “Rude bitches, please attack”?’

  ‘You can be mean to me for a minute if you like, Cara – give Kate a short break?’

  ‘Kate doesn’t cope well with short breaks, do you, honey?’ says Cara, winking.

  ‘Remind me, why are we friends again?’

  ‘I know you secretly love it or you wouldn’t put up with it.’

  Chapter Forty-fiv
e

  AFTER SEVERAL DAYS of unemployment, hitting the snooze button and enjoying the lie-ins, Kate had realised that having no job but no sense of purpose, particularly as the weather turned colder, wasn’t actually much fun. After five days of absolute freedom, she’d found herself feeling a little bored, despondent and at risk of getting hooked on Jeremy Kyle, so she’d left the flat and strolled down to Aposta for a coffee and an almond croissant.

  She’d settled into a comfy leather armchair and had started to think about her next move. Everyone around her has been making such a big deal about her birthday. Forty feels like such a significant landmark, but surely it’s arbitrary in the scheme of things. Rita keeps offering her Botox, Kavita’s been sending her links to jobs, suggesting she’s better off applying while her CV still says she’s thirty-something. Kate doesn’t want to panic herself back into corporate life simply because of a date on her birth certificate. Is the clock still ticking if she chooses to put on headphones?

  It was quiet in the café that day and William, the handsome silver-haired owner, had come over to chat. Kate had mentioned her love of his pastries, and then her recent redundancy. He’d asked if she was interested in covering some shifts in the run-up to Christmas, as one of his team had broken her wrist and currently wasn’t too handy with the coffee machine.

  Kate hadn’t worked on a shop floor since her earliest days at Fletchers – and a mean, small voice in her head had said, ‘Forty-year-old waitress?’ But then another voice had said, ‘Forty and no job at all?’ and that had seemed more persuasive. Besides, it would be sociable, she could do with the cash – and it would kill time between now and the New Year, when she’ll be living with Nick and can start planning her future properly.