“No!” says Alex in mock horror.
“I know! What was I thinking? But he was round here, and he had the boxes in his car, so…And there wasn’t enough stuff in the packet to cover all my hair. Is it really bad?”
“Not really bad, but…” Demeter hesitates diplomatically. “Maybe you should touch it up.” Then she gives me an odd little smile. “I’ll do it, if you like.”
—
It’s a pretty intimate thing, doing someone’s hair. It’s certainly an icebreaker. As Demeter brushes the dye onto my hair, we chat like old, close friends.
I tell her about the evening I spent with Dad last week, looking over old photos. There were pictures of Mum that I’d never seen, images of my childhood I’d completely forgotten. Biddy hovered by the stove for a while, busying herself with pans, as though she was too diffident to join in—but then I summoned her to look at a picture of me on a donkey at the seaside and patted the chair beside me. We spent the rest of the evening, all three of us, leafing through the photographs, listening to Dad reminisce, and I felt more like we were a proper family than I ever had before.
Then Demeter tells me all about James starting his big job in Brussels.
“The first night, I was really lonely,” she says with a grimace. “We have a very large bed, you know—custom-made French oak, actually—and when only one of us is in it…Well.” She exhales. “It’s a big old empty bed.”
“I bet,” I say, biting my lip at the custom-made French oak bed. I almost want to ask, Is the oak organic? But I hold my tongue. Demeter’s unbending to me here, and it’s nice.
“So the next night, I did it differently,” Demeter continues. “I piled a whole lot of cushions on the bed and I let our new puppy sleep there too. He’s not supposed to go upstairs. And it was fine.”
“What’s James going to say about the puppy?” I can’t help asking.
“He’ll be furious.” She gives me a sparky grin in the mirror. “Well, he shouldn’t have gone to Brussels.”
She seems far lighter in spirits than usual. Her brow is less drawn; she hasn’t looked swivelly-eyed once. Her life seems manageable and enjoyable, even with James away. She seems like a different Demeter.
And I find myself thinking: Maybe the Demeter I got to know wasn’t ever the real her. It was the stressed-out, beleaguered, victim-of-bullying version of Demeter. Maybe this confident, happy woman is the real Demeter. This is who Alex headhunted; this is who she was meant to be, all the time.
When the dye has done its magic and been rinsed out, we set up a blow-drying station in front of my dressing-table mirror. Demeter wields the hairdryer and sprays products randomly into my hair, while I tell her about my life in London. My real life in London. The flat in Catford, the hammock, and Alan’s boxes of whey. Shopping with Flora and panicking about money and being mistaken for a homeless person. We both end up in fits of laughter, and I remember thinking, all that time ago: Can Demeter laugh? Well, yes, she can. When there’s something to laugh about.
But then she becomes more thoughtful. “I looked at your old Instagram feed,” she says, and I feel the color rush to my face. I haven’t posted anything on my personal Instagram page for months. “You projected quite a different image there.”
“Well.” I shrug. “You know. That’s Instagram for you.”
“Fair enough.” She nods. “Everything’s hype and spin. But you can’t believe it all. Not of yourself…and not of other people.” Her eyes flick to me and away again.
I know what she means. She means: Why did you believe my hype when you knew your own hype was all fiction? And it’s a fair point.
I’ve had time to reflect about this—and I think I believed it because I wanted to believe it so badly. I wanted London to be full of perfect princesses like Demeter, living their perfect-princess lives.
“So, this interview,” I say, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “What do I say?”
“Just be yourself,” says Demeter at once. “Nothing to worry about. Alex and I know you’re brilliant already. We just need Adrian to see it for himself, which he will.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
I’m actually quite nervous about it.
OK, full disclosure: I’m petrified.
“I’ll tell you something, Katie,” says Demeter, playing with the hairdryer cord. “I got back to work and I missed you. I wanted to consult you about stuff. I wanted you to be there.”
“I missed you too,” I admit.
And it’s true. I missed her voice. Her opinionated, annoying, dynamic voice. No one attacks life quite like Demeter.
“OK. Serum.” Demeter starts squirting the serum onto her fingers. “Now, the trick to serum is the touch,” she adds, in her usual show-offy way.
“Demeter.” I roll my eyes. “What do you know about hairdressing?”
“Nothing,” she says without blinking. She flicks at my hair a few times. “There. Brilliant, no?”
I can’t help smiling back. “It’s perfect, thank you. Let’s go.” And it’s only as we reach the door that I ask the question that’s been humming round my brain but I haven’t quite dared ask: “So…am I being interviewed for my old job?”
“Everything’s changed,” says Demeter after a slight pause. “So not exactly.”
I feel a sudden plunge in spirits, which I try to conceal. She’s not going to offer me some crappy unpaid internship, is she? She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.
“It’s pretty much the same level, though?” Somehow I manage to sound light and nonchalant.
But Demeter is searching for something in her bag and doesn’t seem to hear the question. “Come on,” she says, raising her head. “Time’s ticking. Let’s go.”
—
We don’t talk about the job at all, throughout lunch, farewells to Dad and Biddy, and the journey up to London. Alex tells outrageous stories about his childhood, and Demeter takes several work calls on the car speakerphone, and then both of them want to know how the glamping business is going.
By four o’clock, we’re in W6. By half past four I’m sitting outside Adrian’s office, trying to remember all the branding jargon I ever knew. By five o’clock, I’m sitting in Adrian’s office, my nerves shredded, as he and Demeter leaf through my portfolio. Adrian has this calm, unhurried demeanor about him, and he’s examining everything carefully.
“I like this,” he says occasionally, pointing to a page, and Demeter nods, and I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m actually quite glad of the respite.
My last interview wasn’t anything like this. It wasn’t nearly so intense. Adrian’s already grilled me on a million different topics, some really technical, and I feel a bit battered. I keep rerunning my answers, thinking: Did I tackle the logo question right? Should I have voiced more views on the Fresh ’n Breezy rebrand? Am I using the phrase “design DNA” too much? (Is that possible?)
And now there’s this ominous silence as they both pass judgment on my work. I feel as though I might be sick from nerves, from anticipation, from hope….
“So.” Adrian suddenly looks up, making me jump. “Demeter tells me that in the time since you left us, you’ve set up a business from scratch.” He pulls out the brochure from where it’s got hidden underneath my portfolio. “I’ve seen this. It’s good.” He nods. “And you can pitch?”
“Katie can bullshit like no one else,” says Demeter. “I was convinced you’d been to every top restaurant in London.” She winks at me. “And I’ve seen her think on her feet. She’s like lightning.”
“As you know, we’re rebuilding our staff levels right now,” continues Adrian. “But we’re not there yet. It’s going to be hard work meanwhile. You up for that?”
“Absolutely,” I say, trying not to gabble. “Of course.”
“And you can manage a team?” He regards me intently, as though this is the most important question of all.