My Not So Perfect Life

For the next hour or so, everyone works peacefully. Demeter is on her conference call in her office, and I get through a stack of surveys and Rosa passes round a bottle of retro sweets. And I’m just wondering what time I’ll break for lunch when Demeter sticks her head out of her door again.

“I need…” Her eyes roam around the office and eventually land on me. “You. What are you doing right now?”

“Me?” I feel a jolt of surprise. “Nothing. I mean, I’m working. I mean—”

“Could you bear to come and help me out with something a bit”—she gives one of her Demeter pauses—“different?”

“Yes!” I say, trying not to sound flustered. “Sure! Of course!”

“In five minutes, OK?”

“Five minutes.” I nod. “Absolutely.”

I turn back to my work, but the words are blurring in front of my eyes. My head is spinning in excitement. Something a bit different. That could be anything. It could be a new client…a website…a revolutionary branding concept that Demeter wants to pioneer…Whatever it is, it’s my chance. This is my wave!

There’s a joyful swell in my chest. All those emails I’ve been sending her weren’t for nothing! She must have been looking at my ideas all along, and she thinks I’ve got potential and she’s been waiting for the most perfect, special project….

My hands are actually trembling as I get out my laptop, plus a few printouts in a portfolio that I keep in my drawer. There’s no harm in showing her my most recent work, is there? I reapply my lipstick and spray on some perfume. I need to look sharp and together. I need to nail this.

After exactly four and a half minutes, I push back my chair, feeling self-conscious. Here we go. The wave’s cresting. My heart’s thudding, and everything around me feels a bit brighter than usual—but as I thread my way through all the desks to Demeter’s door, I try to appear nonchalant. Cool. Like, Yeah, Demeter and I are just having a one-to-one. We’re going to bounce some ideas around.

Oh my God, what if it’s something huge? I have a sudden image of Demeter and me staying late in the office; eating Chinese takeout; working on some amazing, groundbreaking project; perhaps I’d do a presentation….

I can tell Dad about this. Maybe I’ll call him tonight.

“Um, hi?” I tap at Demeter’s door and push it ajar.

“Cath!” she exclaims.

“Actually, it’s Cat,” I venture.

“Of course! Cat. Marvelous. Come in. Now, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this—”

“Of course not!” I say quickly. “Whatever it is, I’m up for it. Obviously my background’s design, but I’m really interested in corporate identity, strategy, digital opportunities…whatever….”

Now I’m rambling. Stop it, Katie.

Shit. I mean: Stop it, Cat. I’m Cat.

“Right,” says Demeter absently, typing the end of an email. She sends it off, then turns and eyes my laptop and portfolio with surprise. “What’s all that for?”

“Oh.” I color, and shift the portfolio awkwardly. “I just…I brought a few things…some ideas….”

“Well, put it down somewhere,” says Demeter without interest, and starts rootling in her desk drawer. “Now, I hate to ask you this, but I’m absolutely desperate. My diary is a nightmare and I’ve got these wretched awards this evening. I mean, I can get myself to a blow-dry bar, but my roots are a different matter, so…”

I’m not quite following what she’s saying—but the next minute she brandishes a box expectantly at me. It’s a Clairol box, and just for one heady white-hot moment, I think: We’re rebranding Clairol? I’m going to help REBRAND CLAIROL? Oh my God, this is MASSIVE—

Until reality hits. Demeter doesn’t look excited, like someone about to redesign an international brand. She looks bored and a bit impatient. And now her words are impinging properly on my brain: …my roots are a different matter….

I look more closely at the box. Clairol Nice ’n Easy Root Touch-Up. Dark Brown. Restores roots’ color in ten minutes!

“You want me to…”

“You’re such an angel.” Demeter flashes me one of her magical smiles. “This is my only window in the whole day. You don’t mind if I send some emails while you do it? You’d better put on some protective gloves. Oh, and don’t get any stuff on the carpet. Maybe find an old towel or something?”

—

Her roots. The special, perfect project is doing her roots.

I feel like the wave has dumped on me. I’m soaked, bedraggled, seaweed-strewn, a total loser. Let’s face it, she didn’t even come out of her office looking especially for me. Does she actually, properly know who I am?

