The routine at Ansters Farm is that after breakfast, at about ten o’clock, we ring a bell and everyone who wants to do activities assembles in the yard. Today that’s all the glampers—and as the families gather, there’s a happy hubbub. They look so photogenic, I take a few snaps for the website—and naturally Demeter’s family is the most photogenic of all.
Demeter is wearing another rural-chic combo of cropped linen trousers and tank top. Her daughter, Coco, looks like a model, with coltish legs in teeny denim shorts and long, wafty hair. I expect she’s been scouted at Topshop already. In fact, she’s probably on next month’s cover of Vogue. The son, Hal, looks cool. He has sticking-up fair hair, an attractive open face, and doesn’t even have any zits. Well, of course he doesn’t. No doubt Demeter knows some miracle organic zit cure that’s only available to people who live in W12.
The husband, James, is lean, with a wry smile and those attractive crow’s feet which men of a certain age get. He’s talking to the children and they’re roaring with laughter, so obviously they all have a brilliant relationship, as well as great looks and clothes and probably talents and hobbies too. He’s in cutoffs and a gray marl T-shirt, and he’s wearing these limited-edition brown suede sneakers which I saw once in Style magazine. He’s clearly as much an early adopter as Demeter is. As I watch, Coco pushes him playfully on the chest, then nestles her head on his shoulder, while Hal taps at his iPhone. The latest version, of course.
“Good morning!” Dad greets the crowd. “And welcome to Ansters Farm!”
From nowhere, a cheer materializes. Dad manages to get the glampers to cheer every week, and I have no idea how he does it. I think he must have been a fairground barker in his past life. Or a ringmaster at a circus, perhaps.
“We hope you’re looking forward to some fun-packed activities today.” Dad twinkles at the crowd. “Kiddies, you’ll be doing Farmer Mick’s obstacle course, with prizes for everyone!”
Another cheer breaks out, and Dad beams. “Adults, you’ll be on the willow-weaving activity with Robin here.” He pushes forward Robin, who is very shy and bearded and is our local willow-weaving expert. (He also teaches madrigal-singing, has a small brewery, and keeps ferrets. That’s Somerset for you.)
“Teenagers, you’ll have to decide: weaving or obstacle course? All I’ll say is that the weaving doesn’t involve homemade fudge….”
I can see Coco and Hal frowning and looking at each other, trying to work out whether the obstacle course is unspeakably uncool or the willow-weaving is even worse. But I can’t get distracted by them. I have to start my Demeter campaign. Even though she didn’t recognize me yesterday, I’m not leaving anything to chance. So last night I dyed my curly hair with a blue ombre rinse—I always used to do it for festivals. Plus I’ve put on sunglasses today. From a distance I look like a total stranger.
“Good morrrning!” I adopt my creamiest accent and head over to Demeter. “We met yesterday. I’m Katie, and I’ll be leading your special bespoke program. It’s a mind–body–spirit program, and it aims to refresh, relax, and restore. Are you ready to start?”
“Absolutely,” says Demeter, and waves at her family. “Bye, guys! Have fun!”
“Now, you requested yoga, as I remember,” I say as we step away from the hubbub. “Unfortunately, we don’t offer yoga at Ansters Farm. Instead, we offer an ancient Druid practice, Vedari. It’s not unlike yoga, though a little more challenging.”
“Vedari,” echoes Demeter. “I’ve never even heard of that.”
“Few people have. It’s very niche, very ancient, very spiritual. Although I do believe Gwyneth Paltrow practices it.”
I can see Demeter’s eyes light up. I knew mentioning Gwyneth Paltrow would press her buttons.
“So, first of all, we’ll be doing a one-to-one Vedari session in one of our open-air spaces. Then we’re going to change location and do our special equine de-stress activity. Then lunch.” I smile.
“That sounds tremendous,” says Demeter, who has been listening intently. “Absolutely what I had in mind. The Vedari sounds marvelous. Do I need any equipment?”
“Just yourself.” I smile at her beatifically. “Just bring yourself. Are you ready?”
Demeter is tapping at her phone.
“Wait a minute,” she says absently. “I want to have a look while we’ve still got signal….”
