“OK,” I say. “You’re on, Demeter. We’ll do a bespoke activity.”
A nice activity, I decide. Something fun. We’ll spend the morning together, doing something genuinely enjoyable. I’m kind of—almost—looking forward to it.
—
A taxi arrives in the yard for James at three o’clock, and from the kitchen window I watch him get into it. Demeter kisses him goodbye, then wanders slowly back. She’s scrolling down her emails again, and I hear her exclaim, “No!” incredulously, as though yet again the world makes no sense.
Still engrossed, she heads toward the bench and table where her kids are sitting.
“Mum.” Coco glares at her. “You forgot to pack my Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie.”
“What?” Demeter seems confused. “Hoodie? You’re wearing a hoodie.”
“My other hoodie. This one’s all frayed.”
“But you packed yourself, darling.”
“You said you’d double-check!”
“Coco…” Demeter puts a hand to her head. “I can’t take care of your packing as well as everything else. Anyway, you’ve got a hoodie. It’s fine.”
“Oh, great. So I have to do it all myself, even though I’ve got to study. Which you keep telling me is important.” Coco practically snarls at her mum. “Mrs. Invisible rules again.”
“Don’t call me that, please.” I can tell Demeter’s finding it hard to keep calm. “You have a hoodie.”
“I didn’t want this hoodie.” Coco plucks disparagingly at her hoodie, which is from Jack Wills and probably cost, like, sixty quid.
I’m listening in utter disbelief. Who does this girl think she is? And what the hell has happened to Demeter? Where’s the strong, powerful über-woman I know from work? She seems to fade away as soon as she’s with her children, leaving only this anxious, craven person I don’t recognize. It’s weird. It’s wrong.
As I’m watching, Demeter’s phone rings and she answers it immediately.
“Hi, Adrian,” she says, sounding defensive. “Yes, I am aware of what’s going on. But I just don’t understand. There must be some mixed message here. Have you actually spoken to Lindsay at Allersons?” She listens again, and her face becomes agitated. “No, that can’t be right,” she says. “It can’t! This is insane!”
She stands up and heads off to talk in private. The two children are still lolling at the picnic table, staring down at their phones as though they’re possessed, and something about their attitude makes me boil irrationally.
I know it’s none of my business. But bloody hell. If I thought Demeter was entitled, she has nothing on her children. On impulse, I open the kitchen door and head out.
“Hi!” I say cheerfully, approaching the table. “How are you two doing? Enjoying the holiday?”
“Yes, thank you,” says Coco, without bothering to look up.
“And what have you done to thank your mum?” I say conversationally.
“What?” she says with utter incomprehension. Hal doesn’t reply, but he looks equally perplexed.
“Well, you know,” I say as though it’s obvious. “She works really hard to pay for you to go on holiday and buy designer clothes….” I gesture at the Jack Wills hoodie. “So you say thank you.”
Both children look dumbfounded at this idea.
“She enjoys working,” Coco says at last, with a dismissive roll of her eyes.
“Well, Biddy enjoys baking,” I say with a shrug. “But you still say thank you nicely when she gives you a scone.”
“It’s not the same,” says Coco, sounding cross. “She’s our mum.”
“You don’t say thank you for holidays,” puts in Hal, as though this is some article from the Geneva Convention which he refuses to deviate from, out of principle.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I say pleasantly. “Because when I was your age, we could never afford holidays. I’d have been really envious of you guys, on holiday all the time.”
“We don’t go on that many holidays,” says Coco, looking sulky, and I feel an urge to slap her. I’ve seen photos of her in Demeter’s office. Skiing. Standing on a white-sand beach. Laughing on a speedboat in some tropical clime.
“I didn’t ever go abroad till I was seventeen,” I say pleasantly. “And now I can’t afford to go abroad either. And I could never afford a Jack Wills hoodie. You’re a lucky girl, Coco. I mean, Jack Wills!”
