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.
My Not So Perfect Life Page 17
