Page 1 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
REFLECT FURTHER: manifesting is about the here and now. But sometimes we need to understand how we ended up here…
Often the Universe nudges us towards the realisation that it’s time to manifest a better life. Whilst those nudges can seem like negative life events, it’s all part of the Universe helping you on your way. Use the space below to record any nudges the Universe has given you.
Okay. Well, unlike my sisters, I’m not the type to rehash childhood injustices (although if I was, the fringe Mum gave me when I was eight, and the 2002 archaeology ‘holiday’ in Tunisia would certainly feature), so I’m going to focus on the last couple of days, whilst the ‘nudges’ are fresh in my mind. Although I’m not sure ‘nudges’ is the right term. They were more like very unsubtle pokes but – on the plus side – it’s galvanised me to take action. Like I said: my life is a total disaster.
Nudge 1: The Work Christmas Party (Friday 23 December, 9pm)
I’d been looking forward to it for weeks: this was my chance to get the big boss, Guy Carmichael, to notice me, and ideally fall for me. Previously, he’d only spoken to me a couple of times in meetings (and called me by the wrong name), but I’m pretty sure that magnetic forces are equal and opposite so he will have felt it too (on some level). Problem was, I’m not the only one who’s drawn to the MD of Carsons Children’s Books Division. When Guy told us all off about the poor sales figures at last week’s department meeting (children’s books may have taken a hit nationally, but Carsons have dropped from market leaders to second place), it wasn’t just me adjusting my collar; I saw Tina sit up straighter, and Charlotte actually licked her lips (that’s Charlotte for you. Shameless). Anyway, the work Christmas party is the one opportunity to interact on an equal footing, and, even though Guy is notorious for putting in only a brief appearance, I intended to make the most of it.
So I pulled out all the stops, and despite having to re-use a Mango dress due to cash flow issues, I still looked good. But that was one of the few things that went right. The first thing that went wrong was that I got stuck with Sweater-vest Gareth from Accounts who asked me my age (that’s how dull the conversation was) and misheard my answer of ‘I’mthirty-seven’ (we were standing near the speaker) and bloody Gareth ‘kindly’ replied, ‘I wouldn’t have put you over forty-five.’
Of course, Drunk Stephen found this hilarious and told me I should have a vodka jelly shot to cheer myself up and wasn’t jelly a good source of collagen? I told him I shouldn’t really drink because I was meant to be catching the early trainhome tomorrow morning for a wedding and not all of us have hollow legs (Drunk Stephen has, ironically, never, ever been drunk and he drinks shitloads – it’s like a superpower). And he said, ‘Who’s rude enough to have a wedding on Christmas Eve? What a twat.’ That’s why he moved up the ranks from colleague to firm friend a long time ago: he’s not afraid to call a twat a twat.
‘Monty,’ I answered flatly.
‘As in your ex, Monty?’
I nodded, and Drunk Stephen sucked air through his teeth in a sympathetic way and proffered a jelly shot, which I ignored.
‘Actually, I’m not bothered even though everyone thinks I am,’ I announced, ‘because I’ve got years left for that kind of thing – marriage, babies, etc.’
‘Well… Maybe notyears.’ Flip side is, he’s not afraid tobea twat either.
‘Rude,’I said, snatching the jelly shot, downing it, and then another, just for the collagen, and Drunk Stephen laughed, saying I was far too easy to manipulate. But the jelly shots were delicious, so we had a couple more in order to benefit fully, and Drunk Stephen said my skin looked plumper already. I asked Drunk Stephen if he’d come to the wedding with me to make it more fun, and he said there was no way he was trekking over to Little Shagworth or whatever and that the Cotswolds was full of unimaginative bigots. Then, when I told him the wedding was at the newly refurbished Lamb Hotelactually, Drunk Stephen got all excited and said that apparently there was some seriously cool artwork there (that’s designers for you) and that if he didn’t have an overbearing mother to visit, he would have come with me.