As I head back out, wondering where on earth I’m going to find an old towel, Liz looks up from her screen with interest.

“What was that about?”

“Oh,” I say, and rub my nose, playing for time. I can’t bear to give away my disappointment. I feel so dumb. How could I have ever thought she’d ask me to rebrand Clairol? “She wants me to do her roots.” I try to sound casual.

“Do her roots?” echoes Liz. “What, dye them? Are you serious?”

“That’s outrageous!” chimes in Rosa. “That is not in your job description!”

Heads are popping up all round the office and I can feel a wave of general sympathy. Pity, even.

I shrug. “It’s OK.”

“This is worse than the corset dress,” says Liz significantly.

I’ve heard about the whole team once trying to zip Demeter into a corset dress that was too small but she wouldn’t admit it. (In the end they had to use a coat hanger and brute strength.) But clearly roots are a step down even from that.

“You can refuse, you know,” says Rosa, who is the most militant person in the office. But even she doesn’t sound convinced. The truth is, when you’re the most junior member of staff in a competitive industry like this, you basically do anything. She knows it and I know it.

“It’s no problem!” I say, as brightly as I can. “I’ve always thought I’d be a good hairdresser, actually. It’s my backup career.”

For that I earn a big office laugh, and Rosa offers me one of her super-expensive cookies from the baker on the corner. So it’s not all bad. And as I grab some paper towels from the ladies’, I decide: I’ll turn this into an opportunity. It’s not exactly the one-to-one meeting I was after, but it’s still a one-to-one, isn’t it? Maybe this can be my wave, after all.

—

But, oh God. Bleargh.

I now know hairdressing is not my backup career. Other people’s scalps are vile. Even Demeter’s.

As I start to paint on the gooey dye stuff, I’m trying to avert my gaze as much as possible. I don’t want to see her pale, scalpy skin or her little flecks of dandruff, or realize just how long it’s been since she last did her roots.

Which, actually, must be no time at all. There’s hardly any gray there: She’s clearly paranoid. Which makes sense. Demeter is super-aware of her age and how we’re all younger than her. But then, she totally overcompensates by knowing every Internet joke before anyone else, every bit of celeb gossip, every new band, and every…everything.

Demeter is the most on-the-case, earliest adopter known to mankind. She has gadgets before anyone else. She has that must-have H&M designer item before anyone else. Other people camp outside all night to get it—Demeter just somehow has it.

Or take restaurants. She’s worked on some very big restaurant names in her time, so she has zillions of connections. As a result, she never goes to a restaurant except when it first opens. Or, even better, when it’s not open yet except to special, important people like her. Then as soon as the general public is allowed in, or it gets a good review in The Times, she goes off it and says, “Well, it used to be all right, till it was ruined,” and moves on to the next thing.

So she’s intimidating. She can’t be easily impressed. She always had a better weekend than anyone else; she always has a better holiday story than anyone else; if someone spots a celebrity in the street, she always went to school with them or has a godchild going out with their brother, or something.

But today I’m not going to be intimidated. I’m going to make intelligent conversation and then, when the time is right, I’ll make my strategic move. I just have to decide exactly what that strategic move should be—

“OK?” says Demeter, who is typing away at her monitor, totally ignoring me.

“Fine!” I say, dipping the brush again.

“If I have one piece of advice for you girls, it’s don’t go gray. Such a bore. Although”—she swivels briefly to face me—“your hair’s so mousy, you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “Um…good?”

“How’s Hannah doing, by the way? Poor thing. I hope I reassured her before.” Demeter nods complacently and takes a sip of coffee, while I gape dumbly at the back of her head. That was an attempt to reassure Hannah?

“Well…” I don’t know what to say. “Yes. I think she’s all right.”

“Excellent!” Demeter resumes typing with even more energy, while I lecture myself silently. Come on, Katie.

I mean, come on, Cat. Cat.

Here I am. In Demeter’s office. Just her and me. It’s my chance.

I’ll show her the designs I’ve done for Wash-Blu, I decide in a rush. Only I won’t just plonk them on her desk, I’ll be more subtle. Make conversation first. Bond with her.