I bet I know what she’s doing. And, sure enough, a moment later she raises her head.
“Vedari! Here it is! The National Vedari Association…Ancient and powerful…Suppleness of body and mind…This sounds amazing. Why haven’t I heard of it before?”
Because I made it up, I want to reply. Because that website was invented by me and put up by Alan last night, in about five minutes.
“Like I say.” I smile at her. “It’s very niche. Shall we go?”
I lead Demeter off through the fields and spread my arms widely as we walk.
“As you may know, the West Country is a very spiritual area. There are ley lines everywhere, ancient stone circles—”
“Stonehenge,” chimes in Demeter alertly, in her I’m-so-clever University Challenge way.
“Exactly.” I nod. “Stonehenge being the most famous. Now, here at Ansters Farm, we’re lucky enough to have an ancient Druid circle. You can’t see it anymore, but it’s there, and it makes the perfect place for us to practice our Vedari.”
We’re walking through Elm Field now, and a few cows come wandering toward us. They’re tan Jerseys, and they’re sweet-natured but very curious. I can see Demeter stiffening as they get near. Is she scared?
“Do you have any experience of cows?” I ask politely. I’m remembering Demeter in that meeting at work, lecturing us all on the countryside.
“Not exactly,” Demeter says after a pause. “They’re quite big, aren’t they? What are they doing?” she adds in a quivering voice, as a cow comes right up to her, staring with its gorgeous dark eyes. “What do they want?”
She’s actually gone pale. Oh my God. After all that guff she said in the office, she’s frightened of the cows too! Just like Flora!
“Don’t worry,” I say kindly. “Just keep walking. That’s it….”
We both clamber over a stile, and I lead Demeter into the middle of the six-acre field. It’s a totally nondescript field. It’s often used for grazing cattle, so there’s dried-up cow poo everywhere, and it’s got a tiny copse of oak trees. Other than that, it’s nothing special. The view isn’t even that good.
But as I turn to Demeter, I adopt an expression of reverence.
“This is the Sacred Field,” I say. “The Druids lived and worshipped here, and there are powerful ley lines under the ground. If you concentrate, you can still feel them. You have to be spiritually open, though. Not all our guests can pick up the vibrations.”
I’m pressing Demeter’s buttons again. No way is she going to fail at anything, including picking up Druid vibrations.
She closes her eyes, and sure enough after about three seconds she opens them again and says, “There is a special aura here, isn’t there?”
“You can feel it.” I smile. “Excellent. You’re going to be a natural. Now, you need to get changed into your Vedari gown. You can go into the little wood.”
I reach into my Ansters Farm jute bag and pull out a sack. I customized it with a neckhole and armholes last night. It’s the scratchiest, ugliest garment in the world, but as I hold it out to Demeter, I manage to stay straight-faced.
“I won’t be wearing the gown,” I say, “because I’m the ceremony leader. The disciples wear the gowns.”
I can see Demeter’s face falter as she takes the sack, and for an awful moment I think she’s going to challenge me.
“I think Gwyneth Paltrow might sell them on her website,” I add casually. “If you’re interested in taking Vedari further.”
“Right.” Demeter’s eyes open wide. “Wow. It’s very…authentic, isn’t it?” She strokes the scratchy hessian.
“You can find cheap knockoffs,” I say seriously. “But this is the real deal. If you’re buying a Vedari gown, it must come from the West Country. Now, let’s head over to the wood.” I nod at the copse. “The first part of the ceremony is called Beauty. That’s followed by Truth. And finally Contemplation.” I hand her another Ansters Farm jute bag. “You can put your clothes in here. Take off your shoes too.”
I want to burst into giggles as Demeter disappears behind a tree. It’s amazing how an otherwise intelligent person can become a credulous fool as soon as you mention the words “organic,” “authentic,” and “Gwyneth Paltrow.”
But I don’t giggle. I remain in character, gathering mud and twigs from the ground and putting them into a wooden bowl. As Demeter emerges, looking very awkward in the sack, I clamp my lips shut, desperate not to explode.
“Perfect,” I manage at last. “Now, as I said, we begin with Beauty. The mud in this wood has a special nourishing quality for the skin. The Druids knew that, and so every ceremony began with applying the mud to the face.”