Coco cautiously touches her hoodie, the one she was disparaging a moment ago. Then she looks at my T-shirt—an unbranded Factory Shop special.
“Well,” she says, with less of a swagger in her voice. “Yeah. Jack Wills is cool.”
“See you,” I say lightly, and walk away.
I perch on a nearby wall, pretending to check my activities folder, wondering how this will play out. But if I was hoping that both kids would start discussing how ungrateful they’ve been and how to make amends, then I was nuts. They both sit there silently, with the same sulky expressions, gazing at their phones, as though we never had a conversation.
As Demeter returns to the table, she looks exhausted and a bit freaked. She sits down, gazing into the middle distance, chewing her lip. For a while, no one says anything. But then Coco lifts her eyes from her phone for a nanosecond and mutters, “Mum, the holiday’s really great.”
Instantly, Demeter springs into life. The weariness disappears from her face, and she gazes at Coco like someone whose lover just told her he will marry her, after all.
“Really?” she says. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yeah. So, like…” Coco hesitates as though making the supreme effort. “You know. Thanks.”
“Darling! It’s my pleasure!” Demeter looks absolutely radiant, simply because her child gave her a grudging thank-you. It’s pitiful. It’s tragic.
“Yeah,” says Hal, and this single syllable seems to make Demeter’s day even more perfect.
“Well, it’s lovely,” she says. “It’s lovely just to spend time together.”
There’s a tremble in her voice, and her eyes give that sudden panicky, darting movement I know so well. What is up with her? What is up?
At that moment, Dad comes sauntering up to their table, holding a load of brochures.
“Now,” he begins, in his most charming way, “can I say that you are delightful guests. Just delightful. We see a lot of glampers, and you…” He points with his weather-beaten finger to Demeter, then Coco, then Hal. “You come out on top.”
“Thank you,” says Demeter, with a laugh, and even Coco looks pleased.
“And for that reason,” carries on Dad breezily, “we’d like to invite all your friends to come and join us next year. Because we’re sure they’ll be just as delightful as you.” He hands Demeter a stack of Ansters Farm brochures from his pile. “Spread the word! Spread the joy! We’ve got ten percent discounts for all your friends!”
Demeter takes the brochures, and I can tell she’s amused by Dad’s little riff.
“So we’re the best guests here, are we?” she says, her mouth twitching.
“By a mile,” says Dad emphatically.
“So you’re not offering this ten percent discount to anyone else?”
“Ah.” Dad twinkles knowingly back at her. “Well, it would be unfair if we didn’t let a few of the other guests in on it. But we’ll be hoping it’s your friends who come along.”
Demeter laughs. “Of course you will.” She turns the brochure over a few times, opens it, and looks at the layout. “This is good,” she says suddenly. “I thought that before. Very appealing, great design…Who produced it for you?”
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dad looks pleased. “That was our Katie did that.”
“Katie?” Demeter seems a bit stunned. “Katie as in…Katie?”
“That’s right.” Dad catches sight of me. “Katie, Demeter here likes your brochure!”
“Come here!” Demeter beckons me so commandingly, I feel my legs obeying her. I tug my curly blue hair down over my face,
pushing my sunglasses firmly up my nose.
I know I’m straying onto dangerous ground here. I should make an excuse and walk away. But I can’t. I feel a bit breathless, keyed up with hope. I’m still in thrall to her, I realize. I’m still desperate for her praise.
Demeter’s reading my brochure. She’s not just reading it, she’s studying it closely. She’s taking my work seriously. For how long have I dreamed of this happening?
“Who wrote this copy?” She hits the brochure with the back of her fingers.
“I did.”
“Who chose the typeface and the paper?”
“I did.”
“She designed the website too,” says Dad proudly.
“I got a techie friend to help me,” I put in.
“But you were in charge of the creative content?” Demeter looks at me with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
“Well…yes.”
“It’s a good website,” says Demeter. “And this is outstanding. I should know,” she adds to Dad. “This is what I do for a living.”
“That’s our Katie!” says Dad, and ruffles my hair. “Now if you’ll excuse me…” Clutching his brochures, he heads off to another group of glampers, where he produces exactly the same shtick he used on Demeter.
“Katie, tell me something,” says Demeter, who can’t stop studying the brochure. “Do you have training?”
“Um.” I swallow. “I’ve…I’ve studied design.”
“Well, all your instincts are spot-on,” she says emphatically. “I couldn’t do a better job myself. Katie, I think you have a rare talent. I only wish our juniors were this talented.”
I stare back at her, my head prickling. I feel a bit surreal, to be honest.
“I work for a company called Cooper Clemmow,” Demeter continues. “Our business is branding. Here’s my card.” She hands me a Cooper Clemmow card and I hold it dumbly, half-wanting to break into hysterical laughter. “If you ever think about leaving this place, trying to get a job in London—call me. I may be able to give you a job opportunity. Don’t look so freaked out,” she adds kindly. “We have a very friendly office. I’m sure you’d fit in.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice not working properly. “That’s very…Thank you. I just have to…”
On weak legs, I walk away, into the house, through the kitchen, up to my bedroom. I don’t look left and I don’t look right. I put the business card carefully on my bed and look at it for a second. Then I scream.
“Noooooooo!”
I bang my head against my ancient wallpaper. I clutch my hair. I scream again. I punch my pillows, hard. I can’t bear it. I can’t believe it.
Finally, finally I’ve got what I always wanted. Demeter’s looked at my work. She’s praised it. She wants to give me a chance.
But what bloody good is that now?
At last, panting, I collapse in a chair and consider my options.
1. Go downstairs to Demeter and say, Guess what? It’s me, Cat! At which point she’ll probably freak out, rescind the job offer, reveal to Biddy and Dad that my “sabbatical” story is a lie, and cause all sorts of turmoil. Total nightmare.
2. Take up her job offer under the identity of “Katie” Brenner. Instantly get found out, prosecuted for fraud, and never work again. Total nightmare.
3. I’m not sure there is a three.
—
My brain circles frenziedly for half an hour. But it doesn’t find a solution; it just becomes stiffer and tireder and stupider. And Biddy will be needing help. So I rouse myself, head downstairs, and start peeling potatoes, which is nice and calming.
Or at least it is until Dad comes into the kitchen, whistling cheerily and putting on his “Farmer Mick” hat for the magic show he’s doing later. (He so can’t do magic. But luckily the kids think he’s hilarious whatever he does, and the adults are just happy that their children are being amused.)
“That Demeter likes your stuff, doesn’t she?” he greets me. “We knew you were talented!”
“What’s this?” Biddy looks up with interest from the pie crust she’s shaping.
“Demeter. She’s an expert on brochures, apparently. I told her, ‘Katie did that.’ You should have seen her face.”
“Oh, Katie!” says Biddy in delight. “That’s wonderful! Did you tell her about your job in London, love?” she adds innocently. “Maybe you two should…what’s-it-called. Network.”
I feel an almighty swell of panic.
“No!” I say shrilly. “I mean, it’s not appropriate. Not while she’s on holiday. I’ll keep her card and contact her later.”
“Later?” Biddy looks dubious. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t leave it. She may forget about you. Look, if it’s awkward for you, I’ll bring it up. What’s the name of the place you work at again? Cooper Clemmow. That’s right, isn’t it?”
I feel faint. This cannot happen. Biddy cannot start telling Demeter how I’ve got a top job at this London company called Cooper Clemmow.
“No!” I repeat in desperation. “Look, these London types are really prickly and stressy. They’ve come here to relax and get away from it all. If you talk work on holiday they hold it against you. They’ll…they’ll put it on TripAdvisor!” I add wildly, and I can see a frisson of fear running through Biddy.
