I'm Normally Perfect (re-upload)

Chapter Sixty-Three

A bit after noon I went over and began carrying things back. After I'd moved everything I wanted over I went into the village to do some shopping. Without Alex cooking for me every day I needed something easy. Food wasn't as big of a thrill for me as it was for her-I only ate so I could go on to do other things. It was frozen Indian dishes and Pot Noodle galore. I figured Alex wouldn't be looking in my pantry so it didn't much matter what was in there.

After that was sorted I had a lie-down until sunset then got up and wandered around the house for a while. Clem and I went for a (very brief) stroll over the frost covered ground and then stretched out in front of the fireplace. As the carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed two am I realised I could come and go as I pleased. All right, so I didn't really want to go anywhere, but I could get up and go to bed whenever I wanted. Alex's schedule had always defined my days and without that I was a free agent. Yup, free free free. I could walk around naked if I wanted-I didn't, but I could have done.

I sorted out each room-organising every draw and cupboard. I turned the small room on the second floor into my study. It looked out over the gardens, though I couldn't see my Renaissance Knot garden from there the view was lovely. I'd put my old desk from the house in Kidlington up there and filled the bookcases. I liked to pretend that was where I lived-the Kidlington house. I had great long conversations with Alex in my head and occasionally out loud (my impression of Alex confused Clem no end and she'd always cock her head to the side trying to figure out why her other mother's voice was coming from me). That wasn't amusing for long, though, because I knew she'd not say the things I had her saying.

"Oh, Catherine, you're right-we should be able to live under the same roof and not worry over other people. I don't even notice anyone but you and I never liked sleeping with men in the first place. Blech."

So that didn't last. After a while I got into a routine of rolling out of bed at noon, going over to the house to collect my post, motoring into the village if I had any errands to do and then returning to the Elysium for some more scintillating staring in the general direction of the television. I didn't get much writing done (read: none) but as Simon didn't have my phone number I didn't have to hear about it.

One Saturday morning about mid-way through the term there was a knock at my door before I was out of bed-I think it was about ten am-and I stumbled downstairs to find Alex on my front stoop. I asked, 'Everything all right?' as I rubbed my eyes.

'Simon's on the phone. You've been nominated for the Eighth Prize.'

I tried to figure out when I'd been nominated for the first seven then the information made its way through my still slumbering brain. 'Are you joking?'

'No, sweetheart. He's on the phone now.'

I stood there trying to absorb the information-the Eighth Prize was a big deal. Right up with the Booker and...those other frightfully important gongs. I didn't respond for so long she finally asked, 'Are you all right?'

'I think so.'

'Would you like me to tell him you'll ring back or give him this number?'

'No, I'll talk to him now.' I crunched across the brittle grass in my carpet slippers-it was much colder than I'd realised and I was chilled to the core before we reached the house. Once inside I picked up the phone in the kitchen and was assured by a jubilant Simon that it was indeed no joke. Alex put some milk on the cooker.

'But...Simon...I'm five years old.'

He laughed, 'I know! You're the youngest person to be nominated. Ever!' I wondered if he was dancing on his desk.

'I thought you had to be a British Subject.'

'No, no. Only born or naturalised into a nation in the Commonwealth.'