Three months later
“Right,” I say into the phone. “I understand. Thank you.”
I put the phone away and stare blankly ahead. Another headhunter with no joy. Another little lecture on how “tricky” the market is at the moment.
“Still that pharmaceutical brand?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump, and I swivel round, flustered. I should have learned by now: Never take calls from headhunters in the kitchen. “They do work you hard, love!” Biddy adds, dumping a bunch of beets on the counter. “I thought it was supposed to be your sabbatical.”
Guilt is crawling through me and I turn away, avoiding her gaze. You start with one well-intentioned fib. Next thing, you’ve built up a whole fictitious life.
It all began a week after I’d got home. A headhunter called me back, right in front of Dad and Biddy. I had to think quickly on my feet, and the only story I could come up with was that Cooper Clemmow were consulting me on a project. Now it’s become my all-purpose excuse for taking calls and leaving the room. Whenever a headhunter calls me back, it’s “Cooper Clemmow.” And Dad and Biddy believe me implicitly. Why wouldn’t they? They trust me.
I should never have gone along with Biddy’s version of events. But it was so easy. Too easy. By the time I arrived in Somerset, she’d told Dad I was “on sabbatical,” and they both seemed to take it for granted. The thought of unpicking the story was just beyond me.
So I didn’t. Everyone believes I’ve taken a sabbatical, even Fi, because I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and it ending up in some Facebook post which Biddy might stumble on. All Fi said was, Wow, UK employers are so generous. Then she went straight into some story about going to the Hamptons and drinking pink margaritas and it was so much fun and I have to come out. I didn’t even know how to reply. Right now, my life could not be further from pink margaritas. Or macchiatos. Or cool pavement cafés in happening areas. When I go on Instagram these days, it’s only to promote Ansters Farm.
I told Fi about the glamping, and she asked a few mildly interested questions—but then she wanted to know, So when will you be back in London? and Don’t you MISS it? Which touched a sore spot. Of course I do. Then she started telling me about all the celebrities she’d spotted in some hotel bar that weekend.
And I know she’s still Fi, my mate Fi, down-to-earth Fi…but it’s getting harder to reconcile this glamorous New York Fi with the friend I could tell anything to. There’s less and less about our lives that overlaps. Maybe I should go out to New York, forge our friendship again. But how can I afford to do that?
Anyway, it’s hardly my most pressing problem. There are jobs to be done. I’m about to help Biddy with the beets when my phone buzzes in my pocket with an email. It’s from McWhirter Tonge, the company I’ve just interviewed for. Oh God…
Casually, I open the kitchen door and step outside. The late May sun is warming the fields stretching ahead of me. A spire of smoke is rising from one of the campfires in the yurt village, and I can hear the distant chacking of jackdaws coming from a copse of ash trees in North Field. Not that I’m really listening or admiring the scenery. I only care about this email. Because you never know…please…
As I jab at the screen, I feel sick with hope. I interviewed for them last week. (I told Dad and Biddy I was seeing friends.) It’s the only interview I’ve had, the only crumb of hope I’ve been given, the only application I’ve made that’s got anywhere. The offices were in Islington, and they were tiny, but the people were cool, and the work seemed really interesting, and—
Dear Cat:
Thanks so much for taking the time to visit us last week. It was good to chat and we enjoyed meeting you, but unfortunately…
Just for a moment everything seems to go dark. Unfortunately.
I let my phone fall down, blinking away the tears that have started to my eyes. C’mon, Katie. Pull it together. I take a few deep breaths and pace a little on the spot. It’s one job. One rejection. So what?
But a cold feeling is creeping over me. This was the only chance I had. No one else has even offered me an interview.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. When I started out, I had lots of emails offering me positions with stacks of potential or opportunities for development or valuable industry experience. It only took me about three phone calls to work out what those phrases mean: “No money.” “No money.” “No money.”
I can’t work for no money. However much experience it gives me. I’m past that stage.
“All right, Katie?” Biddy’s voice hails me and I whip round guiltily. She’s depositing some peelings on the compost heap and eyes me with curiosity. “What’s up, love?”
“Nothing!” I say quickly. “Just…you know. Work stuff.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” Biddy shakes her head. “What with everything you do here, and all these emails you’re always sending…”
“Well, you know.” I give a weird-sounding laugh. “Keeps me busy.”
Biddy and Dad think that when I’m spending hours at the computer, I’m conversing with my London colleagues. Bouncing around ideas. Not desperately sending out application after application.
I force myself to skim the rest of the email from McWhirter Tonge:
…incredibly strong field…candidate with significantly more experience…keep your name on file…interest you in our intern scheme?
The intern scheme. That’s all they think I’m fit for.
And I know the job market is competitive, and I know everyone finds it hard, but I can’t help thinking: What did I do wrong? Was I crap at the interview? Am I crap, full stop? And if so…what am I going to do? A big black chasm is opening up in my mind. A scary dark hole. What if I can’t find any paying job, ever?
No. Stop. I mustn’t think like that. I’ll send off some more applications tonight, widen the net—
“Oh, Katie, love.” Biddy comes over. “I meant to ask you, I had an inquiry earlier, and the lady asked about sustainability. What is it we say again?”
“We talk about our solar panels,” I say, glad of the distraction. “And the outdoor shower. And the organic vegetables. And we don’t mention Dad’s Jacuzzi. I’ll write you out a crib sheet, if you like.”
“You’re a star, Katie.” Biddy pats my arm, then directs a reproving glance at my phone. “Now, don’t let those London bosses get to you, darling. You’re on your sabbatical, remember!”
