Page 60 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
We came through the last of the trees, into a clearing. ‘There we go,’ said Astrid, ‘See? Worth it?’
‘Oh, wow.’ I stopped in my tracks. It really was absolutely stunning. A broad gentle slope of grass and bracken led down to a lake, which melted at its edges into mist. An actual stag stood just by a stand of trees, the shadows of a herd of deer visible in the woods. And also my left boot was rubbing my heel.
‘And as you can see, we’re very much still in London.’ Astrid turned to point to a white building behind us. ‘That’s the Royal Ballet White Lodge. So you should be right at home. With your dance background.’
I gave Astrid a hard stare. That ballet incident is very much a family joke and whilst Mum always makes out like Matthew is family, he jolly well isn’t.
‘Well, yeah, but dance doesn’t preclude an enjoyment of the great outdoors, Astrid. Since I started manifesting I’m muchmore in tune with the natural world and all it has to give. Oh my goodness – look at the size of that duck!’
‘It’s a swan,’ said Matthew.
Obviously, I could see that now it had got closer, but I ignored him, and focused on the view before me. Muted tones of grey sky and river somehow made the russet and moss and purple of the bracken and heather pop like a Gucci label on a plain blazer. I watched the swan sail majestically towards the bank. The fine mist rendered everything in soft focus: the world was truly beautiful. We walked down closer to the lake, almost as if dreaming. I was completely and utterly in the moment, at one with Mother Nature. Then I realised that whilst I’d been looking at the view, Matthew and Astrid had started talking again – he had his arm round her shoulders. God, these two were impossible to keep apart.
‘Can you take a photo of me, Astrid?’ I asked loudly, holding out my phone.
‘Why?’
‘Because this would beat Charlotte’s bleak Scottish post hands-down.’
Astrid sighed. ‘Is Charlotte the one who’s shagging your boss you fancy?’
Matthew looked up.
‘Not anymore,’ I said.
‘Okay.’ Astrid took my phone. ‘One photo.’
‘Hang on a second,’ I said, getting closer to the bank. ‘Try and get the swan in.’ I did a pose, very similar to the H&M model one, sort of one leg back like I was mid-skip, with the scarf flowing over my shoulder, but my heel caught in the grass, and Astrid watched with irritation as I struggled to free it.
Eventually, she just yanked me out, with her freakishly strong yoga arm.
‘I told you to stay at home. And you’d better not even think about putting those’ – she eyed up my mud-spattered trousers – ‘in my washing machine.’
‘Of course not,’ I said stiffly. ‘They’re dry-clean only.’
‘Well, this has been lots of fun,’ said Matthew. ‘Inspiring to see Alice really getting to grips with the great outdoors.’
If it was a miserable trek to the park, it was even worse getting back home. My heel was rubbed raw, my trousers were sticking uncomfortably, and my scarf was so saturated with cold drizzle that it was in danger of asphyxiating me. But at least I’d annoyed Astrid to the extent that she and Matthew didn’t do much chatting. And then when we got in, Aziz was there. I was so relieved to see him that I nearly cried. It had been quite the pressure, feeling like I had to look out for him – and now there he was, back in the kitchen, a pot of soup simmering on the hob, the whirr of the extractor fan a soothing background of ordinary. Aziz gave Astrid a brief kiss like everything was normal and she hadn’t been ignoring his calls and when he hugged me, he smelled of cooking and comfort. He was his lovely, easy self with Matthew, and I felt like I could stop being responsible and leave him in charge of making sure weird dynamics didn’t play out. To be fair, Matthew genuinely looked like he was pleased to see Aziz and said how he insisted on taking them both out for supper tonight all the way over at The Clove Club in Shoreditch. Astrid saidAziz probably couldn’t, because he had work to get on with, and besides, couldn’t they go somewhere that wouldn’t take so long to get to, but Matthew and Aziz pretty much ignored her and started talking about Michelin stars and truffle puree.
So, confident all was safe, I left them to it, heading upstairs to take a bath. I helped myself liberally to Astrid’s Neal’s Yard bath oil (she shouldn’t have made that comment about my dancing career in front of ML) and as I sank back into the scented warmth, the blurred murmur of the others’ voices downstairs and the lazy occasional drip of the hot tap, the stress of the morning faded away and I gradually thawed out. From this angle, I could mostly see treetops and sky, and only the edges of other houses. I watched a lone robin land on a branch, its orange chest a flash of colour in a chiaroscuro; after the last couple of hours of outright unpleasantness spent trudging round Richmond Park, I couldn’t help thinking it was actually more meaningful to connect with Mother Nature at this spiritual level, from inside. It was certainly moving me a lot more effectively now I was warm and comfortable. I wouldn’t be surprised if it emerged the Romantic poets took my approach too – artistic licence and all that. Wordsworth pretty much owns the daffodil, but for all we know, he never got closer to one than the bunch Dorothy popped on his desk as an incest-y come-on.
My phone pinged, with a message from my old friend Louise from St Hilda’s whom I bumped into at the wedding. She said sorry for being last minute about it, but could we meet at Turners instead of Soma and she’d forgotten if we were meeting at three or four, so she was arriving at half three and she hoped that was okay.
Shit.
On my way now (love the Piccadilly line – so fast, and I’ve noticed a few people eyeing up my copy ofThe Guidewith envy) but I can’t say I’m relishing the prospect of seeing Louise. In fact, I’ve been putting off meeting for ages, ever since she reproduced if I’m honest, but when I saw her at Monty’s wedding I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. It’ll be the usual new mum shit – bearing false testament to alcohol and fun, and then being trashed after a glass and a half of Chardonnay and rushing off to the loos to stare at photos of the progeny before making an excuse and bailing. Still, she’s an old school-friend, and at least if it’s a short one it will be a cheap one. Might message Drunk Stephen in case he’s around later…
I am grateful for:
Nature
Piccadilly line
Aziz
Date: Saturday 14 JanuaryTime: 6.20pm
My thoughts and reflections:
