My Not So Perfect Life

  “Not feeling well?” retorts Denise, with that tight-lipped look of hers. “Have you seen the empty bottles outside her yurt? I’ll tell you why she’s not feeling well—”

  “Anyway…” I cut Denise off pleasantly. “I’d be very grateful if you could do that for me. Thanks, Denise.”

  “Prosecco.” Denise utters the word with disfavor. “All five bottles. Prosecco.”

  I’ve heard Denise’s views on prosecco many times before. Not to mention Parma ham.

  “Whatever she drinks, she’s a client. We don’t judge our clients, OK?” I’m about to launch into a small lecture on customer service, when I hear a crash from the barn.

  “Shit!” Alex’s voice comes from the barn, and I feel a stab of alarm. Don’t say he’s injured himself, that’s all I need….

  “Are you OK?” I hurry toward the barn. “You probably shouldn’t go in there….”

  “This place is insane!” As I enter the barn, Alex turns, a massive grin on his face. He has a scattering of dust and a cobweb on his face, and I instinctively lift a hand to brush it away—then stop dead, in embarrassment. What was I planning to do, stroke his face?

  Alex darts the briefest of glances at my raised hand, and I can see the same thought process flashing through his eyes. Then he regards me again, square-on. Dust motes are floating between us, and I tell myself that’s why I feel breathless. Not because I’m slightly falling in…

  In what? Lust sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. There’s a prickly, tantalizing vibe between us. It was there in London and here it is again. I know I’m not imagining it. Slowly, Alex wipes the cobweb off his own face, and his dark eyes glint at me as though he’s acknowledging it too.

  “This place is a treasure trove,” he says. “Look at this!” He strokes the massive barrel that Dad bought to produce Ansters Farm Original Ale. What a waste of money that was.

  I shrug. “My dad used to brew beer.”

  “And that?” He points to the contraption behind the brewing kit. “Is that a loom?”

  “We were going to weave alpaca wool and make our fortune. My dad’s what you might call…”

  “An entrepreneur?” supplies Alex.

  “I was going to say ‘deluded.’ ” I laugh. “We’ve never made any money out of any of this stuff.”

  “What about that?” He points to the 1950s jukebox.

  “Oh, we were going to host rock ’n’ roll parties.” I can’t help giggling at the memory. “Dad styled his hair into a quiff and everything.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I’ll see if there’s a plug.” I edge past him, trying to glimpse the end of the electrical cord, and feel my rib cage brush against Alex’s. Because it’s a cramped space, here in the barn. (OK, full disclosure: I may have arched my back deliberately toward him as I passed.)

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says, in a voice I can’t quite read. “D’you need a hand?”

  As he takes my hand, I can’t help feeling a frisson. After all those fantasies I had, here I am with my hand firmly clasped in his warm one. Although it’s not like we’re holding hands, I tell myself. We’re only holding hands. Temporarily. In very much a practical, necessary movement.

  On the other hand, he hasn’t let go yet, and neither have I. Which is…odd? I glance at him through the dim, dusty air, and his eyes are as unreadable as his voice. Or maybe they are readable and I just don’t dare believe their message. Because what I’m picking up from his dark gaze is pretty explicit.

  “Katie?” Dad’s voice penetrates the gloom, and I jump, dropping Alex’s hand. “What are you doing in here?” He’s peering in from the yard, holding his Farmer Mick hat in his hand.

  “Just showing Alex some stuff,” I say, reflexively moving away from Alex.

  “Oh yes?” Dad’s eyes run suspiciously over Alex again. “And what stuff would that be, then?”

  His tone is instantly recognizable, as is his expression. It’s his I’ve caught you up to no good in the barn, haven’t I? expression. Honestly. Just because I’m alone in here with a man?

  I mean, to be fair, Dad has caught me up to no good in the barn a few times in my life. (The post-exams party; that time after the cider festival; once when I was with Steve—God, that was embarrassing.) But, now, hello, I’m a grown woman?

  “Mr. Astalis was interested in the brewing kit,” I tell him firmly.

  “I’m going to pick your brains, Mick,” says Alex. “I’ve always wanted to brew my own beer. In fact…” A thought seems to hit him. “Can I buy your brewery off you? I’ll put it in my garage.”