And then the whole vibe in the room shifted. It wasn’t that someone suddenly turned up the music volume, or that the lights dramatically dimmed, but they may as well have. Everyone felt it. Power. Then I realised why: over Drunk Stephen’s shoulder I saw Guy Carmichael had finally arrived. That aura of potency instantly left the rest of the men seeming even more drab. It was as if he had a spotlight on him. I elbowed Drunk Stephen and we both watched as Guy paused by various people that he wouldn’t normally stop for; they looked a little flustered and laughed a little too hard because whowouldn’twant to impress Guy Carmichael? Especially when he was in party mode, rather than his default blunt mode (which totally does it for me – it’s masterful and efficient and he gets to say things to people that I’d quite like to say like, ‘That’s shit, Jane. Don’t show me shit covers like that again, Jane’). But just as they were starting to relax into it, he extricated himself and moved swiftly on to the next person – Guy Carmichael knew how to work the room. He must have managed to talk to about fifty people in not much more than twenty minutes.
‘You have to admit he is seriously sexy,’I said.
Drunk Stephen, who doesn’t really like Guy because he passed him over for promotion, acknowledged that for someone old, he certainly had a whole big dick energy about him.
‘I need to get him on his own,’ I decided.
‘Now’s your chance,’ said Drunk Stephen, ‘he’s crossing over to the bar… ’
I asked Drunk Stephen to quickly check I didn’t have panda eyes, and then I went over. However, Charlotte – with her 10k followers on TikTok and her Altuzarra dress – apparently had the same idea and arrived fractionally before me, anglingherself so that her arse was practically in Guy Carmichael’s face. And then I had to watch him notice. Like he had any choice. She swung round, whipping him with her freshly balayaged Beauty Cuts hair (she’d posted about it on Insta earlier) and I saw his eyes flash with appreciation. He didn’t even register my arrival at his other side.
It was the closest I’ve ever been to Guy, and I could see a tiny bit of skin irritation at the nape of his neck; I wondered if he’d scratched it. When the barman asked me if I wanted ice, I laughed loudly, hoping to get Guy’s attention – it didn’t work. The barman looked (understandably) alarmed, and Guy remained fixated on Charlotte’s breasts which she was pressing against his arm. Bloody Charlotte. She’s always hitting on people. And getting them. For the last few months, it’s been the GlowCycle instructor from her exclusive gym with endless sanctimonious posts about nutrition and clean living, and little videos of them muscled and sweaty together, frantically pedalling. But clearly she’d now set her sights on our boss. Tonight, her skin looked particularly luminescent and smooth and youthful. It was probably the soft lighting from the overhead pendants. Maybe mine looked good too, over here at the bar.
The barman pushed my drink towards me. ‘You don’t think I look old, do you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said.
I gave him a smile and took a slow sip of the Moscow mule.
‘But then again, to me, all you women over forty look the same – sort of mumsy.’
Over forty? Mumsy? A bit of raw ginger caught the back of my throat, and I inhaled and spluttered.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the barman, now concerned.
I waved my arm to reassure him, but he seemed to interpret this differently.
‘Do you need help?’
I shook my head and tried desperately to look calm and casual as my eyes streamed with tears and I attempted to avoid coughing my drink everywhere. But Guy Carmichael had already turned around to check what was happening and was just in time to witness me snorting Moscow mule out of my right nostril and onto the barman’s bow tie.ThenI got to witness Guy Carmichael quietly leave the work Christmas party, with his hand on Charlotte’s bum, less than half an hour after he’d arrived.
I was so depressed by all the unkind assumptions about my age from the barman and Gareth (and, if I’m honest, about Charlotte beating me to Guy) that after a couple more Moscow mules and a few more jelly shots I got Drunk Stephen to film me doing a little clip about age-shaming and pressure on women to get married and have kids (as Drunk Stephen pointed out, Gwyneth Paltrow got millions of likes for basically saying the same thing). Charlotte’s not the only one who can have a social media side hustle.