I glance for inspiration at Demeter’s massive pinboard. I’ve only been in this office a few times, but I always look at the pinboard to see what’s new. It’s like Demeter’s entire fabulous life, summed up in a collage of images and souvenirs and even fabric swatches. There are printed-out designs for brands she’s created. Examples of unusual typefaces. Photos of ceramics and mid-century-modern furniture classics.

There are press cuttings and photos of her at events. There are pictures of her family skiing and sailing and standing on picturesque beaches, all in photogenic clothes. They couldn’t look more perfect. Her husband is apparently some super-brainy head of a think tank, and there he is in black tie, standing next to her on a red carpet somewhere. He’s holding her arm affectionately, looking appropriately gorgeous and intelligent. Demeter wouldn’t settle for anything less.

Should I ask about the children? No, too personal. As my eyes roam around, they take in all the piles of papers everywhere. This is yet another thing that drives Sarah mad: when Demeter asks her to print out emails. I often hear her muttering at her desk: “Read them on the fucking screen.”

On the shelf beside Demeter is a row of books on branding, marketing, and design. They’re mostly standard titles, but there’s one I haven’t read—an old paperback entitled Our Vision—and I look at it more closely.

“Is that book Our Vision good?” I ask.

“Brilliant,” replies Demeter, pausing briefly in her typing. “It’s a series of conversations between designers from the eighties. Very inspiring.”

“Could I maybe…borrow it?” I venture.

“Sure.” Demeter turns her head briefly, looking surprised. “Be my guest. Enjoy.”

As I take down the book, I notice a little box on the same shelf. It’s one of Demeter’s most famous triumphs, the Redfern Raisin box, with its dinky little red string handles. Everyone takes those string handles for granted now, but at the time, no one had ever thought of such a thing.

“I’ve always wondered about Redfern Raisins,” I say impulsively. “How did you get those string handles through? They must be expensive.”

“Oh, they’re expensive.” Demeter nods, still typing. “It was a nightmare persuading the client. But then it all worked out.”

“Worked out” is an understatement. It was a sensation, and the sales of Redfern Raisins rocketed. I’ve read articles about it.

“So, how did you do it?” I persist. “How did you persuade the client?”

I’m not just asking to make conversation; I really want to know. Because maybe one day I’ll work on a project and want to push through some super-expensive feature, and the client will be all stroppy, but I’ll remember Demeter’s wise advice and win the day. I’ll be Kung Fu Panda to her Master Shifu, only with less kung fu. (Probably.)

Demeter has stopped typing and she turns round as though she’s actually quite interested in the question herself.

“What we do in our job,” she says thoughtfully, “it’s a balance. On the one hand it’s about listening to the client. Interpreting. Responding. But on the other, it’s about having the courage to go with big ideas. It’s about standing up for your convictions. You need a bit of tenacity. Yes?”

“Definitely,” I say, trying to look as tenacious as possible. I lower my brows and hold the hair dye wand firmly. Altogether, I hope I’m giving off the vibe: Tenacious. Alert. A Surprisingly Interesting Junior Member Of Staff Whose Name It’s Worth Remembering.

But Demeter doesn’t seem to have noticed my tenacious, alert demeanor. She’s turned back to her computer. Quick, what else can we talk about? Before she can start typing again, I say hastily, “So, um, have you been to that new restaurant in Marylebone? The Nepalese–British fusion place?”

It’s like catnip. I’ve mentioned the hottest restaurant of the moment, and Demeter stops dead.

“I have, actually,” she says, sounding surprised that I’ve asked. “I went a couple of weeks ago. Have you?”

Have I?

What does she think, that I can afford to spend £25 on a plate of dumplings?

But I can’t bear to say, No, I just read about it on a blog, because that’s all I can afford to do, because London is the sixth-most-expensive city in the world, hadn’t you noticed?

(On the plus side, it’s not as expensive as Singapore. Which makes you wonder: What on earth does everything cost in Singapore?)

“I’m planning to,” I say after a pause. “What did you think?”

“I was impressed.” Demeter nods. “You know that the tables are handmade in Kathmandu? And the food is challenging but earthy. Very authentic. All organic, of course.”