“That’s right.” I smile wanly as she heads back into the kitchen, then sink onto the grass. I feel like I’m two people right now. I’m Cat, trying to make it in London, and I’m Katie, helping to run a glamping site, and it’s fairly exhausting being both.
On the plus side, the farm does look spectacular today. I’ll go around later, take some photos and social-media them. My eye is caught by the glinting solar panels on the shower barn, and I feel a twinge of pride. It was my idea to put in the solar panels. We’re not totally green at Ansters Farm—we use a supplementary boiler and we do have proper loos—but we’re not totally un-green either. After only a few weeks of the season, I soon realized that some glampers are all about: Are you sustainable? Because that’s really important to us. Whereas others are all about: Are there proper hot showers or am I going to die of cold? Because I was never that sure about glamping in the first place; it was Gavin’s idea. So it’s great to be able to reassure both camps.
Everyone loves the shower barn, with its reclaimed school lockers and pegs, but they love our open-air roll-top bath even more. It’s painted in rainbow stripes—inspired by a Paul Smith design—and has its own mini wicker-fence enclosure, open to the sky, and it’s just brilliant. I sent a photo of it to Alan, to upload onto the website. It showed the rainbow bath, with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a cow looking over the wicker fence, and Alan sent back an email: Wow. V cool. I mean, if even Alan appreciates it, it has to be good.
The roll-top bath is so popular, we’ve had to instigate a rota. In fact, everything here is popular. I always thought Dad and Biddy would be able to make a go of this. What I didn’t realize was how far they’d throw themselves into it or how much effort they’d make.
As for the yurts, they’re beautiful. There are six of them, in pairs. They’re close enough that a couple could put their children in an adjoining one, but far enough away for privacy too. Each one sits on its own little deck and has its own fire pit. Dad knows a guy called Tim who works with wood and owed him a favor. So Tim put together six beds out of local reclaimed timber, and they’re spectacular. They’re on huge, exaggerated legs, and the headboards have ANSTERS FARM carved into them, and you can even separate them into two single beds, for children. We have extra trundle beds too, because we’ve found that lots of families like their children in with them, if they’re young, and the yurts are plenty big enough. The sheets are 400 thread count—we found a trade supplier—and the cushions are all vintage prints, plus each yurt has a sheepskin on the floor.
Each family gets a little hamper of milk, tea, bread…plus homemade organic Ansters Farm soap. Biddy looked around at local organic-soap suppliers and then decided that she could easily do it herself. She makes it in tiny guest-size cakes and scents it with rosemary and stamps AF on the front. And then, if guests want to, they can buy a big bar to take home. Which, usually, they do. She also offers personalized soap with any initials on, which people can order as presents. That was all Biddy’s idea. She’s incredible.
We’ve also invested in good Wi-Fi. Not just good-for-the-country, really good. It gets beamed straight to us from a mast twenty miles away. It costs a bit and Dad was against it, but I know London people. They say they want to get away from it all, but when you tell them there’s a Wi-Fi code they nearly collapse in relief. And luckily we have phone signal at the house—although not in the fields or the woods. If they want to call the office from the middle of a hike, too bad.
Meanwhile, Dad’s created a bike trail through the fields, and a mini adventure playground, and a gypsy caravan where children can go and play if it rains. At night we light lanterns along the paths of the yurt village, and it honestly looks like fairyland.
“Farmer Mick!” I can hear excited shrieks coming from the path up to the woods. “Farmer Mick!”
This is the biggest revelation of all: Dad.
I thought Dad was going to be the problem. I thought he wasn’t going to take it seriously. So I sat him down the week before the first guests arrived, and I said: “Listen, Dad, you have to be nice to the glampers. This is serious. It’s Biddy’s money. It’s your future. Everything depends on your being charming and helping the glampers and making life easy for them. OK? If they want to climb trees, help them climb trees. If they want to milk the cows, let them. And don’t call them townies.”
“I wouldn’t!” Dad replied defensively.
“Yes, you would. And be especially nice to the children,” I added as a parting shot.
Dad was very quiet for the rest of the day. At the time, I worried I’d offended him. But now I realize: He was thinking. He was creating a role for himself. And just as Biddy has blown me away with her ideas, Dad’s blown me away with basically turning into a completely different human being.
“Farmer Mick! More tricks!”
Dad appears round the corner of the shower barn, accompanied by the three-year-old triplets who have been staying this week. There are two boys and a girl, and they’re super-sweet, all dressed in little Scandinavian stripy tops.
Dad, meanwhile, is in his “Farmer Mick” outfit. He’s taken to wearing a bright checked shirt with a straw hat, and he practically says “Oo-aarh” every other sentence. He’s walking along, juggling three beanbags very badly, but the children don’t care.
“Who wants to ride in the pickup?” he asks, and the children all shout excitedly, “Me! Me!”
“Who wants to see Agnes the cow?”
“Me!”
It’s not Agnes the cow, it’s Agnes the bantam hen, but I’m not going to correct him. I mean, whatever.
“Who’s having the best holiday of their life?” He winks at me.
“Meeee!” The children’s shouts are deafening.
“Let’s sing our song now!” Dad launches into a lusty tune. “Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, best place to be…Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, never want to leave…Who wants a Somerset toffee?”
“Meeeee!”
Honestly, he’s like some sort of children’s party entertainer. And he’s not stupid: Every other minute he tells the children they’re having the best holiday of their lives. It’s basically brainwashing. All the little ones leave the place actually weeping because they’re going to miss Farmer Mick, and we’ve had a load of re-bookings already.
