He stops mid-sentence, and I keep very quiet. I’m not going to pursue this, because: 1. Clearly it’s something a bit dodgy. 2. This is not my problem. And 3. I don’t want it to be my problem.
Again, Alan’s reminding me of my dad—and I know my dad. He brings you into his problems. He makes you feel like you can’t walk away. And next thing you know, you’re on the phone trying to sell pouches of unwanted chicken stock.
“Well, I hope you can sort it,” I say. “Excuse me.”
Somehow I manage to retrieve my foot and crawl cautiously back over the boxes to the kitchen door, with my plate of eggs balanced in one hand. I feel like I’m in some stupid endurance game show and, next minute, spiders will be descending from the ceiling.
“D’you want some chicken stock?” says Alan abruptly. “I’ll sell it to you. It’s top stuff, excellent quality….”
Is he serious?
“No, thanks. I don’t use that much chicken stock.”
“Right.” Alan subsides. He rips open another box, looks inside, and groans. He looks so distraught that I pat his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll work it out.”
“Hey.” He looks up, his face glimmering with hope. “Cat.”
“Yes?”
“What about a pity shag?”
“What?” I peer at him in total incomprehension. “What do you mean?”
Alan gestures down at himself, as though it’s obvious. “You feel sorry for me right now, yes?”
“Er…a bit,” I say cautiously.
“So you should want to shag me.”
OK, am I missing something here?
“Alan…” I can’t believe I’m asking this question out loud. “Why should I want to shag you?”
“Because that’s what a pity shag is. That’s what it is.” He reaches toward my bum and I move away. (OK, I leap away.)
“No!”
“No what?”
“Just…no! To everything! No pity shag. Nada. Never. Sorry,” I add as an afterthought.
Alan gives me a reproachful look and slumps onto one of the boxes. “So basically you’re heartless.”
“I’m not heartless because I don’t want to shag you!” I say furiously. “Just…shut up!”
I head to my room, shut the door, and plonk myself on my single bed. My room is so small, there isn’t any room for a closet, so I keep all my stuff in a kind of hammock thing slung above my bed. (That’s why I wear a lot of non-iron clothes. Plus they’re cheap.) I sit cross-legged on the bed, put a forkful of scrambled eggs in my mouth, and shudder at the hideous synthetic vanilla flavor. I need to stop seething. I need to calm down and be Zen. I will therefore distract myself.
I find my Instagram account, consider for a moment, then post a picture of the Shard, with the caption: Another amazing day, balancing work, play, and not much rest!! Then I find a gorgeous photo of a hot chocolate with marshmallows, which I took the other day. It wasn’t actually my hot chocolate, it was on an outside table at a café in Marylebone. The girl had gone to the ladies’ and I swooped in for a picture.
OK, full disclosure: I stalk expensive cafés for Instagrammable pictures. Is there anything wrong with that? I’m not saying I drank the hot chocolate. I’m saying, Look: hot chocolate! If people assume it was mine…well, that’s up to them.
I post it up with a simple caption: Yum!!! and a few moments later, a new message comes in from Fi:
Life in London sounds a blast!
I shoot back a reply:
It totally is!!!
Then, for good measure, I add:
Guess what, I have a date tomorrow…!
I know that’ll get her attention, and sure enough her reply comes ten seconds later:
A DATE?? Spill!!!
Simply seeing her reaction makes me glow. Meeting Alex today—laughing with him up on that roof—I felt like a door was opening. A door to something different. Some sort of…I don’t know. A new existence, maybe. And I know it’s just lunch. But still. Every relationship starts off with just something, doesn’t it? Like, Romeo and Juliet started off with just falling madly in love with each other at first sight.
OK. Bad example.
Nothing to spill yet, I’ll keep you posted.
I add emojis of a cocktail glass and a smiley face and then—just for fun—I add a love heart.
I send the message, sit back, and take another bite of the horrible eggs. Then, on impulse, I scroll back through my previous Instagram posts, looking at the photos of London cafés, sights, drinks, and smiling faces (mostly strangers). The whole thing is like a feel-good movie, and what’s wrong with that? Loads of people use colored filters or whatever on Instagram. Well, my filter is the “this is how I’d like it to be” filter.
It’s not that I lie. I was in those places, even if I couldn’t afford a hot chocolate. It’s just I don’t dwell on any of the not-so-great stuff in my life, like the commute or the prices or having to keep all my stuff in a hammock. Let alone vanilla-whey-coated eggs and obnoxious lechy flatmates. And the point is, it’s something to aspire to, something to hope for. One day my life will match my Instagram posts. One day.
Park Lane has always been my Holy Grail. It’s the biggest meeting room at Cooper Clemmow, with a massive red lacquer table and funky chairs in mismatching colors. I’ve always imagined that sitting round this table would feel like sitting in the Cabinet or something. I’ve always believed this is the creative heart of the agency, where people come alive and ideas fizz across the table, where the path of branding is changed and history made.
But now I’m here…it’s just a meeting. No one’s changed the path of anything. All people have talked about so far is whether the limited-edition Orange Craze Bar was a mistake. (Craze Bar is our client, so we designed the packaging for the limited edition. But now they’ve given us ten boxfuls and they’re making everyone feel sick.)
“Damn.” Demeter interrupts proceedings with her usual dramatic air and gestures at her phone. “Adrian wants a word. I’ll be two ticks.” As she pushes back her chair, she glances at Rosa. “Can you carry on? Fill everyone in on CCY?”
“Of course.” Rosa nods, and Demeter heads out. She’s wearing this amazing fringed suede skirt today, which I can’t help gazing at as she leaves.
“OK.” Rosa addresses the room. “So Demeter wanted me to tell you about this new potential client, CCY, or Contented Cow Yogurt. It’s a range of organic yogurt from some farm in Gloucestershire.” Rosa passes round a pile of cheaply printed brochures depicting yogurt pots with a plain Helvetica logo and blurry photo of a cow. “Their riff is how dairy farming is a threatened occupation but they’re really great and…er…” She peers at her notes. “They eat organic grass, something like that?” She looks up. “Does anyone know anything at all about dairy farming?”
Before I can even draw breath, there’s a burst of laughter round the table.
“Dairy farming?”
“I am so scared of cows,” says Flora. “Like, seriously.”
“She is,” affirms Liz. “We saw some cows at Glastonbury and Flora freaked out. She thought they were bulls.” Liz snuffles with laughter.
“They were!” wails Flora. “They were dangerous! And the smell. I don’t know how anyone can go near them!”
“So who’s going down to the farm to meet the Contented Cows?” Rosa is grinning with amusement.
“Oh my God.” Flora raises her eyebrows high. “Can you imagine?”
“Ooh aaarh…” says Mark in a country accent. “The cows need milking, Flora. You’d best get to it, lass.”
I’ve already opened my mouth and closed it twice. Do I know anything about cows? I grew up on a dairy farm. But something’s stopping me from speaking. The memory of those girls in Birmingham calling me “Farrrmer Katie” flashes into my brain, making me wince. Maybe I’ll just see how the conversation goes for a few moments.
“Demeter wants us to come up with ideas.” Rosa looks around the table. “If I say ‘countryside,’ what do you think?” She stands up and reaches for a marker. “Let’s do a bit of word association. ‘Countryside’…”
“?‘Smelly,’?” says Flora promptly. “?‘Scary.’?”