My Not So Perfect Life

Shit. There he is, standing by the bar. Shit.

I hastily duck away and reach for a balloon to hide behind. Maybe I can disguise myself with Christmas decorations. Or maybe I should just leave.

The Christmas party has been going for about two hours. We’re all in an upstairs room at the Corkscrew, and it’s the coolest Christmas party I’ve ever been to. Which figures.

From the office chat last week, I learned that no one at Cooper Clemmow, at least in our department, does bog-standard Christmas dinner, or “norm-Christmas,” as Rosa jokily put it. Demeter and Flora and Rosa are all having goose rather than turkey. (Organic, of course.) Mark is having nut roast because his partner is vegan. Liz is doing an Ottolenghi quail recipe. Sarah’s doing lobster and is styling her table with a centerpiece made from driftwood that she collected in the summer. (I have no idea what that has to do with Christmas.)

Then someone said, “What about you, Cat?” and I had an instant vision of my dad, at our ancient kitchen table, wearing a paper hat from the Cash & Carry, slathering a turkey with some cut-price margarine he got in bulk. You couldn’t get more “norm-Christmas.” So I just smiled and said, “Not sure yet,” and the conversation moved on.

This party is also very much not “norm-Christmas.” There’s a photo booth in the corner, and black and white balloons reading Naughty and Nice float everywhere. The snacks are themed after the brands on our client list, and the DJ is firmly un-Christmassy—Slade hasn’t been played once. And there’d been no sign of Alex all evening. I thought I’d got away with it. I was actually quite enjoying myself.

But now, suddenly, here he is, looking gorgeous in a black-and-white geometric-print shirt. There’s a little grin playing at his mouth as he looks around, a glass in his hand. Before he can spot me, I turn around and head to the dance floor. Not that I’m planning to dance, but it’s a safe place to hide.

After Portobello, the rest of the weekend passed in a dispiriting nothingness. I watched telly, went on Instagram. Then I came into the office this morning, finally finished my surveys, answered Flora’s concerned questions about my sudden bug, and wondered whether to pull out of the Christmas party.

But no. That would be pathetic. Anyway, it’s a free evening out, and I have been having a good time. I keep remembering Flora’s invitation to join the pub gang and feeling a glow of warmth. These guys are my friends. At least…they will be my friends. Maybe I’ll work here for five years, ten years, rise up through the ranks….

My eyes have swiveled back to the bar. I can see Alex talking intently to Demeter and feel a fresh pang at my own stupidity. Look at the pair of them. Their eyes are about five inches apart. They’re unaware of anyone else. Of course they’re sleeping together.

“Hey, Cat!” Flora comes dancing up to me, all glittery in her sequins. “I’m going to go and fess up to my Secret Santa.” Her words are slurred and I realize she’s got quite pissed. Actually, I think everyone’s quite pissed. Free drink will do that to you.

“You can’t!” I say. “It’s Secret Santa. That’s the point.”

“But I want to get credit for it!” She pouts. “I found such a cool present. I spent much more than the limit,” she adds in loud, drunken, confidential tones. “I spent fifty quid.”

“Flora!” I laugh in shock. “You’re not supposed to do that. And you’re not supposed to tell the person who you are either.”

“Don’t care. Come on!” She grabs my arm, tottering on her heels. “Shit. I should not have had those mojitos….” She drags me across the room, and before I can blink, or think, or escape, we’re standing in front of Alex Astalis.

My face floods with color and I glance at Demeter, who has briefly turned away to talk to Adrian.

“Hi, Katie-Cat,” says Alex easily, and my face gets even hotter. But thankfully Flora doesn’t seem to have noticed. She really is very drunk.

“I’m your Secret Santa!” she says in blurred tones. “Did you like it?”

“The Paul Smith hat.” He looks a bit taken aback. “That was you?”

“Cool, huh?” Flora sways a little, and I grab her.

“Very cool.” He shakes his head with mock disapproval. “But was it under a tenner?”

“A tenner? Are you kidding?” Flora lurches again, and this time Alex grabs her.

“I’m sorry,” I say apologetically. “I think she’s a bit…”

“I’m not drunk!” says Flora emphatically. “I’m not—” She topples and clutches Alex’s sleeve. As she does so, it rides up, and his tattoo becomes visible. “Hey!” she says in surprise. “You’ve got a tat-tat—” She’s so drunk she can’t say the word. “A tat-tat—”

“I am not losing control!” Demeter’s voice suddenly fires up in fury, and I start with shock. Is Demeter having a row with Adrian? At the Christmas party? Alex’s eyes are tense, and I can tell he’s listening to that conversation, not paying attention to us.

“Demeter, that’s not what I’m saying.” Adrian’s voice is calm and soothing. “But you must admit…quite concerned…” I can’t exactly hear what he’s saying over the hubbub.

“You’ve got a tat-too!” Finally Flora manages to articulate the word.

“Yes.” Alex nods, looking amused. “I’ve got a tattoo. Well done.”

“But…” Her eyes swivel to me. I can see her alcohol-addled mind working. “Hang on.” She looks back at Alex. “Dark hair, tattoo…and you were asking about him.”

My heart starts to thud along with the beat of the music. “Flora, let’s go,” I say quickly, and pull at her arm, but she doesn’t move.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Stop!” I feel a white-hot horror. “Let’s go.” But Flora can’t be shifted.

“This is your man, isn’t it?” She looks delighted. “I knew it was someone at work. She’s in love with you,” she tells Alex, poking me drunkenly for emphasis. “You know. Secretly.” She puts a finger to her lips.

My insides have collapsed. This can’t be happening. Can’t I just teleport out of this situation, out of this party, out of my life?

Alex meets my eyes and I can see it all in his expression. Shock…pity…more pity. And then even more pity.

“I’m not in love with you!” Somehow I muster a shrill laugh. “Honestly! I’m so sorry about my friend. I hardly even know you, so how could I be in love with you?”

“Isn’t it him?” Flora claps a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. It must be another guy with dark hair and a tat-tat—” She stumbles over the word again. “Tattoo,” she manages at last.

Both Alex and I glance at his wrist. He looks up and meets my eyes, and I can see he knows: It’s him.

I want to die.

“So, I’d better go,” I say in a miserable, flustered rush. “I need to pack, and…um…thanks for the party….”

“No problem,” says Alex, a curious tone to his voice. “Do you have to go now?”

“Yes!” I say desperately, as Demeter turns to join us again. Her face is pink and she looks rattled, for Demeter.

“So, Cath.” She makes a visible effort to put on a pleasant expression. “Are you off tomorrow?”

She’s clearly forgotten the fact I’m called Cat. But I can’t be bothered to correct her again. “That’s right! Absolutely.”

“And have you chosen yet? Turkey or goose?”

“Oh, turkey. But with a rather lovely porcini stuffing,” I hear myself adding a bit wildly. I shoot an overbright smile around this group of sophisticated Londoners. Everyone so hip and cool, treating Christmas like an ironic event that’s all about the styling.

“Porcini.” Demeter looks interested.

“Oh yes, from a little place in Tuscany,” I hear myself saying. “And…truffles from Sardinia…and vintage champagne, of course. So…Happy Christmas, everyone! See you after the break.”

I can see Alex opening his mouth, but I don’t wait to hear what he says. My face is burning as I head toward the exit, tripping a little in my hurry. I need to get out. Away. Home to my gourmet luxury Christmas. The porcini. The vintage champagne. Oh, and of course the truffles. I can’t wait.