“Mud?” Demeter looks at the bowl, and I can see the dismay in her eyes. “That mud?”
“Think of it as a Druid facial. It’s totally natural and organic, with ancient nutrients.” I rub the mud between my palms. “Look at that. Beautiful.”
It’s not beautiful. It’s crappy, smelly mud that I’m sure has a few cowpats mixed into it.
“Right.” Demeter is still eyeing the mud warily. “Right. So…does Gwyneth Paltrow do this too?”
“I’m sure she does,” I say with a serene smile. “And have you seen her complexion? Close your eyes.”
I almost think Demeter’s going to refuse. But then she closes her eyes, and I start applying mud to her cheeks.
“There!” I say brightly. “Can you feel the natural warming qualities of the mud?” I scoop up more mud and smear it all over her face. I smear it in her hair too and rub it in. “It acts as a hair mask too,” I add. “It stimulates growth and prevents hair from turning gray.”
God, this feels good. I start slapping Demeter’s head as I apply mud to her hair, and that feels ever better. Slap-slap-slap. That pays her back for making me do her bloody roots.
“Ow!” says Demeter.
“Just improving your circulation,” I say briskly. “And now, the bark exfoliant.”
“What?”
Before she can say anything else, I start rubbing twigs across her face.
“Inhale,” I instruct her. “Long, deep breaths. Then you’ll gain the benefit from the natural bark aromas.”
“Ow!” says Demeter again.
“This is doing wonders for your skin,” I say. “Now another mud mask…this will really penetrate….” I slap on another layer of mud, then take a step back and survey Demeter.
She looks a sight. The sack is sitting lopsided on her shoulders. Her hair is all matted. Her face is smeared thickly with mud, and as I watch, a small clod falls off.
Another laugh is building inside me, but I can’t let it out. I mustn’t.
“Very good.” I somehow manage to stay straight-faced. “Now onto the first active part of the ceremony. We call it Truth.”
Demeter gingerly touches her face and flinches. “Have you got some water?” she asks. “Can I wash this off?”
“Oh no!” I say, as though in great surprise. “You leave the mud on, then you get the full benefit. Come on.”
I lead her out of the copse, into the field. I can see Demeter trying to dodge cowpats in her bare feet, and another giggle rises. Oh God. Don’t laugh.
“So.” I come to a halt. “Stand opposite me. Let us be still for a moment.” I put my hands in a yoga-type prayer pose, and Demeter does the same. “Now, bend over so your hands are touching the ground.”
Promptly, Demeter bends to the ground. She’s pretty flexible, actually.
“Very good. Now, raise your right hand to the sky. This pose is Meaning.”
Demeter immediately lifts her hand high in the sky. God, she’s a try-hard. I know she’s hoping I’ll say, Wow, you’re better than Gwyneth Paltrow, or something.
“Excellent. Now lift your opposite leg to the sky. This pose is Knowledge.”
Demeter’s leg rises, a bit more shakily.
“Now lift your other leg too,” I say. “This pose is Truth.”
“What?” Demeter raises her head. “How can I lift my other leg too?”
“It’s the Truth pose,” I say with an implacable smile. “It strengthens the limbs and the mind.”
“But it’s impossible! No one could do that.”
“It’s an advanced pose,” I say with a shrug.
“Show me!”
“I’m not wearing a Vedari gown,” I say regretfully. “So I’m afraid I can’t. But don’t worry; you’re a beginner. So don’t push yourself. We won’t try the Truth pose today.”
This is like a red rag to a bull, just like I knew it would be.
“I’m sure I can do it,” says Demeter. “I’m sure I can.”
She tries to launch her other leg into the air and falls down, into a cowpat.
“Shit.” She sounds totally hassled. “OK, I’m just not doing this right.” She tries again and falls once more, into a different cowpat.
“Watch out for the cow manure,” I say politely.
Demeter has five more attempts at the pose and each time falls into a cowpat. She’s totally smeared with cow shit, her face is red, and she looks furious.
“Enough,” I say in a serene voice. “Vedari says one must not exert oneself beyond the limits of one’s age.”
“Age?” Demeter looks livid. “I’m not old!”
“Let us now move on to Contemplation.” I beckon Demeter to a patch of grass free of cowpats. “Lie down and we will use the ancient Druid stones to release your muscles and your mind.”
Demeter eyes the ground cautiously, then lies down.
“On your front,” I explain. With a look of distaste at the mud visible through the grass, Demeter rolls over.
“Now, this is the Druid version of a hot-stone massage,” I say. “It’s very similar, except that the stones are not artificially heated. They have only the natural heat of Mother Earth.”
I’ve gathered a few rocks and stones, and I distribute them on Demeter’s back.
“Now, relax and contemplate,” I tell her. “Feel the energies of the stones penetrate your body. I will leave you to meditate. Free your mind,” I add over my shoulder as I walk away. “Feel the ancient aura from the ley lines. The longer you concentrate, the more benefits you will receive.”
I walk until I’m out of earshot, then settle down in the grass, leaning against a tree. Despite the sunshine it’s a bit breezy, so I pull my Barbour around me. Then I get my iPad out of my own jute bag and fire up an old episode of Friends. I watch it, glancing up every so often to check on Demeter. I keep expecting her to get up—but she doesn’t. She’s sticking it out. She’s tougher than I imagined. In fact, I can’t help feeling a grudging admiration for her.
Finally Friends is over, and I head back to where she’s still lying. God only knows how she’s feeling, lying in a cold, breezy field full of cowpats.
“I’m now removing the stones.” I start taking them all off her back. “According to ancient lore, your stresses will be removed along with them. How was your meditation?” I add serenely. “Did you commune with a higher power?”
“Oh yes,” says Demeter at once. “I could definitely feel an aura. Definitely.”
As she gets up, I feel a tweak of sympathy for her. Her face is mud-smeared and crumpled from the ground. Her hair is a bird’s nest. Her legs and arms are covered in gooseflesh, and her teeth are chattering with cold, I suddenly notice. Shit. I don’t want to give her hypothermia.
“Have my jacket,” I say in alarm, and proffer my knackered old Barbour. “You look freezing. It was a very challenging practice—maybe too challenging.”
“No thanks, I’m not cold at all.” Demeter gives the jacket a supercilious look. “And I didn’t find it too challenging.” She lifts her chin in that arrogant way she has. “I actually found it very stimulating. I have a natural aptitude for these things.”
At once, any sympathy I was feeling for her vanishes. Why does she have to be such a bloody show-off?
“Great!” I say politely. “Glad it worked for you.”
I lead Demeter back across the fields, eyeing her gooseflesh as we go. I offer her the jacket twice more, but she refuses it. Crikey, she’s stubborn.
“Now,” says Demeter bossily as I’m shutting the gate into Elm Field, “I’ve been meaning to mention something. I liked your homemade granola at breakfast, but I really think it should include chia seeds. Just a suggestion. Or goji berries.”
“It already contains goji berries,” I point out, but Demeter isn’t listening.
“Or what’s that new seed called?” She wrinkles her brow. “That new superfood seed. You probably don’t get it out here.” She gives me a kind, patronizing smile, and I find myself bristling. No, of course not. How would we get the new must-have seed out here in the countryside where we grow seeds?
“Probably not.” I force a polite smile. “Let’s move on to the next activity.”
On our way to the stables, I let Demeter get dressed again, and when she thinks I’m not looking, I catch her rubbing the worst of the mud off. Then she insists on stopping to check her emails on her phone.
“I work in something called ‘branding,’ ” she tells me loftily as she swipes through her messages, and I smile back politely. Branding. Yes, I remember branding.
“OK, done.” She puts away her phone and turns to me in her bossy way. “Lead on to the stables.”
“The stables” sounds grander than it is. There are four dilapidated stalls and a tiny tack room, but only one horse. We’ve had Carlo forever. He’s a great big cob, and Dad keeps threatening to get rid of him, but then he can’t quite bring himself to do it, because the truth is, we all love him too much. He’s not much trouble, old Carlo. He lives outside most of the year, and he’s a good-tempered old beast. Lazy, though. Bloody lazy.
I brought him in last night, especially for this. I also made a sign that reads EQUINE SANCTUARY and put it on the stable-yard gate.
“So!” I say, as we approach. “Now for the equine de-stress activity. Are you a horse lover, Demeter? Here, put this on.”
I hand her a riding hat, which probably isn’t a perfect fit, but it’s only for a bit of grooming. I already know Demeter can’t ride, because I heard her mention it at work once. But I’m sure she’ll come up with some bullshit or other, and, sure enough, she lifts her chin again.
“Ah. Now. Horses. I’ve never actually ridden, but I do know a lot about horses. They have a special spirit. Very healing.”
“Absolutely.” I nod. “And that’s what we’re going to tap into today. This activity is all about communion with horses and carrying on ancient traditions.”
“Wonderful,” says Demeter emphatically. “These ancient traditions are marvelous.”
“This horse is particularly mystical.” I go over to Carlo and run a hand down his flank. “He gives calmness to people. Calmness and peace.”
This is a lie. Carlo is so lazy, the emotion he brings to most people is demented frustration. But I don’t bat an eyelid as I continue:
“Carlo is what we call an Empathy horse. We categorize our horses, according to their spiritual qualities, into Energy, Empathy, and Detox.”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m sure I’ve gone too far. A detox horse? But Demeter seems to be lapping it all up.
“Amazing,” she murmurs.
Carlo gives a whicker, and I beam at Demeter.
“I think he likes you.”
“Really?” Demeter looks pink and rather pleased. “Should I get on?”
“No, no.” I give a merry laugh. “This isn’t a riding activity. It’s a bonding activity. And we’re going to use an implement that was forged in this very farm, generations ago.” I reach into my jute bag and adopt an expression of awe. “This,” I say in hushed tones, “is an authentic hoof-picker. It’s been used on Ansters Farm since medieval times.”
Another lie. Or maybe not. Who knows? It’s an old cast-iron hoof-pick, which has been knocking around the stable for as long as I can remember. So, actually, you know what? Maybe it is medieval.
“We’re going to be cleaning out Carlo’s hooves, following the traditional, authentic Somerset method.”
“Right.” Demeter nods intelligently. “So, are there different methods in different counties, then?”
“This is an exercise in trust,” I continue, ignoring her question, which was actually quite sensible. “And empathy. And rapport. Grasp Carlo’s front leg and lift it up. Like this.”
I lean against Carlo, move my hands reassuringly down his leg, grab his hoof, and lift it up. Then I replace it.
“Your turn.” I beam at Demeter. “You’ll feel the power of the horse channeling through your hands.”
Looking apprehensive, Demeter takes up the same position, runs her hands down Carlo’s leg, and tries to lift up his hoof. Which, of course, he won’t let her do. She’s far too tentative, and he can be an obstinate old bugger, Carlo.
“Try speaking to him,” I suggest. “Try reaching out to his soul. Introduce yourself.”
“Right.” Demeter clears her throat. “Um. Hi, Carlo. I’m Demeter, and I’m here to clean out your hoof.”
She’s hauling on his hoof, but she’s not getting anywhere. Once Carlo’s hoof is planted down, it’s as if it’s welded to the floor.
“I can’t do it,” she says.
“Try again,” I suggest. “Run your hands gently down his leg. Praise him.”
“Carlo.” Demeter tries again. “You’re a wonderful horse. I feel very connected to you right now.”
She yanks desperately, her mud-splattered face puce, but I can tell she’s never going to manage it.
“Here, let me,” I say, and get Carlo’s hoof up. “Now. Grasp the pick, and clear out the mud. Like this.” I remove a minuscule amount of mud, then hand the pick back to Demeter.
I feel an inward giggle as I see her aghast expression. I mean, I don’t blame her. It’s an absolute sod of a job. Carlo’s hooves are huge, and the mud has impacted in them like concrete.
Ha.
“Right. Here goes.” Demeter starts scraping at the mud. “Wow,” she says after a bit. “It’s quite…difficult.”
“It’s authentic,” I say kindly. “Some things are best done ‘old school,’ don’t you think?”
Like those bloody handwritten surveys, I’m thinking. They were “old school” too.
By the time Demeter’s done all four hooves, she’s breathing hard and sweating.
“Very nice.” I smile at her. “Don’t you feel a wonderful rapport with Carlo now?”
“Yes.” Demeter can hardly talk. “I…I think so.”
“Good! Now it’s time for our mindful cleansing activity.”
I lead Carlo out and tie him up. Then I hand Demeter an old bristle broom and say seriously: “This broom has been used by generations. You can feel the honest labor in its handle. As you sweep away the manure in the stable, so you sweep away the manure in your own life.” I hand her a fork. “This might help. Put all the dirty straw in the wheelbarrow.”
“I’m sorry. Wait.” Demeter has got the swivelly-eyed look I remember from the office. “I don’t understand.” She jabs at the broom. “Is this…metaphorical?”
“Metaphorical and real.” I nod. “That’s very astute of you, Demeter.”
“What is?” Demeter looks more confused.
“In order to sweep away metaphorical rubbish, you must sweep actual rubbish. Then the activity becomes mindful and you benefit all the more. Please. Don’t wait. Begin.” I nod at the manure-strewn straw.
Demeter is motionless for a moment, looking dumbstruck. Then, like some obedient slave, she begins sweeping, so diligently that I feel another tweak of admiration for her.
I mean, good on her. She hasn’t complained or bailed out or squealed at the mess, like those children the other week who claimed they wanted to learn “pony skills” and then said it was too smelly and ran off, leaving me to clean up.
“Well done!” I say encouragingly. “Very nice action.”
I head out into the sunshine and pull from my bag the flask of coffee I made earlier. I’m just pouring myself a cup when Steve Logan saunters by. Damn. I didn’t necessarily want anyone witnessing any of my “bespoke” activities.
“Why’s he here?” he says, seeing Carlo tied up. Then he glimpses Demeter in the stable. “What the hell—”
“Shhh!” I grab him quickly and pull him out of earshot. “Don’t say anything.”
“Is that a glamper?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s shoveling shit.”
“I know.” I think quickly. “She…um…wanted to.”
“She wanted to?” says Steve in astonishment. “Who wants to shovel shit on their holiday? Is she nuts?”
He looks so fascinated, I feel a spike of alarm. He’ll start quizzing Demeter if I’m not careful. Abruptly, I decide to take him into my confidence.
“Look, Steve, actually there’s more to it than that. But if I tell you…” I drop my voice. “It’s a secret, OK?”
“Sure.” Steve nods significantly.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.” Steve lowers his voice to a sepulchral whisper. “What is uttered in the stable yard stays in the stable yard.”
That is so not a thing that I want to roll my eyes at him, but I’m in mid-flow, so I don’t bother. Instead, I beckon him farther away, into the tack room, out of sight of Demeter.
“I know this woman,” I say in a low voice. “From before. From London. And she’s…” I think how to put it. “She did me a wrong. So I’m getting even.”
I take several sips of coffee while this sinks into Steve’s brain.
“Right,” he says at last. “I get it. Shoveling shit. Nice.” Then he frowns as though he’s suddenly realized the flaw in the plan. “But why did she agree to shovel shit?”
“Because I told her it was mindful, I suppose.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Steve looks so perplexed, I can’t help giggling. He helps himself to some coffee and pensively sips it, then says, “I’ll tell you a secret now. So we’re square.”
“Oh,” I say warily. “No. Steve, I really don’t want to—”
“Kayla doesn’t do it for me in bed.”
“What?” I stare at him, aghast.
“Not anymore,” he elaborates. “Used to, but—”
“Steve!” I clap my hand to my head. “Don’t tell me things like that.”
“Well, it’s true,” he says with lugubrious triumph. “So. Now you know.” He gives me a sidelong look. “Might change things.”
“What?” I peer at him. “Change what?”
“Just putting it out there.” He regards me with his bulgy eyes. “New information. You can do what you like with it.”
Oh God. Does he mean…No. I don’t want to know what he means.
“I’m not going to do anything with it,” I say firmly.
“Think on it, then.” He taps his head. “Just think on it.”
“No! I won’t think on it! Steve, I have to go. See you later.”
I hurry out of the tack room, then stop dead in surprise. Demeter isn’t sweeping anymore—nor is she on her phone or striding impatiently around. She’s standing next to Carlo, her arm over his withers, and he’s brought his head round to give her a hug.
I blink in astonishment. It’s a trick I taught Carlo years ago, and he hardly ever does it spontaneously. But there he is, hugging Demeter in his kind old horsey way. I made up “Empathy horse” as a joke…but now I realize it’s kind of true. Demeter’s eyes are closed and her shoulders are slumped. She looks off guard and exhausted, as though she’s been putting on quite an act, even on holiday.
The thing about Demeter, I think as I watch her, is that she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t switch off. Even when she’s “relaxing,” she’s still ultra-competitive and obsessing over chia seeds. Maybe she should just watch telly and eat Corn Flakes for a weekend and chill.
I gesture to Steve to leave the stable yard quietly; then I sit down on an upturned bucket. Demeter’s shoulders are shaking slightly and I peer in fresh shock. Is she crying? I mean, I’ve cried into my ponies’ manes often enough over the years, but I never would have thought that Demeter in a million years—
Oh my God. Has my totally fake equine de-stress activity actually worked? Have I de-stressed my ex-boss?
That was totally not the intention of this morning. But as I sit and watch her and Carlo in their little twosome, I can’t help feeling a kind of warmth inside. Like you do when you see a child asleep or a lamb frisking or even a marathon runner gulping water. You think, They needed that, and you feel a kind of satisfaction on their behalf, whoever they are.
And the only thing that puzzles me now is—why? Demeter has the perfect life. Why is she sobbing into Carlo’s mane, for crying out loud?
After a little while she looks up, sees me, and gives a startled jump. At once she grabs in her pocket for a tissue and starts patting her face.
“Just…taking a moment,” she says briskly. “I’ve finished sweeping. What’s next?”
“Nothing,” I say, coming forward. “We’ve finished for the morning. We’ll head to the farmhouse now and you can wash your face, have a shower, whatever you’d like, before lunch.” I pat Carlo fondly, then turn to Demeter again. “So, did you enjoy the activity?”
“Oh, it was very good,” says Demeter. “Very de-stressing. You should offer this to all the guests. This should be on the brochure. In fact, you should have a separate brochure outlining all the activities.”
Her old bossy demeanor is beginning to reassert itself, but I’m more interested in the Demeter I saw just now. The vulnerable, tearful Demeter.
“Demeter,” I say hesitantly as we move out of the stable yard. “Are you…all right?”
“Of course I’m all right!” she says, without looking me in the eye. “Just a bit tired, that’s all. I’m so sorry I lost control. Very embarrassing. It’s not like me at all.”
She’s right. It’s not—at least not the Demeter I know. But maybe there’s a different Demeter that I don’t know about? And all the way back to the farmhouse, I’m thoughtful.
Lunch is served in the barn and is a chance for everyone to chatter about what they got up to that morning. All the adults who did willow-weaving are already there as we approach, and there’s a happy hubbub. I glance at Demeter, wondering if she’s feeling a bit wrung out, if she’ll take a backseat for once.
But oh no.
Already her chin has lifted and her pace has quickened. I can see her eyes flashing with the old Demeter determination.
“Hi!” She interrupts a conversation between Susie and Nick with her usual energy. “How was the willow-weaving?”
“It was great,” says Susie. “How was your morning?”
“Oh, it was marvelous,” says Demeter. “Absolutely wonderful. You know I did a bespoke-activity morning?” she adds airily to Susie. “A special mind-body-spirit program. I can thoroughly recommend it. I mean, it was challenging but absolutely worth it. I feel empowered now. I feel radiant. Oh, is that vegetarian lasagna? Is it wheat-free?”
As the meal progresses, I listen as Demeter regales every single adult with how brilliant her morning was: much better and more authentic than theirs. “This ancient practice Vedari…Oh, haven’t you heard of it? Yes, very niche…I really sensed the aura….Well, I am rather a yoga expert….”
Everyone is chattering about their mornings, but Demeter’s voice rings out above the hubbub, a constant, show-offy, clarion sound.