  “Buy it?” Dad’s face lights up for a nanosecond; then he instantly adopts what I call his “business” face—i.e., an expression of curmudgeonly suspicion. “Well, now. Thing is, I was planning to go back into brewing. That’s valuable kit, that is. I’d have to hear your offer first.”

  My face is burning with mortification. Dad was not planning to go back into brewing, and Alex must surely guess that. But his composure doesn’t flicker.

  “Quite right,” he says seriously. “Well, we’ll find a fair price. Do you remember what you paid for it?”

  “I’ll find out.” Dad’s eyes gleam. “Give me a few minutes to check my records.” He turns with alacrity and practically runs out of the shed.

  “Do you really want to go into brewing?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Of course I do!” says Alex. “Your dad can set me on the way.” And he gives me a smile so blithe that I can’t help suspecting he’s done this at least partly out of some other motive. Except I can’t think what that motive could be, except simple generosity.

  (Unless he’s spotted that the brewing kit is worth a fortune. Unlikely.)

  “Oh, another thing,” he suddenly adds. “I should tell you. Your charity.”

  “My charity?” I echo, not following.

  “Your community center in Catford? We’ve just decided it’s going to be one of next year’s official company charities.”

  “What?” I gape at him.

  “I was going to try to let you know somehow. Anyway, here you are.” He spreads his hands. “It’s official. Next year we’ll be raising money for the Church Street Community Center in Catford and for Cancer Research.”

  I’m almost speechless. He listened. He remembered.

  “I went to visit them, in fact,” Alex continues, his eyes glowing. “I spoke to the kids. Met the leaders. And you’re right. They’re awesome.”

  “You went to Catford?” This is so staggering, I can’t quite take it in. “You went to Catford?”

  For a moment Alex doesn’t answer. He’s fiddling with the jukebox buttons, his jaw set.

  “Like I say, it got to me,” he says at last, a little gruffly. “What you said in the office. I don’t want to be some entitled bastard who can’t see out of his own privileged bubble. I felt pretty chastened, if you must know. There you were, doing something for your local community, forging links, making a difference—”

  Oh God. Is that what he thinks? My head feels hot with guilt. Me? Forging links with my community?

  “Alex.” I cut him off. “Listen. I…I didn’t forge any links. The truth is…I never actually went to visit the community center.”

  “What?” His head jerks up in shock.

  “A girl gave me a leaflet and told me about it.” I bite my lip in embarrassment. “That’s all.”

  “A leaflet?” He stares at me. “I thought you were heavily involved! No wonder they hadn’t heard of you. I couldn’t understand it.”

  “Well, I would have been!” I say hastily. “If I hadn’t moved away. I mean, I’m sure it’s a great project and everything—”

  “It is! It’s a bloody marvelous project.” He stares at me disbelievingly. “Why am I telling you about your community project?”

  “Because…er…you’re a really good person?” I venture, and risk a little smile.

  To my relief, Alex’s mouth is twitchi
ng. I think he can see the funny side.

  “Well, do let me give you a tour of your own charity project sometime,” he says sardonically.

  “Er…thanks!” I meet his eye. “I mean it. Thanks.”

  I’ve found the plug of the jukebox, and I’m about to ask Alex if he wants to hear it work, when he glances at his watch.

  “Shit.” He frowns. “I’ve got distracted. Do you have any idea where Demeter might be?”

  My stomach flips apprehensively as I glance at my own watch. She’s been gone twenty-five minutes now. That’s a head start, isn’t it?

  “Look,” I say. “Alex. I have to tell you something.” I rub my nose, avoiding his eye. “Demeter’s…She’s…”

  “What?”

  “Well, in actual fact…she’s…”

  “What?” demands Alex.

  OK, full disclosure: I’m really quite nervous. In the heat of the moment it seemed obvious I should help Demeter. It seemed the right thing to do. But now that I actually have to fess up…

  “She’s…gone to London.”

  “London?” Alex’s gaze darkens. “When?”

  “Twenty minutes ago or so.”

  “But what…why…” His eyes suddenly snap in furious realization. “Wait. You have seen her. Did you tell her?”

  “I gave her some warning, yes,” I say, trying to hold my nerve.

  “I don’t believe this,” Alex says evenly. “You mean you ran straight from our conversation and said, ‘You’re going to get fired!’ ”

  This is so exactly what happened, there’s no point denying it.

  “She deserved to be told!” I shoot back hotly. “There’s more to Demeter than you realize. She’s given a lot to Cooper Clemmow; you can’t just chuck her out—”

  “I don’t care what you think of Demeter, it was not up to you to warn her.” Alex looks absolutely livid. “And if she thinks she can dodge the bullet by running away—”

  “She’s not! She’s looking for a way to save herself! There’s some email or something…shhh!” I interrupt as I see Dad approaching. “We don’t know each other, remember?”

  Alex flashes me another incandescent look, then turns to Dad with his charming smile. “So, Mick,” he says. “What’s the damage?”

  “This is what I paid.” Dad holds out a scribbled figure. “Shall we say half?”

  “Let me think about that.” Alex pockets the paper. “I need to get on. Katie, maybe you could show me some more of the farm? I feel we’re not quite done with the subject.”

  There’s an ominous tone to his voice, which makes my stomach flip over, but then I remind myself: He’s not my boss anymore, is he?

  “Sure,” I say warily. “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh, quite a lot, I’d say,” says Alex, flashing me an unsmiling look. He strides purposefully out of the barn, and Dad hurries after him.

  “You a man of business then, Alex?” he inquires.

  “In a way.” Alex smiles at Dad again. “Thanks for your time, Mick, but now I’m very keen for Katie to show me…” He turns to me. “The stables, was it?”

  “We can look at the stables,” I say with a shrug.

  “Our Katie will show you whatever you want,” puts in Dad eagerly. “Anything you need to know, just ask her.”

  “Oh, I will,” says Alex, in the same ominous tone. “I will.”

  In silence I swivel and we head toward the stables. Neither of us speaks until we’re out of Dad’s earshot. Then Alex stops dead. He pulls out his flashing phone and reads the latest messages on it while I wait warily.

  “OK, this is a bloody fiasco,” he erupts at last. “I drive all this way to spare Demeter’s feelings. I’ve got Adrian here asking, ‘Have you dealt with her yet?’ ” He jabs at his phone. “And you tell me she was here but she’s scarpered?”

  “She hasn’t scarpered,” I retort. “She will face the music, but she just wants to have a chance to make her case. There’s some email from Allersons that she thinks might be in her office at home.”

  “So she’s gone home?” His eyes light up with this new information. “To Shepherd’s Bush?”

  At once I curse myself. I didn’t need to give that detail away.

  “Look…does it matter where she is?” I counter. “You’re not exactly going to drive all the way to Shepherd’s Bush on the off chance, are you? You’re bound to miss her. You should just sit it out here. She’ll arrive back here later, and then you can…”

  I hesitate. I’m not going to say, Then you can fire her.

  “Then you can work things out,” I conclude. “Tell Adrian she’s gone off on a hike and you can’t get through to her. He’ll never know the difference.”

  Alex shoots another glower at me, but I can tell he realizes I have a point. He’s not going to go haring off to Shepherd’s Bush on a wild-goose chase. He still doesn’t look happy, though. In fact, he looks furious.

  “You had no right to interfere,” he says. “No right. No right. You don’t work for Cooper Clemmow anymore; you have no idea what the issues are—”

  “I know that Demeter deserves a chance!” Somewhere I find an inner robustness. “She isn’t nearly as bad as everyone thinks! And taking her off guard like this—it’s not fair. She deserves time to gather all the evidence she needs. She deserves a fair trial. Everyone deserves a fair trial.”

  I stop, breathing hard. I think I’m getting through to Alex. I can see it in his flickering, moody eyes.

  “And what’s more…” I hesitate. Am I going to risk saying this?

  “What’s more what?” he snaps.

  “What’s more…I think you agree with me, if you’ll only admit it. There’s a risk of a big injustice happening here. You don’t want to be part of that. Do you?”

  Alex is still silent and glowering. Which I can understand. I’ve made his life a lot more complicated. People hate that.

  “Fine,” he says at last, and jabs irritably at his phone. “Demeter can have her fair trial. She can have her time. What do I do meanwhile?”

