Kat dragged me in and out of every house-y shop on Oxford Street. Furniture, beanbags, fresh new sheets, blankets, cutlery, tea towels. It was like getting married again. Except this time, I didn’t have to compromise. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought, I was having my flat exactly as I wanted it. And I wanted it like my cabin in Firefly Forest. Warm, cosy, homely. Soft and snuggly. Hot baths full of oils, beeswax candles on the go, and a wilderness of big, leafy plants. No more fakes. I wanted the real deal in every aspect of my life and to have the time to enjoy it.
‘Can wepleasestop for a drink? I’m desperate.’ Kat was laden down with bags and had slowed to a stumble. She was flagging. We both were.
‘Yeah, let’s grab some lunch. Mildreds?’
‘Is that Italian?’
‘Vegan.’
‘Bloody hell, Sara! No. Lunch without cheese is like toast without butter. And vegans can’t have that either. How about we compromise and go for sushi. That’s healthy?’
‘I’m only joking, I don’t want vegan either. Let’s tuk-tuk into Soho and see what takes our fancy,’ I said, flagging down a man in a pink feather boa who was blasting out Whitney Houston. The pair of us sat on the furry seat and clutched our bags to our knees.
‘Dean Street please!’ I shouted as the man stood up and tried to get going. ‘Kat, tell me honestly – do you think me getting a bread maker is taking it too far?’
‘Taking what too far?’
‘My new “woman of the land” vibe. Making my own food. Living off-grid.’
Kat rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, babe, but King’s Cross is about as on-grid as it gets. And why on earth would you want to make your own bread when they sell it in the supermarket?’
‘To bake it fresh.’
‘Waitrose bake it fresh.’
‘I want to get rid of all the nasties – the additives and preservatives.’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s the stuff that makes it taste nice.’
‘I could always make the dough by hand, I suppose.’
Kat turned to me in shock. ‘Am I hearing things? The queen of takeaways is now baking her own baguettes. What have you done with my friend Sara?’
‘It’s time for a change, Kat. I’ve been eating myself into type-two diabetes for too long.’
‘If it’s a health thing then bread should probably be off the menu anyway. Why don’t you start small? Get a window box and grow your own tomatoes?’
‘I can do that as well, but I really want to make fresh bread every day.’
‘Realistically? You won’t have time for all that once you’re back at CSH. You’ll be working twenty-four-seven on your next case. And if you do end up with a spare half hour, do you really want to spend it kneading dough?’
‘Yes! I do. Work should facilitate my life, not the other way around. I shouldn’t be giving up my spare time to work my bollocks off, helping criminals who don’t deserve it. Arguing reasonable doubt when I know damn well they’re guilty.’
‘Easy to say but that’s why they pay you the big bucks.’
‘What’s the point in money though, if I don’t have time to enjoy it? I’m fitting a tiny bit of life in around my work, rather than doing a job that works around the kind of life I want to live. That’s a major red flag.’
Kat shrugged. ‘Is it? You love being a lawyer and you’re brilliant at it. You’ve got an amazing flat in central London – and unbelievably cool friends.’
‘The best, and thank you. But I can tell that story a different way. I’m thirty-two and divorced – nearly – and I keep bad guys out of prison. I’m so burnt out I’ve been signed off work and when I go back I won’t have enough time between working, sleeping and commuting to make a loaf of bread. That’s more than a red flag, Kat, it’s the red bloody sea.’ My breathing had gone off kilter, and I could feel a panic attack coming on. Physical red flag. I was allergic to London.
‘It’s OK, look at me.’ Kat held my hands, breathing with me to try and calm me down. ‘It’s alright, you’re fine, I’m here. Of course you can order a bread maker. Let’s go and buy one now. Whatever you want to do,’ she soothed. ‘How much is it?’
‘Two hundred,’ I said, as Whitney hit a high note.
‘Pounds? Twohundredpounds? Before you’ve bought any ingredients? Then add on the butter, eggs, sugar…’
‘Isn’t that a cake mix?’
‘Probably. I’ve no interest in trying to do something Mr Warburton has spent decades perfecting. You’ll be fashioning your own shoes together next and putting Jimmy Choo out of business.’
‘You’re always so am-dram.’
‘Just looking at the bigger picture, babes. By the time you’ve bought all the stuff you need to make the bread, you’ll have spent four hundred quid and could’ve had eight loaves a week delivered to the flat by Tesco. For a year.’