What with him amusing the children, and Biddy making pots of jam the whole time, plus all the grown-up pursuits too, I do worry they’re going to burn out. But every time I say that to Dad or Biddy, they just laugh and come up with some new idea, like offering hay-baling lessons. During the week we’ve got a whole activity program called Somerset Skills. There’s willow-weaving, woodcraft, foraging—and the guests love it.
So, basically, the glamping site has started off as a roaring success. But whether they can make an actual profit…
Sometimes, just the thought of how much money Biddy’s thrown into this venture gives me a gnawing feeling inside. She won’t tell me exactly how much she’s invested—but it’s a lot. And that’s money that could have been put aside for her old age.
Anyway. There’s no point fretting about it. All I can do is help them turn this place into a profitable business. Which means, for starters, that “Farmer Mick” has to stop doling out free Somerset toffees, because: 1. He goes through boxes a day. 2. He eats half of them himself. 3. One of the parents has already complained about her child being given evil sugary treats.
The parents of the triplets appear from their yurt, followed by Steve Logan, who’s carrying their luggage for them. Steve helps us out on Saturdays, which are our turnaround days. And although he’s incredibly annoying, he’s also annoyingly useful. His hands are so huge, he can shift about three holdalls at once, and he always puts on this ridiculous deferential air, in the hope of tips.
“You mind how you go, sir,” he’s saying now, as he loads their SUV. “You look after yourselves now, sir. You have a safe trip, now. Lovely family. You should be very proud. We’ll miss you.”
“We’ll miss you!” exclaims the mum, who is in a stripy top, just like her children, and clutching the lavender cushion she made yesterday. “We’ll miss all of you! Farmer Mick, and Biddy, and Katie, you’re an angel….” She seizes me in a sudden hug, and I hug her back, because they are a lovely family, and I know she means it.
I’m Katie here, to everyone. Of course I am. I’d never even try to be Cat. Not only am I Katie, but I’m a version of Katie even I don’t quite recognize sometimes. My London accent has gone. No point trying to sound urban here. It was always a bit of a strain, and the glampers don’t want to hear London; they want to hear Somerset. Thick, creamy Zummerzet, the way I was brought up.
My bangs have gone too. The hairstyle was so bloody needy, and it never felt like me. It’s not even feasible now that I’m not straightening my hair every day. I’m giving it a rest from heat treatments, which means the sleek chignon is gone and I’m back to my trademark Katie Brenner natural curls, tumbling down my back, tousled by the breeze. Nor am I bothering with flicky liquid eyeliner and three coats of mascara these days. And I’ve put my “city” glasses away in a drawer. You couldn’t exactly say I have a “look” anymore, but I’m so busy, I don’t care. My face is fuller too—all those delicious dinners—and tanned from the sun. A dusting of freckles has even appeared on my nose. I don’t look like me.
Well, maybe I look like a different me.
“What a beautiful family,” intones Steve, as the triplets climb into the SUV. “Family of little angels, they are. Little angels from heaven.”
I shoot a furious glare at Steve. He’s totally overdoing it and if he’s not careful, they’ll think he’s mocking them.
But the mum’s eyes glow even more, and the dad feels in his pocket.
“Ah. Now…here you are. Many thanks.” He hands Steve a note and I roll my eyes. It’ll only encourage him. Steve practically bows as the doors clunk shut, and we all wave as the car heads off down the drive.
That’s the last family of the week. All the yurts are now vacated.
There’s a short silence between us all, as though we’re contemplating this momentous fact. Then Biddy turns to me, claps her hands together in a businesslike way, and says, “Right.”
And it begins.
The thing about turnaround day is, it’s fine, as long as you don’t stop even for a moment. Biddy and I grab our cleaning things from the pantry and tackle the first two yurts. After half an hour, Denise from the village arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m never totally sure that Denise is going to turn up.
While Denise takes over the cleaning, Biddy and I move on to preparing and styling the yurts. Fresh flowers in vases. Fresh supplies in the hamper. Fresh soap, fresh lavender sprigs, fresh WELCOME TO ANSTERS FARM card on the bed, each one handwritten:
To Nick, Susie, Ivo, and Archie.
To James and Rita.
To Chloe and Henry.
Chloe and Henry are James and Rita’s children, but they’re teenagers, so they’re in their own yurt. We don’t often get teens, and I hope there’s enough for them to do.
To Giles, Cleo, Harrison, Harley, and Hamish, plus Gus the dog!
This week is half term. In fact, last week was half term too—the schools seem to be picking different weeks this year because there’s an extra bank holiday this Friday. Which is great for us: double the bookings. So we’re crammed full of families, with cots and trundle beds everywhere. As I’m laying out blankets, I quickly check on my phone: Harley’s a girl. Right. Some of these trendy names, you really can’t be sure.
To Dominic and Poppy.
Divorced dad with his daughter. He mentioned that twice while he was booking over the phone. He said he wanted quality time with his little girl, and his ex keeps her too cooped up, in his opinion, and she needed more outdoor play, and he didn’t agree with a lot of his ex’s decisions….You could hear his pain. It was sad.
The glampers often do phone up, even though you can do it all online. They’ll say it was to check some detail, but I think they want to be sure that the place really does exist and we don’t sound like ax murderers, before they put down a deposit. Which, you know. Fair enough.
To Gerald and Nina.
Gerald and Nina are the grandparents of one of the families. I love it when multigenerational families come to stay.