  “Whatever you like.” I spread my arms wide. “You’re the guest.”

  Alex looks around the stable yard, still scowling, as though nothing he sees can possibly clear his mood.

  “Do you have Wi-Fi?”

  “Of course we have Wi-Fi. And I can find you a place to work. Bit of a waste,” I add quietly.

  “What?” He turns sharply.

  “Well, you’re here now. You’ve made it to the countryside. You could enjoy yourself.” I pause. “Or maybe firing people is how you enjoy yourself?”

  I couldn’t resist that one, and I can tell it’s hit Alex on a sensitive spot. He winces and glares at me.

  “Nice. Thanks. I’m clearly a power-crazy despot.”

  “Well, you said you volunteered for the task. How do I know this isn’t your hobby? Kite-flying, home-brewing, firing people.”

  I know I’m close to the wire here, but I don’t care. I spent so long in London feeling like little Katie. Keeping quiet; in too much awe of everyone to speak out. But now, on home territory, I’m swinging the other way. Which might be reckless or even foolhardy—but I don’t care. I want to push Alex’s buttons. I want to get a reaction out of him. And it’s a risky game, but my instinct is: I know just how hard to push.

  Sure enough, for an instant Alex looks like he wants to explode. But then there’s a flash of sunlight, a glimmer of a reluctant smile.

  “Is this how you talk to all your B&B guests?” he says at last. “Find their sore points and skewer them?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I say with a shrug. “Like I say, you’re the first guest. How’s it working out for you?”

  I’m feeling a secret exhilaration: I judged it right. Alex doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just looks at me with that tiny little smile around his lips. My hair is blowing around my face, and probably in London I would be frantically smoothing it down. But here I don’t bother.

  As though he
’s psychic, Alex’s gaze shifts to my hair.

  “Your hair’s gone curly,” he says. “And blue. Is that a Somerset thing?”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “We have our own micro fashion climate here. I’m the cover girl on Somerset Vogue, didn’t you know?”

  “I’ll bet you are,” says Alex—and there’s something about his expression that makes me warm inside. We’re still bantering, right? I swallow hard, the wind still gusting my hair, my eyes fixed on his. Just for a nanosecond, I can’t think what to say.

  “All right.” Alex seems to come to. “Fair enough. I’ve come all this way. I should appreciate my surroundings. So: the countryside. Fill me in.” He swivels around, taking in the panoramic view beyond all the farm buildings.

  “Fill you in on ‘the countryside’?” I can’t help smiling. “What, like it’s a new client and you’re going to rebrand it?”

  “Exactly. What’s it all about? There’s the greenness, obviously,” he says, as though he’s standing in front of a whiteboard at Cooper Clemmow. “The views…Turner…Hardy…I can’t stand Hardy, as it happens—” Alex stops dead as something attracts his attention. “Wait. What’s that?”

  “That?” I follow his gaze, past the stables, into the backyard. “It’s the Defender.”

  “It’s spectacular.” Alex is already hastening toward it and runs a hand admiringly over the old Land Rover. It’s about twenty years old, all covered in mud, with the windscreen taped up because of the cracks. “I mean, this is a proper off-roader, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s not a Chelsea tractor.”

  Now Alex’s eyes are gleaming. “I’ve never driven off-road before. Really off-road.”

  “You want to drive?” I say, and hold out the keys. “Go on, city boy. Knock yourself out.”

  —

  Alex wends his way carefully through the yard and out through the back gate, then speeds up as we get into the fields.

  “Careful,” I keep saying. “Not so fast. Don’t run over a sheep,” I add, as he drives through the six-acre field. To be fair, he keeps well to the side and goes at a reasonable speed. But the minute we close the gate behind us in the empty far meadow, Alex is like a kid at the dodgems.

  The meadow is a massive, bumpy, uncultivated mess—we actually get money from some government scheme for letting it grow wild. Alex drives at speed down one side of the meadow, then reverses at speed, then wheels around like a crazy person. If it wasn’t so dry, he’d be skidding by now. He hurtles over a set of rough hillocks at such an angle that I cling on to the handle, then he heads up a steepish bank and careers off the top. He actually whoops as we fly through the air (albeit for a second or two), and I can’t help laughing, even though I bumped my shoulder as we took off.