“Absolutely empowering experience…Gwyneth Paltrow, apparently…I could feel the natural heat emanating from the stones….”
No, she bloody couldn’t! I saw her with my own eyes. She was freezing! But now she’s talking as though she’s just met the Dalai Lama and he said, Well done, Demeter, you’re the best.
She hasn’t once mentioned Carlo, interestingly. Let alone the fact that he hugged her and she wept. It’s as if she’s squashed the only real, truthful bit of the morning away where no one can see it.
Then a growing sound of shrieks and laughter heralds the approach of the children. As they all come piling into the barn, hot and excited from their obstacle course, Demeter rises from her seat.
“Coco! Hal! There you are. And James. Were you watching the children? Come over here, I’ve saved you seats.”
As Demeter’s family slide into their chairs, I edge closer in fascination. So here they are: the perfect family in their perfect outfits, having the perfect holiday. I expect they’ll make intelligent conversation about the environment now. Or that new hip indie band they saw at the weekend, all of them together, because they’re such a close family.
But in fact none of them starts talking at all. They all get out their phones, including James.
“I thought we said no phones at mealtimes,” says Demeter in a strange, jokey voice I haven’t ever heard her use before. “Hey, guys. Guys?” She waves a hand to get the attention of her children, but they totally ignore her.
I’m slightly goggling. I’ve never seen anyone ignore Demeter before.
“So, how was the obstacle course?” Demeter puts a hand over Hal’s phone screen and he glowers at her.
“It was all right,” says Coco briefly. “This phone is crap. I need a new one.”
“You’ve got a birthday coming up,” says Demeter. “Perfect. Let’s go and choose one together.”
“My birthday?” Coco fixes Demeter with a malevolent glare. “You want me to wait for my birthday?”
“Well, we’ll see,” says Demeter, and she gives her daughter a smile I’ve never seen either. It’s kind of eager. Craven, almost. It’s kind of…desperate?
No. I must be seeing things.
“Try the salad.” Demeter passes it to Coco. “It’s organic. Delicious.”
“Granny says organic food is a total con,” says Coco, in a pert voice that makes me want to slap her. “Doesn’t she, Daddy?”
“Well, it is,” says James absently. “It’s all bollocks.”
I nearly fall over flat. What? James isn’t into organic food? How can this be? It’s Demeter’s religion.
Coco leans her head on James’s shoulder as I saw her do this morning—only now it doesn’t look friendly. It looks…I don’t know. Cliquey. As if she’s trying to shut her mother out of the gang or something. I glance at Demeter and I see a flash of pain cross her face. Her brow’s furrowed. She’s taken her own phone out now, and as she scrolls down, she looks weary.
It’s as if the mask has dropped again, and there she is: The other Demeter. The tired, stressed-out Demeter, who needs a hug with a horse.
And suddenly I’m aware of a disconcerting sensation. Do I feel…sorry for Demeter?
I’m so agog that I don’t even notice that someone is tugging at my sleeve.
“Excuse me? Katie?”
“Yes?” I swing round with my professional customer-service smile, to see Susie standing there. She’s a slight blond woman with bobbed hair, wearing beige shorts and a white T-shirt with Cath Kidston print sneakers. Mother of Ivo and Archie, I quickly remind myself. Heard about us by picking up a brochure in a Clapham soft-play center.
“How’s it going?” I say warmly. “Are you all enjoying the holiday?”
“Oh yes!” enthuses Susie. “We loved the willow-weaving. And now…” She hesitates. “Well, we were talking to Demeter about Vedari, and we—Nick and I—we’d love to try it.”
“I’m sorry?” I say blankly.
“Can we do some Vedari?” Susie’s face is eager and hopeful. “It sounds amazing!”
I stare at her speechlessly. She wants to do Vedari. Are you kidding me?
“Katie?” prompts Susie.
“Right.” I come to. “Well…Yes! I’m sure we can. I’ll look at the schedule. Vedari! Perfect! We’ll all do it! Why not?” I’m sounding a bit hysterical, so I add, “Excuse me for a moment,” and head out of the barn to the yard, where I give vent to my feelings by kicking a bale of hay. I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve this morning—but none of it has come out quite right.