Finally all the yurts are ready. Biddy’s laying up tea in the kitchen—we always offer this when the glampers arrive. Good hearty pots of tea, with her own scones and Ansters Farm jam. (Available to buy.)
Our kitchen really isn’t up to much—the cupboards are crummy MDF and the counters are Formica. It’s not like the “rustic” kitchens you find in London, with their Agas and larders and thickly hewn oak surfaces from Plain English. But we do have original flagstones, and we spread a linen cloth on the table and hang bunting everywhere and…Well. It does.
I’m walking back to the kitchen when Dad falls into step beside me.
“All set?” he says.
“Yes, it’s looking good,” I grin at him and touch the scarf round his neck. “Nice bandanna, Farmer Mick. Oh, and I meant to tell you, the showers got a special mention in one of the feedback forms. It said, Very good, for a glamping venue.”
“They’re very good for any venue,” retorts Dad, in a mock-grumbly voice, but I can tell he’s pleased. “That reminds me,” he adds lightly. “I saw something might interest you. Howells Mill, down in Little Blandon. It’s been converted into flats.”
I stare at him, puzzled. This seems a total non sequitur.
“Nice bathrooms,” clarifies Dad, seeing that I look blank. “Power showers.”
OK, I’m still not with him. What do power showers in Little Blandon have to do with me?
“Just in case you were looking,” Dad continues. “We could help you with a deposit, maybe. The prices aren’t bad.”
And then suddenly I get it. He’s suggesting I buy a property in Somerset?
“Dad…” I barely know how to answer. How can I even begin? “Dad, you know I’m heading back to London….”
“Well, I know that’s your plan. But plans change, don’t they?” He shoots me a sidelong, slightly shifty glance. “Worthwhile knowing what your options are, at least, isn’t it?”
“But, Dad…” I come to a standstill, the breeze lifting my hair. I don’t know how many times I can say, “I want to live in London.” I feel like I’m bashing my head against a wall.
There’s quiet, except for the distant sound of cows. The sky is light and blue above us, but I feel weighed down with guilt.
“Katie, love…” Dad’s face crumples with concern. “I feel like we’ve been getting you back these last months. You’re not so thin. Not so anxious. That girl up there…that’s not you.”
I know he means well. But right now his words are pressing all my sore spots. I’ve been trying to bolster my confidence so desperately all these weeks, telling myself this job loss is only a blip. But maybe Dad’s hit the nail on the head: Maybe that girl’s not me. Maybe I can’t cut it in London. Maybe I should leave it for other people.
A little voice inside me is already protesting: Don’t give up! It’s only been three months; you can still do it! But it’s hard. When every recruitment officer and headhunter seems to have the opposite opinion.
“I’d better get on,” I say at last. Somehow I manage a half smile—then I turn and head toward the farmhouse.
I’m just double-checking what activities we have lined up for tomorrow, when Denise appears at the kitchen door, holding a large plastic crate. It’s what she uses for picking up what she calls “them glampers’ crap.”
“All done,” she says. “Been round the site. All spotless.”
“Great; thanks, Denise,” I say. “You’re a star.”
And she is. In a way. She doesn’t always turn up—but when she does, she’s very thorough. She’s ten years older than me and has three daughters and you can see them being marched to school in the mornings, with the tightest plaits I’ve ever seen.
“The things them people leave behind.” She nods at the crate.
“Did they leave a real mess?” I say sympathetically.
It’s always a surprise to me, how nice families in tasteful outfits from Boden can be so messy. And inconsiderate. One lot wouldn’t stop feeding Colin the alpaca all kinds of dumb stuff, however much we told them not to.
“You’ll never guess.” Denise’s eyes are flashing with a kind of dark triumph. “Look at this!” She pulls a Rampant Rabbit out of her crate and I gasp.
“No! No!”
“What’s that?” Biddy looks round from the cooker. “Is it a toy?”
Damn Denise. I do not want to have to explain to my stepmother what a Rampant Rabbit is.
“It’s…a thing,” I say hurriedly. “Denise, put it away. Which yurt was it in?”
“Dunno,” she says with an unconcerned shrug.
“Denise!” I clasp my head. “We’ve been over this. You have to label the lost property. Then we can send it on to the guests.”
“You sending that through the post?” Denise gives a short laugh.
“Well…” I hesitate. “Dunno. Maybe not.”
“Or this?” She brandishes a tube of cream labeled FOR PERSISTENT GENITAL WARTS.
“Oh God.” I make a face. “Really?”
“Nice top, though.” She plucks a purple T-shirt from the crate and holds it up against herself. “Can I have this?”
“No! Let’s have a look.” I peer into the crate, and, she’s right, it’s full. There’s a water pistol, a pair of children’s wellies, a bundle of papers, a baseball cap….“God, they’ve been messy this time.” My phone rings and I answer, “Ansters Farm, how may I help?”
“Oh, hello!” It’s the voluble voice of the mum in the stripy top. “Katie, is that you?”
“Yes! Is this…?”
Shit. What’s her name? I’ve forgotten already.
“Barbara! We’re on our way back. About twenty minutes away. We left behind…”
Her voice descends into crackles. The signal is so bad on the local roads, I’m amazed she got through at all.
“Barbara?” I raise my voice. “Hello, Barbara, can you hear me?”
“…very sensitive…” Her voice suddenly comes down the line again in a buzz of static. “I’m sure you found it…you can imagine how I feel…”
Oh my God. Did Barbara leave behind the Rampant Rabbit? I clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh. Barbara with her clean, makeup-free face and her wholesome triplets?
