“Well, OK,” I say at last. “That might be fun. Just fun,” I add for emphasis. “Fun.”
“Absolutely. Just fun.” Alex seems about to say something else when his phone rings. As he pulls it out of his pocket, he winces at the display. “Sorry. Do you mind if I—”
“Of course! Go ahead!”
The interruption is exactly what I need to get my thoughts in order and stiffen my inner resolve. I walk over to the window, my chin set, talking firmly to myself.
OK. This is what it is. It’s fun. It’s an interlude. And I’m going to enjoy it simply as that. Repeat: Life is good at the moment. No, it’s brilliant. And when Alex disappears out of the picture again, it will not throw me. Because the thing about letting people into your heart is, you can just push them out again. Easy.
I’ve called it mynotsoperfectlife and I’ve already got 267 followers! I post utterly unvarnished, unposed, un-Instagrammy photos with captions, and it’s turned into one of the most fun hobbies I’ve ever had.
A photo of bad-tempered crowds on a tube platform: My not-so-perfect commute. A picture of the revolting blister on my heel: My not-so-perfect new shoes. A photo of my hair, drenched: The not-so-perfect London weather.
The amazing thing is how many other people have joined in. Mark from work posted a picture of himself eating a doughnut, captioned My not-so-perfect eat-clean regime. Biddy posted a picture of some ripped trousers, which she’d obviously caught on some barbed wire, entitled My not-so-perfect rural existence, which made me laugh.
Even Steve’s fiancée, Kayla, has posted a picture of a receipt for the deposit on a tent (£3,500). She called it My not-so-perfect wedding and I’m really hoping that Steve knows all about it and sees the joke too.
Fi has deluged my page with photos from New York, and to be honest, it’s totally changed the way I see her and her life. For a start, I hadn’t quite realized how small her apartment was. She’s posted lots of pictures of her shower—which I have to admit is really unappealing—all captioned My not-so-perfect New York rental. Then she posted a photo of a text message that some guy sent her, dumping her as she arrived for their date. She could actually see him at the bar, chatting up another girl. She called that one My not-so-perfect New York date, and got about thirty responses from people with even worse stories.
After Fi had posted about six times, I called her up and we had a bit of a heart to heart. In fact, it lasted all evening. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her voice. Words on a screen just aren’t the same.
And it’s not as if she said, Guess what, my fabulous life was all made up, I haven’t really got quirky friends, nor do I drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. Because she has got quirky friends, and she did drink pink margaritas in the Hamptons. At least once. But there’s other stuff in her life too. Stuff that balances out the bright-and-shiny. Just like there is for all of us. Bright-and-shiny on the one side; the crappy truth on the other.
I think I’ve finally worked out how to feel good about life. Every time you see someone’s bright-and-shiny, remember: They have their own crappy truths too. Of course they do. And every time you see your own crappy truth and feel despair and think, Is this my life, remember: It’s not. Everyone’s got a bright-and-shiny, even if it’s hard to find sometimes.
“Katie?”
I raise my head and smile. There’s my bright-and-shiny, right in front of me—at least, two big chunks of it. Dad and Biddy have come into the kitchen, dressed up in their visiting-London outfits. They’re both wearing stiff blue jeans (Dave Yarnett) and gleaming white sneakers (Dave Yarnett). Dad has a new I LONDON T-shirt, which he bought yesterday at the Tower of London, while Biddy’s wearing a sweatshirt with Big Ben on it. Dad’s holding the tube map and Biddy’s clutching a flask of water. They’re going to Kew Gardens today, and I think they’ll love it.
They promised me they’d come to stay after I’d had “time to settle in,” and I thought they meant in the autumn, after the season was over. But I’m only six weeks into my new job and here they are, leaving Steve and Denise in charge of the glampers for a couple of days. It must have meant heroic amounts of organization, and I’m truly appreciative.
The only snag is, I haven’t been able to take time off work—but they insist that they don’t mind. This way they can “enjoy London,” as they keep putting it. Dad has told me about five times how he’s been finding London “extremely enjoyable” this visit and how he “never really looked at it the right way before.”
I smile at them. “All ready?”
Biddy nods. “All set! Goodness, you do have an early start, darling—” Then she stops herself, flushes, and glances at Dad.
I think Biddy and Dad must have made a joint vow on this visit: We will not utter one single even slightly negative opinion. I can tell they think my new bedroom is a little small (they should have seen the last one) and they think my commute is a bit long (I think it’s a picnic). But all they’ve done since they arrived is shower me with positive comments about London, Londoners, jobs in offices, and basically everything about my life.
“Handy window,” comments Dad now, looking at my nondescript little kitchen window. “Makes the kitchen very light.”
“Very nice!” chimes in Biddy eagerly. “And I noticed you have a Japanese restaurant at the end of the road. Very exotic! Very glamorous! Isn’t it, Mick? That’s what you get in London. The restaurants.”