“Of course.” I match her serious, this-is-no-joking-matter tone. I think, if Demeter had to put her religion down on a form, she’d put Organic.

“Isn’t the chef the same guy who was at Sit, Eat?” I say, dabbing the brush into more gloopy dye. “He’s not Nepalese.”

“No, but he’s got a Nepalese adviser and he spent two years out there….” Demeter swivels round and looks at me more appraisingly. “You know your restaurants, don’t you?”

“I like food.”

Which is true. I read restaurant reviews like some people read horoscopes. I even keep a list in my bag of all the top restaurants I’d like to go to sometime. I wrote it out as a jokey thing with my friend Fi one day, and it’s just kind of stuck around, like a talisman.

“What do you think of Salt Block?” Demeter demands, as though testing me.

“I think the dish to have is the sea urchin,” I say without missing a beat.

I’ve read that everywhere. Every review, every blog. It’s all about the sea urchin.

“The sea urchin.” Demeter nods, frowning. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. I should have ordered it.”

I can tell she’s fretting now. She’s missed out on the must-eat dish. She’ll have to go back and have it.

Demeter turns and gives me a short, penetrating look—then swivels back to her computer. “Next time we get a food project, I’m putting you on it.”

I feel a flicker of disbelieving delight. Was that a vote of approval from Demeter? Am I actually getting somewhere?

“I worked on the re-launch of the Awesome Pizza Place in Birmingham,” I quickly remind her. It was on my CV, but she’ll have forgotten that.

“Birmingham,” echoes Demeter absently. “That’s right.” She types furiously for a few moments, then adds, “You don’t sound Brummie.”

Oh God. I’m not going into the whole ditching-the-West-Country-accent story. It’s too embarrassing. And who cares where I’m originally from, anyway? I’m a Londoner now.

“I guess I’m just not an accent person,” I say, closing the subject. I don’t want to talk about where I’m from; I want to press on toward my goal. “So, um, Demeter? You know the Wash-Blu rebrand we’re pitching for? Well, I’ve done some mock-ups of my own for the new logo and packaging. In my spare time. And I wondered, could I show them to you?”

“Absolutely.” Demeter nods encouragingly. “Good for you! Email them to me.”

This is how she always reacts. She says, “Email them to me!” with great enthusiasm, and you do, and then you don’t hear anything back, ever.

“Right.” I nod. “Perfect. Or I can show you right now?”

“Now?” says Demeter vaguely, reaching for a plastic folder.

She wanted tenacious, didn’t she? I carefully put down the hair dye on a shelf and hurry to get my designs.

“So, this is the front of the box….” I put a printout in front of her. “You’ll see how I’ve treated the lettering, while keeping the very recognizable blue tone….”

Demeter’s mobile phone buzzes and she grabs it.

“Hello, Roy? Yes, I got your message.” She nods intently. “Let me just write that down….” She seizes my printout, turns it over, and scribbles a number on the back of it. “Six o’clock. Yes, absolutely.”

She puts the phone down, absently folds the paper up into quarters, and puts it in her bag. Then she looks up at me and comes to. “Oh! Sorry. That’s your paper, isn’t it? Do you mind if I keep it? Rather an important number.”

I stare back, blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know how to respond. That was my design. My design. That I was showing her. Not some piece of crappy scrap paper. Should I say something? Should I stand up for myself?

My spirits have plummeted. I feel so stupid. There I was, believing—hoping—that we were bonding, that she was noticing me….

“Shit.” Demeter interrupts my thoughts, staring at her computer in consternation. “Shit. Oh God.”

She pushes her chair back with no warning and bashes my legs. I cry, “Ow!” but I’m not sure she hears: She’s too agitated. She peers out of her glass office wall, then ducks down.

“What is it?” I gulp. “What’s happened?”

“Alex is on his way!” she says, as though this is self-explanatory.

“Alex?” I echo stupidly. Who’s Alex?

“He just emailed. He can’t see me like this.” She gestures at her head, which is all messy with dye and needs to be left for at least another five minutes. “Go and meet the lift,” she says urgently. “Intercept him.”