“Um…”
“…absolutely mortified…had to come and get it in person…see you soon…” Her voice disappears. I gape at the silent phone, then look up.
“OK, I think we have the owner coming back.”
“Did she fess up?” Denise gives a short laugh. “I’d lie.”
“Not exactly. She said it was very sensitive and she was really embarrassed—”
“Could be this.” Denise holds up the tube of cream.
“Oh shit.” The realization hits me. “Yes. It totally could.”
I look from the Rampant Rabbit to the genital-warts cream. What a choice.
“You’re more likely to come back for a cream, maybe?” offers Denise. “If it’s on prescription or whatever?”
“But you could get that replaced.”
“The Rampant Rabbit’s worth more….”
I catch Denise’s eye and a wave of sudden hysteria comes over me.
“This is hideous.” My voice is shaking. “Which one are we going to offer her?”
“Offer her both.”
“We can’t say, Here’s a vibrator and some genital-warts cream; take your pick.” I clutch my stomach, unable to stop laughing.
“Find out which one it is,” says Biddy from the stove. “Get her into conversation about it, then when you’re sure which it is, go and get the item.”
“Conversation?” I double up. “What kind of conversation?”
“I’ll do it,” says Biddy. “Honestly, you girls! And put it in a bag,” she adds firmly. “Your dad doesn’t want to see that kind of thing lying around. And, yes, I do know what it is,” she adds, catching my eye with a little spark. “They’ve changed the designs, that’s all.”
Wow. This is the thing about Biddy: always full of surprises.
It’s only about ten minutes later that the SUV roars back up the drive. They must have been flooring it. We’ve decided that Biddy will get Barbara into conversation outside, while Denise and I lurk in the kitchen. And the minute we’ve worked out what the lost property is, we’ll come out with it, discreetly wrapped.
“Barbara!” Biddy steps out of the kitchen door. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to delay your journey.”
“Oh, it’s my own stupid fault,” says Barbara, who has leapt out of the SUV and looks very pink about the cheeks. “But I couldn’t relax till I’d retrieved it. A lot of things, you wouldn’t bother about. But that…”
I look at Denise and reach for the Rampant Rabbit with raised eyebrows. It’s sounding like the sex toy….
“Of course not, dear,” says Biddy in that cozy way she has. “Not when it’s such a very personal item.”
“Oh, it’s not mine, strictly speaking,” says Barbara. “It’s my husband’s.”
What? Denise and I stare at each other with wide eyes, then I take my hand off the Rampant Rabbit and put it on the genital-warts cream. It has to be that. Surely.
“Although he’d say I get more enjoyment out of it than he does,” Barbara says with a friendly smile.
Beside me, Denise explodes.
“Stoppit!” I whisper, and reach for the Rampant Rabbit again. I pick up the bag and prepare to head outside, though how I’m going to look Barbara in the eye, I have no idea.
“Well, Katie’s just fetching it for you,” says Biddy. “She’ll be out with it any moment.”
“That’s right.” My voice trembles with suppressed hysteria as I appear on the doorstep. “Here it is. Um…safe and sound.”
I’ve wrapped the Rampant Rabbit in brown paper and put it in a carrier bag, just so no one gets an untoward glimpse.
“Oh, I’m so relieved,” says Barbara as she takes the bag from me. “I expect I left it in the bed or somewhere, did I?”
I glance wildly at Biddy, my mouth clamped shut.
“I’m not sure, love,” says Biddy, totally unfazed. “But it seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“I’m so forgetful,” adds Barbara, with a sigh. “And the book hasn’t even been bought yet, so you can imagine how sensitive it is. As I say, I’m mortified. It’s so unprofessional, to leave a manuscript on holiday!”
I’ve frozen dead. Manuscript? Book?
“You’ve wrapped it up very nicely.” Barbara smiles and starts to poke at the brown paper. “I might just double-check it’s the right document….”
Shit, shit…
“Oh!” I try to grab the bag back from her. “Let me just…unwrap it for you.”
“I’ll do it.” She starts pulling the brown paper off and my stomach lurches as I see a flash of pink plastic.
“No trouble!” I say shrilly, wrenching the bag out of her hands. Ignoring her cry of surprise, I dash inside. “Papers!” I gasp, dumping the Rampant Rabbit on the floor. “It’s the papers.”
Denise is already one step ahead. She’s gathered up all the papers from the crate and shoves them into my hands.
“So, here we are.” I hurry back outside and thrust the pages toward Barbara, who looks a little taken aback. “I’m afraid they’ve got a bit muddled….”
“Not to worry.” Barbara starts leafing through the pages. “Yes, this is it. Again, I’m so embarrassed. It’s such sensitive material.”
“Really,” I say weakly. “No need to be.”
“We’ve seen worse,” says Denise, stepping out beside me and giving Barbara a bland smile.
“I’m sure.” Barbara hesitates, and I peer at her in surprise. Her pink cheeks are turning deeper crimson. “Actually, as well as the book, I did leave another…um…item….I think that might have been it in the bag….”
For a frozen moment no one moves. Then, in an odd, strangled voice, Denise says, “Of course.”
She retrieves the Rampant Rabbit and hands it over. I can’t look at Barbara. I can’t look anywhere.
“Well…er…enjoy!” I say.
Somehow we all keep it together as Barbara gets back into her SUV and zooms off. Then Biddy catches my eye and starts giggling, and that starts me off. And Denise just shakes her head and says, “Them glampers.”
