Page 29 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘I could use another of those espressos, Matthew,’ said Aziz.
As they walked into the hotel, talking together, none of them looking back, not even Aziz, I became all the more determined. I was going to manifest that house – it would be mine, and Iwouldspend next Christmas there. But that wasn’t the only thing. There was something even more important I needed to manifest too.
Something I know I can make happen.
One way or another, Iwillwipe that smile off Matthew Lloyd’s face.
Although, as I settle into bed in the garage for another night, despite very distinctly asking the Universenotto sleep here tonight, and relive what happened earlier today, I do find my confidence waning somewhat. I keep thinking back to what ML said aboutThe Guide. Obviously, he was being a wanker – I know that. But if I can’t even manifest sleeping in a non-mouldy cat-toilet of a room, let alone achieve success as an influencer (only had seventeen views on that unboxing video so far), I do wonder how likely I am to successfully manifest keeping my job, or making Guy Carmichael fall for me. And when I think about the fact that I was goaded into saying I’dmanifest our old house, I feel hot with panic. I mean, even if I manage to keep my job, my current salary as a children’s book editor barely covers rent; I wouldn’t get a mortgage for thisgarage,let alone a house that my parents couldn’t afford to keep. So, there is literally no chance of my winning that bet any other way than the Universe giving me our old house. I’m just going to have to believe thatThe Guideis as good as it claims to be.
But… it’sThe Guide™, technically. Fuck. Matthew Lloyd is getting in my head.
I am letting go of:
Posting videos – how come the one I looked awful in went viral and barely anyone has even glanced at my beautiful unboxing one? Plus, it takes ages. I’ll just stick to selfies.
The notion that Arrie is a reasonable older sister: the White Company pyjamas are only slightly stained; they are certainly not brown. If she didn’t want me to borrow them, she should have said. And crucially, why does she need to look good in nightwear anyway? She’s married! That’s the point of having a husband – Roger has to give it up regardless. Besides clearly Roger doesn’t notice what she’s wearing. Otherwise, he’d surely have said something about that gilet…
Date: Thursday 29 DecemberTime: 3.40pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I’m beginning to feel quite down about this process. I know I haven’t journaled for a few days but my life has gone from bad to worse – which is, let’s face it, a touch disheartening and not the right way round.
The weather is hideous – a grim, grey, wet misery like it has been since Boxing Day afternoon – and no one would take me to the station for this train from hell which is so busy that people are using the toilets for standing room. Mum said she couldn’t because she was going to Pilates with Sue from next door and that Dad had to hand out leaflets about the New Year’s Eve concert at the church because she’d forgotten to. Typical Mum. She gets Pilates and her jobs done for her and meanwhile her own daughter has to catch public transport to the public transport. To add insult to injury, Astrid and Aziz drove off to London this morning before I got up without even telling me. I could have gone with them! And when I mentioned this to Mum and Dad, Mum said, ‘Well, precisely.’
I asked exactly what that meant. And she said that Astrid and Aziz didn’t have time to be taxiing me around because they were busy professionals and I pointed out that they were driving to London anyway, how would it have put them out,and she told me I should be more respectful and no one has time to meet my expectations of door-to-door service. Which seriously pissed me off. I am respectful. They could have just dropped menearmy flat. I don’t expect door to door.
And then Dad inhaled and said carefully, ‘But, darling, last time you wouldn’t get out of Astrid’s car until your Uber had arrived because it was raining. And then, darling, she was late for that rather important meeting.’
‘Oh my god,’ I said. ‘One time.’
‘No,’ said Mum, ‘there was also that time you made Aziz drop you directly at your flat so that he was late for that client of his with attachment problems and she ended up locking them both in until nearly midnight.’
‘Dreadful business,’ added Dad, shaking his head sadly. ‘Poor Aziz, having to call the police… ’
‘How was I supposed to know she’d react so badly?’
(To be fair, Aziz did tell me that was what would happen, but I thought he was exaggerating. He really is a saint, putting himself on the line like that. Explains how he tolerates Astrid.)
So I had to stand opposite the Lamb with its inviting fires and sofas, in the rain and cold, shielding my Dior jacquard suitcase that I got for an absolute bargain on Vinted, and wait for the Stagecoach bus which was over twenty minutes late, and whilst I was standing there, the water running down the back of my neck and off the tip of my nose, feeling like the Little Match Girl, this luxurious brand-new Range Rover pulled up, with the Lamb logo on the side, and who should get out? Only bloody ML. He clambered out the back (he’s got his own driver and I’m catching the Stagecoach – how things have changed) and walked leisurely into his hotel, likehe owns the rain too and it knows not to fall on him. It was weird glimpsing him without him knowing. Weird seeing him full stop.
He hasn’t been round to ours at all since I saw him on Boxing Day. Not once. Astrid and Aziz came back from the Lamb on their own and went on and on and on about how amazing it was and what a good job he’d done with it, etc., etc. Mum was all upset that he wasn’t coming for lunch, but Astrid said he had loads of work stuff and that you don’t end up being as successful as Matthew is without serious input. Of course Mum took that as an invitation to look my way and raise her eyebrows meaningfully.
Anyway,Iwas pleased that he’d stayed out the way – the only reason the last few days have felt so depressing is because of the shit, unseasonably wet weather. Plus, Astrid decided she wasn’t drinking between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve which not only made her horrific company but resulted in my drinking her share. So I’ve been permanently either hungover or drunk since then – sometimes both – which frankly would make anyone feel a bit down.
I watched Matthew’s back hoping he wouldn’t turn round and see me and he didn’t. That was a relief, at least. I could taste something bitter in my mouth. Probably acid rain mixing with my make-up.
After twenty minutes, the stuffy little bus pulled up. Then, not only did I suffer the indignity of trying to board with my suitcase, which the driver insisted I put in a tiny cage at the front of the bus – he did not offer to help – but also I was crammed in next to a behemoth of a child in a pushchair who kept ramming the metal footrest into my shin in what can onlybe described as a deliberate manner. And then, when I was getting off the bus at the station, my suitcase tipped on its side and fell into a muddy puddle so my clothes were probably all soaked, and the jacquard was ruined. Then the train was cancelled and I had to sit on the platform for fifty minutes with nothing to do apart from stalk Charlotte’s Insta to check if there were any photos of Guy Carmichael, seeing as his own account is private and I don’t dare send him a follow request, and he never changes his WhatsApp status so that’s a dead loss.
And then eventually when the next train arrived, it turned out to be one of those horrific new swaying ones which make me feel sick and the only seat available was this one I’m in right now, sandwiched between the window and a man in a tight suit with a ghastly giant Breitling on his wrist, who is the world’s most prolific cougher – I’m just waiting for some lung to shoot onto the ash-coloured melamine table (would it kill them to come up with less hideous furnishings?). Opposite us is a terrifying and beefy woman who has an equally terrifying and beefy dog on her lap. Either she or the dog has eaten something fucking unpleasant, because every few minutes or so, there is the type of noxious smell which would ordinarily result in everyone abandoning this carriage for another one. But now, there are so many standing passengers that it is simply not possible to move. And my phone battery died because of looking for Guy Carmichael, hence the move to put pen to paper.
So I’m staring out the train window as the pathetic daylight fades away and I catch sight of a dishevelled, miserable, worn-looking woman in the reflection, and it takes me a whole few beats before I realise it’s me. Obviously it’s the overheadlighting because I don’t look like that normally, but it seems particularly cruel of the Universe to do that on the back of Sweater-vest Gareth’s unintentional ageism the other day.
And what am I returning to? Job uncertainty. Imminent eviction. Rats.
So you can see why, all in all, I’m feeling down about things.
In fact, I don’t mind admitting I am currently having serious doubts about the efficacy ofThe Guide.