“I don’t know who he is!”

“You’ll know him!” Demeter says impatiently. “Tell him to come back in half an hour. Or email. But don’t let him come in here.” Her hands rise to her head as though to shield it.

“But what about your hair dye?”

“It’s fine. You’re done. All I do now is wait and wash it off. Go! Go!”

Oh God. Demeter’s panic is contagious, and as I scurry down the corridor I feel hyper-vigilant. But what if I don’t catch this Alex? What if I don’t recognize him? Who is he, anyway?

I take up a position right outside the lift doors and wait. The first lift disgorges Liz and Rosa, who give me a slightly odd look as they pass by. The second lift whizzes straight past to the ground floor. Then the first lift arrives at our floor again and…Ping. The doors open and out steps a tall, slim guy I haven’t seen before. And Demeter’s right: I instantly know this must be him.

He has brown hair, not mousy brown but proper dark chestnut, springing up from his brow. He looks about thirty and has one of those wide-open, appealing faces that you get when you have good cheekbones and a broad smile. (He’s not smiling, but you can tell: When he does smile it’ll be broad, and I bet he’s got good teeth too.) He’s wearing jeans and a pale-purple shirt, and his arms are full of boxes covered in Chinese characters.

“Alex?” I say.

“Guilty.” He turns to look at me, his face interested. “Who are you?”

“Um…Cat. I’m Cat.”

“Hi, Cat.”

His brown eyes are surveying me as though to extract the most information about me possible in the smallest amount of time. I’d feel uncomfortable, except I’m preoccupied by fulfilling my task.

“I have a message from Demeter,” I announce. “She says, could you possibly come and see her in about half an hour? Or maybe email instead? She’s just a bit…um…tied up.”

Dyed up crosses my mind, and I almost give a little snort of laughter.

He picks up on it at once. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, it is. You nearly laughed.” His eyes spark at mine. “Tell me the joke.”

“No joke,” I say, flustered. “So, anyway, that’s the message.”

“Wait half an hour, or email.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He appears to think for a moment. “Trouble is, I don’t want to wait for half an hour. Or email. What’s she doing?” To my horror, he starts striding down the corridor, toward our office. In panic I run after him, dodge right past, and plant myself in his way.

“No! She can’t…You mustn’t…” As he moves to get past me, I take a quick step to obstruct him. He dodges the other way, and I block him again, lifting my hands into a defensive martial-arts pose before I can stop myself.

“We’re seriously doing this?” Alex looks like he might burst into laughter. “What are you, Special Forces?”

My cheeks flame red, but I hold my ground. “My boss doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You’re a fierce guard dog, aren’t you?” He surveys me with even more interest. “You’re not her assistant, though, are you?”

“No. I’m a research associate.” I say the title with care. Associate. Not intern, associate.

“Good for you.” He nods, as though impressed, and I wonder if he’s an intern.

No. Too old. And, anyway, Demeter wouldn’t get bothered about seeing an intern, would she?

“So, who are you?” I ask.

“Well…” He looks vague. “I do a bit of everything. I’ve been working in the New York office.” He makes a sudden move to get past me, but I’m there, blocking him again.

“You’re good.” He grins, and I feel a dart of anger. This guy is starting to piss me off.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or what you need Demeter for,” I say stonily. “But I told you, she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Got it?”

He’s silent for a moment, regarding me, then a smile spreads over his face—and I was right, it’s broad and white and dazzling. He’s actually extremely handsome, I realize, and this belated recognition makes me blush.

“I’m crazy,” he says suddenly, and steps aside with almost a courtly bow. “I don’t need Demeter, and I apologize for being so rude. If it’s any consolation, you win.”

“That’s OK,” I say, a little stiffly.

“I don’t need Demeter,” he continues cheerfully, “because I have you. I want to do some research; you’re a research associate. It’s a perfect fit.”

I blink uncertainly at him. “What?”

“We have work to do.” He brandishes the boxes with Chinese writing at me.

“What?”

“Twenty minutes, max. Luckily, Demeter is obviously so tied up, she won’t even notice you’re gone. Come on.”

“Where?”

“To the roof.”