By now I have an instinct about these things. And my instinct about Alan’s whey is not good.
“So, are you moving these boxes somewhere else?” I press Alan. “Like, soon?”
Maybe I shouldn’t be so cynical, I tell myself. Maybe he has lots of buyers lined up and all this will be gone by tomorrow.
“I’ll be selling them.” He gives me a shifty look. “Making contacts.”
I knew it.
“Alan, you can’t keep it all here!” I wave my arms at the boxes.
“No space in my room,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve got my weight bench. See you.”
And before I can say anything else, he’s disappeared back into his room. I want to scream. But, instead, I head to Anita’s room and knock cautiously on the door.
Anita is quite an über-person. She’s slim, composed, and works very hard at an investment bank. She’s exactly my age, and when I moved into the flat, I got quite excited. I thought: Yes! My new best friend! This will be so cool! That first night, I hung around in the little kitchen, reorganizing my packets of food and glancing at the door, waiting for her to come in so we could start bonding.
Only when she did come in, to make some mint tea, she fixed me with a cool gaze and said, “No offense, but I’ve decided I’m not really doing friends till I’m thirty, OK?”
I was so flummoxed, I didn’t know what to reply. And, sure enough, I’ve never really had a proper conversation with her since. All she does is work or talk on the phone to her family in Coventry. She’s polite, and she sometimes sends Alan and me emails about rubbish collection—but nothing more. I once asked her why she lived in such a cheap place when she could surely afford something better, and she just shrugged and said, “I’m getting my deposit together. I’m on thirty-one grand,” as though it was obvious.
Now she opens the door and I see she’s on the phone.
“Oh, hi!” I say. “Sorry to disturb you, only…have you seen all these boxes? Have you said anything to Alan?”
Anita puts her hand over the phone and says, in that impassive way of hers: “I’m being sent to Paris for three months.”
“Oh.”
“So.”
There’s silence, and I belatedly realize that what she means is: I don’t give a shit about the boxes. I’m off to Paris.
“Right,” I say after a pause. “OK. Well, have fun.”
She nods and closes the door, and I look at it silently for a moment. London flat life hasn’t been what I expected. I thought it would be all riotous laughter and quirky friends and hilarious stories involving pubs and iconic London landmarks and costume parties or traffic cones. But it hasn’t panned out like that. I can’t even imagine Anita in a costume.
To be fair, I did have some good nights out with the girls at my previous job. But all we really did was drink prosecco and bitch, and after then I had such a scare with my overdraft, I swore off going out for a bit. And at Cooper Clemmow, no one seems to socialize at all. Unless you count working late as “socializing.”
Anyway, I think as I turn away, who cares? Because I’m having lunch with Alex Astalis! Already my spirits are lifting again. It’s all good. I’ll have some supper and then go on Instagram—
What?
I’m standing, aghast, at the door to the kitchen. It’s a sea of boxes. The whole floor is covered, two deep. Boxes are blocking the bottom cupboards. And the freezer. And the oven.
“Alan!” I yell furiously, head back to his door, and pound on it. “What’s going on in the kitchen!”
“What?” As Alan opens the door, he has a belligerent look. “I couldn’t fit it all in the hall. It’s only temporary, till I sell it.”
“But—”
“This is my business, OK? Could you try supporting it?” He shuts the door, and I glare at it. But there’s no point trying again. And I’m starving.
I return to the kitchen and cautiously step onto the top layer of boxes. They’re so high, my head is nearly brushing the ceiling. I feel like Alice in bloody Wonderland. Surely this is a fire hazard? An everything hazard?
Perilously teetering on the cardboard, I just about manage to open the fridge, get out two eggs, and put them on the hob, which is around the level of my knees. At that moment, I get an Instagram private message from Fi, my best friend from uni. I only talk to Fi on Instagram these days; I think she’s forgotten there’s any other way to communicate.
Hi! How’s it going? Sun’s shining in Washington Sq Park, God, I love this place. It’s great even in winter. Having soy lattes with Dane and Jonah, I told you about them? They are HILARIOUS! You have to come visit!
She’s attached a selfie in what I assume is Washington Square Park (I’ve never been to New York). The sky is vivid blue and her nose is pink, and she’s laughing at something out of shot. And I can’t help feeling a small wrench inside.
Living in New York was always Fi’s aim, just like mine was to live in London. It became a running joke between us at uni—trying to persuade each other to switch allegiance. One Christmas I bought her a Big Ben snow globe and Fi got me an inflatable Statue of Liberty. It was a game.