We’re all pretty much in hysterics as Dad appears round the corner of the farm and says, “Wake up, you lot! There’s a car coming up the drive. The first family’s here.”
The next few hours are a blur. It’s always the same on a Saturday—a crowd of new faces and names and questions, all to be met with a charming smile. This is Archie…this is Poppy…this is Hamish, he’s allergic to dairy; didn’t we write that on the form? Oh, so sorry…
The families all seem nice enough, and I’m especially keen on Gerald and Nina, who are soon sitting out on their deck, mixing gin and tonics and offering them to all the other families. Poppy is already scampering around with her dad, looking at all the animals, while Hamish, Harrison, and Harley are glued to their iPads—but I’m not their parents, what do I care? All that concerns me is that everyone is checked in, greeted, and sorted. Which they all are, except the Wiltons.
I’m walking among the yurts, checking that everything seems OK, when I notice that Gus the dog has already got into a field of sheep.
“Oh, hi!” I say, heading over to his owners’ yurt. “Knock knock? Gus is such a gorgeous dog. Only I wonder if you’d mind keeping him this side of the fence? The sheep get a bit freaked.”
“Oh, of course,” says the dad, who I’ve remembered is called Giles and comes from Hampstead. He’s tall and gangling and is holding a copy of a book called The Campfire Gourmet. As he comes out to retrieve Gus, he adds, “We’re so looking forward to the willow-weaving workshop tomorrow.”
“It should be fun! And if you’d like full English breakfast, just sign up…unless you’re going to make your own?”
“We’re making our own,” says Giles resolutely, as he whistles for Gus. “On the fire.”
“Good for you!” I say, ruffling Gus’s head. “Well, I’ll catch you later.”
As I head back toward the farmhouse, I feel…if not ecstatic exactly, then content. Another turnaround nearly completed. We’re getting better at it every week. Denise is catching on to some of our special touches, and Biddy is brimming with ideas, and—
“So authentic. Absolutely wonderful.”
A voice stops me in my tracks. It’s a ringing, imperious voice. And it sounds just like—
No.
“Marvelous view. Look, Coco. Look at this view. And is everything organic?”
My heart has started to thud. It can’t be.
“…absolutely adore to find some proper West Country cuisine; you’ll have to recommend a spot…”
It can’t be. But it is. It’s Demeter.
Here.
I feel rooted to the spot, between yurts, like a paralyzed gazelle. Whoever she’s talking to isn’t answering loudly enough to be audible. So all I can hear is Demeter’s voice, crashing arrogantly through the quiet, asking typical Demeter questions.
“And is the river organic?…And is all the produce local?…Now, when you say sustainable…”
I’m still stranded on the grass. I have to move. I have to get a grip. But I can’t. My face is prickling and my breaths feel weak. What is she doing here?
“Actually, it’s Demeter,” I hear her saying now, in that smug way she has when she explains her name. “De-meeeeter. It’s Ancient Greek.”
I suddenly spot Dad coming out of the kitchen. He’s holding the master folder, which is where I put all the printouts, guest forms, everything that Dad and Biddy don’t want to read on screens.
“Dad,” I gasp, and scuttle over to him, keeping well out of sight. “Who are those people? Can I just check…” I’ve already grabbed the folder and am riffling through the paperwork, my hands so shaky that they barely work. “Here we are. The Wiltons.”
My mind is racing. I know her as Demeter Farlowe. But maybe that’s her maiden name. Is Wilton her married name? Is it?
Well, why shouldn’t it be?
“James and Rita,” I read. “Rita.”
“I know.” Dad chuckles. “Funny name for a woman that age. I thought that when I wrote it down.”
“So, you took the booking?” I need every scrap of information. I need to know how this has happened.
“She phoned up from her car.” Dad nods—then his expression changes. “Now, don’t tell me I didn’t put the payment through properly. Because I did exactly what you taught me, love—”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not that….”
My head is spinning. I’ve just seen the address on the form: Stanford Road. It’s definitely her. My chest feels so constricted, I’m not sure I can breathe.
Demeter. Here.
“Love?” Dad peers at me. “Katie?”
“She’s not called Rita, OK?” I manage. “I just heard her saying so. She’s called Demeter. De-me-ter.”
“Demeter?” Dad looks highly dubious. “That’s not a name.”
“It is a bloody name!” I feel like shaking him. If he’d only written it down right in the first place…“It’s Greek! It means ‘goddess of the harvest’!”
“Well. Takes all sorts. De-me-ter.” Dad tries the word out again, wrinkling his nose. Then he surveys me again, looking puzzled. “Love, what’s the problem? It’s just a name. No harm done.”
I stare back silently, my thoughts roaring in my head. I don’t even know where to start. No harm done?
“There’s no problem,” I say at last. “I just don’t like getting things wrong. We’ll need to change all the place names and lists and everything. And explain about the note. It doesn’t look professional.”
Dad strides off toward the shower barn, whistling a merry tune, and I swivel slowly on the spot. I can still hear a conversation going on by Demeter’s yurt. It must be Biddy who’s checking her in, and they’re still at it. Go figure. Demeter is exactly the kind of person to monopolize all the attention.
Slowly I edge my way back toward the yurt. As I get near enough to hear, I stop still and listen with all my might.
“I read about you in the Guardian piece, of course,” Demeter’s saying in her lordly way. “And I had a brochure. Someone gave it to me—I can’t remember who now. And so this is a proper, authentic farm?”
“Oh yes,” I hear Biddy reply. “The Brenner family have farmed this land for over two hundred years. I’m the newcomer!”
