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.
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.
My Not So Perfect Life Page 18