But now it’s real. After graduation, I headed toward London in my roundabout way, while Fi moved to New York to do an internship. And she’s never come back. She’s totally in love with the city, and she really has got a crew of quirky friends, who live in the West Village and rollerblade and go antiquing at flea markets every weekend. She posts pictures all the time and she’s even started writing in American spelling.
I mean, I’m glad for her. Really, I am. But sometimes I imagine how it would have been if she’d come to London instead. We could have shared a flat…everything would have felt different…anyway. There’s no point feeling wistful. I quickly message back:
All good here! Was just hanging out with Alan and Anita, we have such a laugh!!! London life is crazy fun!!!
I bend down to stir my eggs, nearly cricking my back. And I’m about to add some cayenne pepper when—
“Aaargh!”
I hear myself cry out before I realize what’s happened. The box beneath me has given way. I’m knee-deep in pouches of whey. And some of them must have burst, because white powder is floating up in the most revolting vanilla fug.
“What’s happened?” Alan must have heard my scream, because he’s already at the door of the kitchen, glowering. “Are you damaging my whey?”
“No, your whey’s damaging me!” I yell.
One of my ankles does actually feel a bit twisted. And the cloud of whey powder is coating my eggs, I suddenly notice. Which is vile. But I can’t make anything else—all my other food is trapped in the freezer. And I’m so hungry.
I try to scrabble out of the box, but I feel my shoe heel catching on another pouch and bursting it. (Oops. Maybe won’t mention that to Alan.) More powder is floating up from the box, but this isn’t white, it’s beige. And it smells different. More savory.
“Alan,” I say. “Is all this stuff supposed to be vanilla whey?”
“It is vanilla whey.”
“Well, this isn’t.” I reach into the box and haul out the pouch I’ve just broken. “This is…” I consult the label. “Powdered chicken stock.”
“What?” I pass the pouch over to him, and Alan stares at it in disbelief. “Nooo. What the fuck?” With sudden animation he rips open another box and delves inside. He pulls out two plastic pouches and surveys them in consternation. “Chicken stock?” And now, in a frenzy, he’s pulling pouches out of the boxes and reading the labels. “Whey…stock…more stock…Jesus.” He covers his face with his hands. “No!” He sounds like a gorilla in torment. “Nooooo!”
Honestly. It’s only whey. Or not-whey. Whatever.
“They must have had a mix-up,” I say. “Just get them to come and exchange the wrong ones.”
“It’s not as simple as that!” he practically bellows. “I got them from—from—”
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 sta
nds up and reaches for a marker. “Let’s do a bit of word association. ‘Countryside’…”
“ ‘Smelly,’ ” says Flora promptly. “ ‘Scary.’ ”
“I’m not writing ‘smelly’ and ‘scary,’ ” says Rosa impatiently.
“You have to,” points out Liz. Which is true. The big thing at Cooper Clemmow is: Everyone’s voice is heard. It’s in the mission statement. So even if you put forward some really stupid idea, everyone has to treat it with respect, because it might lead to something brilliant.
“Fine.” Rosa scrawls smelly and scary on the board, then glares at Flora. “But that’s hardly going to sell yogurt. Would you buy smelly, scary yogurt?”
“Actually, I’m dairy-free,” says Flora, a bit superciliously. “Do they have any, like, almond milk yogurt?”
“Of course they don’t!” Rosa knocks a fist to her head. “They’re a bloody dairy farm, not an almond farm.”
“Wait.” Flora looks at her with wide eyes. “Does almond milk seriously come from almonds? I thought it was just like…I dunno. A name or something.”
Rosa gives a bark of incredulous laughter. “Flora, are you for real?”
“Well, how do they make it, then?” Flora challenges her. “How do they get the milk out of the almonds? Like…milk them? Squeeze them?”
“That’s almond oil,” volunteers Mark.
“Well, what do they do, then?”
For a moment Rosa looks caught out—then she snaps, “I don’t know! And we’re not talking about almond milk; we’re talking about cattle milk. Cow milk. Whatever.”
Enough sitting back. I have to get into this conversation.
“Actually…” I begin, raising my hand. “I do know a bit about—”
“So, how’s it going?” Demeter cuts me off as she sweeps back into the room, holding a sheaf of papers.
“Hopeless!” replies Rosa. “This is all we’ve got.” She gestures at smelly and scary.