“How fabulous,” says Demeter. “I’m a great supporter of authentic rural practices. We can’t wait to start the activities, can we, Coco?”
Coco. That’s the daughter. She was Chloe on the form.
“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,” says Biddy. “If there’s anything you want, please come up to the farmhouse. I’m always there, or Farmer Mick, or Katie. You haven’t met her, but she’s Farmer Mick’s daughter. My stepdaughter.”
“Wonderful,” says Demeter. “Thank you so much. Oh, one last question—are the sheets organic?”
I’ve heard enough. I back away and sprint into the farmhouse. I don’t stop till I get safely into my room. Then I bang the door shut and sit on my bed, staring at the ancient peeling wallpaper, breathing hard. How am I going to survive a week of Demeter? I can’t bear it. I have to leave.
But I can’t. Dad and Biddy need me. Oh God…
I bury my head in my hands. Fucking Demeter. She has to ruin everything—
And then a terrifying thought hits me. The minute Demeter recognizes me, it’s all going to come out. Dad and Biddy will find out I got let go from my job. That the “sabbatical” was a lie. They’ll get all worried…it’ll be awful….
I’m sitting motionless on my bed, hugging a cushion, my brain working frantically. This is serious. I have to protect myself. Top priority: Demeter must not realize who I am.
She only knew me as Cat. If she associates me with anywhere, it’s Birmingham. She wouldn’t think of me as Katie the farmer’s daughter from Somerset. And she’s never been great at recognizing people. Could I fool her? Can I?
Slowly I stand up and head over to my battered old wardrobe. There’s an oval full-length mirror on it, and I survey myself critically. My curly hair is different. My clothes are different. My name’s different. My face isn’t that different—but she’s not good with faces. My accent’s different, I realize. I can play up the Somerset burr even more.
In sudden inspiration, I grab for an eye-shadow palette that Biddy gave me for Christmas a few years ago. I bypass all the neutral shades and head straight for the frosted blue and purple. I daub both colors around my eyes. Then I put on a baseball cap I got years ago from the Bath & West Show and survey myself again.
I look about as unlike Cat as it’s possible to look.
“Allo thar,” I say to my reflection. “I be Katie Brenner. Farmed this land all my life. Never been to Lunnon town.”
There’s only one way I’m going to find out whether this disguise works: Try it out.
As I enter the kitchen, Biddy is sitting labeling jam, and she gapes at me in surprise.
“Goodness! Katie! That makeup’s…very…”
“New look,” I say briefly, pouring out glasses of lemonade and arranging them on a tray. “Thought I might give the new family some lemonade, since they missed tea.”
As I head down over the field, toward Demeter’s yurt, I feel sick with jitters. But I force myself to keep going, head down, one foot in front of the other. As I get near, I slow down to a halt and raise my eyes.
There she is. Demeter. In the flesh. I actually feel a shiver as I see her.
She’s sitting on the deck, all alone, wearing the perfect, glossy magazine version of country clothes. Slouchy trousers in a slubby gray linen, together with a collarless shirt and some Moroccan-looking leather slippers.
“No, not Babington House this time,” she’s saying on her mobile. “Ansters Farm. Yes, it’s very new. Didn’t you see the write-up in The Guardian?”
She sounds totally smug. Well, of course she does. She’s found the Latest New Thing.
“Yes, artisan activities. A real taste of farm life. You know how passionate I am about organic food….Absolutely! Simple things. Local food, local crafts…Oh yes, we all take part….” Demeter listens for a moment. “Mindfulness. That’s exactly what I said to James. These old-fashioned skills…So good for the children….I know.” She nods vigorously. “Back to the earth. Absolutely. And the people are so quaint. Absolute salt of the earth…”
Something inside me has started to boil. Quaint? Quaint?
“Must go. I have no idea where my family have got to….” Demeter gives a bark of laughter. “I know. Absolutely. Well, I’ll keep you posted. Ciao!”
She rings off, scrolls through her phone, taps her fingers agitatedly a few times, and thrusts a hand through her hair. She seems a bit hyper. Probably overexcited at being an early adopter yet again. Eventually she puts her phone in her pocket and looks around with a sweeping gaze. “Oh, hello,” she says as she notices me.
My chest tightens, but somehow I stay outwardly calm.
“Hello there.” I greet her in my broadest West Country accent. “Welcome to Ansters Farm. I’m Katie, the farmer’s daughter. Lived here all my life,” I add for good measure.
Am I overdoing it? I’m just so desperate to put her off the scent.
“I brought you some lemonade,” I add. “It’s homemade—organic, of course.”
“Oh, lovely,” says Demeter, whose eyes lit up at the word “organic.” “Can you bring it up here?”
As I step up to the deck, my hands are shaking. Surely she’ll recognize me. Surely she’ll peer under my cap and say, Wait a minute…
But she doesn’t.
“So, Katie, I have a question—” She breaks off as her phone buzzes. “Sorry, just a sec…Hi, Adrian?” She gives a short, resigned laugh. “No, don’t worry, what else are Saturdays for? Yes, just got here, and I’ve seen the email from Rosa….”
I’m prickling all over. It’s as if I’ve whooshed back to the office. Rosa. Adrian. Names I haven’t heard in months. If I close my eyes I’m there, sitting at my desk, listening to the office buzz, the tapping of keyboards, the squeak of Sarah’s chair on the floor.
And now I’m remembering that last day: Flora telling me Demeter was in trouble. Something about Sensiquo and a deadline. Well, clearly she got herself out of trouble pretty quickly. Flora’s voice rings again in my mind: If you’re shagging one of the partners, you’re never in that much trouble, right?
“OK, well, that’s good news,” Demeter’s saying. “Can you tell the team on Monday? God knows they need the morale boost….Yes…Yup.” She’s striding around the deck now, the way she does in the office when she’s giving one of her rants. “I know; the cow-welfare concept was brilliant. I can’t remember whose idea that was now….”
My eyes open in shock. Cow welfare? That was my idea. Doesn’t she remember?
As I watch her pacing around, completely oblivious to me, a wave of anguish crests over me. That was my idea; my future; my life. OK, it wasn’t a Farrow & Ball everything-perfect life. But it was my London life and now it’s been shattered. And the worst thing is, it didn’t count for anything. She doesn’t remember me at all. There I was, worried about being recognized. What a joke.
Just for an instant, I want to pour lemonade over her head. But instead I stand perfectly still like a wooden dummy, holding the tray, watching her finish the conversation and put away her phone.
“Now.” She turns her attention to me. “Why don’t you put that lemonade down here? I want to ask you about these activities.” She picks up our activities sheet from the table and jabs at it with a manicured nail. “I have an allergy to willow, and I see that the activity tomorrow is willow-weaving. I’m also mushroom-intolerant, so I can’t do the foraging activity on Tuesday either.”
I want to laugh, or explode. An allergy to willow? Only Demeter.
“I see. Well, all the activities are optional, so…”
“Yes, but if I don’t weave willow, what will I do?” Demeter fixes me with gimlet eyes. “Are there substitute activities? Obviously I’ve paid for willow-weaving and mushroom-foraging, so I feel there should be some other option available to me. That’s what I feel. Something rustic. Or maybe yoga? Do you offer yoga?”
God, she’s a pushy cow.
“I’ll sort out an alternative for you,” I say, in my best customer-service manner. “I’ll find you some bespoke activities.”
The word “bespoke” works wonders, just as I knew it would.
“Oh, something bespoke would be wonderful.” Demeter reaches for a glass of lemonade. “Well,” she says, smiling now that she’s got everyone running around after her. “It’s very beautiful here. Very calm. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful, relaxing time.”
As I walk back to the farmhouse, I’m a whorl of conflicting emotion. She didn’t recognize me. She looked right at me, but she still didn’t recognize me. That’s good. I’ll be safe. My secret won’t come out. It’s all good….
Oh, but God, I can’t bear her. How do I stay polite all week? How do I do this? There’s a burning sense of injustice inside me that I can’t quell.
I could flood her yurt. Easy. Tonight. Go out with a flashlight, drag the hose along…
No. No, Katie. Stop it.
With a supreme effort, I shut down the stream of revenge fantasies which has started pouring through my mind. Demeter is probably the most influential guest we’ve ever had. I can’t have her going back to London and telling everyone Ansters Farm is crap. We have to give her and her family a good time.
Oh, but…but…
I sit down on a wooden stump, staring morosely at the picturesque view. I need to get my mood in order before I go inside; otherwise, Biddy will pick up on it. After a while, Steve comes into view, and in spite of myself, I smile.
He has earphones in and is walking along with a rolling gait, doing weird dance moves with his arms. I recognize those moves from the fifth-form dance. Maybe he’s practicing his wedding dance.
Oh God, he probably is. I clap a hand over my mouth briefly, then regain control.
“Hey, Steve.” I wave hard to get his attention, and he comes over, pulling out his earphones. “Listen, I might need some extra help tomorrow. One of the guests wants a bespoke activity.”
“Bespoke?” Steve makes a face. “What’s that, then?”
“Dunno.” I sigh. “I’ll have to make something up. She can’t do the willow-weaving because she’s allergic.”
“Which guest?” Steve surveys the yurts.
“She’s in Cowslip. Her name’s Demeter.”
“De-me-ter?” Steve looks as foxed as Dad did.
“I know.” I shrug. “It’s Ancient Greek. It means ‘goddess of the harvest.’ ”
“Harvest?” Steve thinks for a moment. “Well, she can harvest some strawberries if she wants to.”
I consider this. Would Demeter be impressed by a strawberry-picking activity?
“Maybe. It’s not very artisan, though, is it? She’s all about learning farm skills. Or yoga, except we don’t do yoga.” I squint at him. “What are you up to tomorrow? Could she join in whatever you’re doing? You know, some genuine farm activity?”
“I’m muck-spreading.” Steve shrugs. “She won’t want to do that.”
“Muck-spreading?” I can’t help a giggle. “Oh, that would be perfect. Hello, Demeter, welcome to your morning of muck-spreading.”
“Should’ve done it yesterday,” Steve’s saying. “But your dad, he wanted a couple of fences mended.” He fixes me with one of his reproachful looks. “Now, I’m not blaming those glampers or nothing. But have you seen the stile into North Field?”
I nod absently, only half-listening. I’m consumed with an image of Demeter on a muck spreader. Demeter falling off. Demeter covered in muck.
“And the litter,” Steve’s saying. “I mean, I know they like having their picnics and all, but…”
Or Demeter rock-picking. Demeter hoeing a field by hand. Demeter finally getting some payback…
And now an idea is growing inside me. A very bad, wicked idea. An idea that makes me want to hug myself. Because “bespoke” means I’m in charge. It means I can make her do whatever I damn well like.
This is it. At last I’m going to get even. So Demeter wants rural? She wants a “taste of farm life”? She wants “authentic”?
Well, she’s bloody well going to get it.