TripAdvisor is terrifying. We’ve had three entries so far, and they’ve all been lovely, but we all know how it can go horribly wrong.
“I think she’s got a point, love,” says Dad to Biddy. “We don’t want to look pushy.”
“Exactly! It’s really, really important.” I try to impress this on Biddy. “Don’t mention work to Demeter. Don’t ask her where she works. And don’t…” I feel sick at the very thought. “Don’t mention Cooper Clemmow.”
I resume peeling potatoes, feeling a bit weak. That was close. It still is close. It’s precarious. Whatever I say to Biddy, she still may take it upon herself to big up my London job to Demeter. With just one wrong word, everything could come out. Oh God…I close my eyes, breathing hard. Should I come clean now? Tell Biddy and Dad everything? But they’ll be so upset, and they’ve got enough on their plates as it is….
“Katie?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump. “Darling, I think you’ve peeled that potato enough,” she says with a laugh, and I look down in a daze. I’ve been peeling the same potato, round and round, until it’s about the size of a marble.
“Right.” I muster a smile. “Not concentrating.”
“By the way,” adds Biddy, “I meant to tell you before. Guess what? We have our first B&B guest arriving tomorrow!”
“Oh, great!” I say, distracted for a moment. “That’s brilliant news!”
The B&B room has been Biddy’s project. It was her idea to have an “overspill” room in the house for people who don’t want to glamp. It’s a ground-floor room with its own entrance—it fact, it used to be a sitting room that we hardly ever used. Biddy painted it in Farrow & Ball (my advice), and Dad turned the outhouse loo into a tiny en suite shower, and it’s all 400-thread-count sheets, like in the yurts.
“Who is it?” I ask. “Are they staying long?”
“Just a night,” says Biddy. “He must want to have a look at the yurts or something. He wanted to stay in one, actually, but I told him they were full.”
“Does he want to do any activities?”
“Oh.” Biddy looks troubled. “I didn’t ask. Well, we’ll find out when he arrives. Funny name he’s got. Astalis.” She peers at her own writing. “Can that be right? Astalis?”
The world has gone black for a moment.
“Astalis?” I repeat, in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
“Alex Astalis.” Biddy wrinkles her brow. “I wonder if he’s any relation to that famous Astalis chap….What’s he called again…”
Alex is coming here. Why’s he coming here? And then, in the next instant, I know exactly why he’s coming here.
“When…” I’m trying to keep control of myself. “When exactly did he call
?”
“It was earlier on,” says Biddy. “About two-thirty.”
Two-thirty. About ten minutes after James told Demeter he was going away. I have a sudden image of Demeter sitting there at the lunch table, texting, that half-smile playing on her lips. She didn’t hang about, did she? She didn’t bloody hang about.
“I hope he finds the bed comfortable,” Biddy is fretting. “I found it a little hard myself, but your dad said it was fine….”
“I’m sure it’ll be OK,” I say numbly.
He won’t need the bed, is what I feel like saying. He won’t need the room. He’ll be in the yurt all night with Demeter.
There I was, softening toward her, thinking she had it tough—but look at her. The minute her husband’s out of the way, she ships in her lover. She didn’t even wait half an hour after James had kissed her and told her he loved her. She’s a bitch, she’s a selfish bitch….
And now I’m torturing myself, imagining Alex and Demeter in the yurt. Candles lit. Writhing around athletically on the sheepskin. My breaths are coming in short, angry bursts. I feel like a melting pot of fury and frustration…and, OK, envy. Some envy.
Quite a lot of envy.
And then I jolt in panic. Shit. What if Alex recognizes me? He doesn’t have Demeter’s facial-recognition problem. He’s more switched on. I cannot come across him in any shape or form, or everything really will implode….
OK. Stop freaking out. It’ll be fine. I’ll have to pretend to be ill or something. I don’t want to see him, anyway; can’t think of anything worse.
“What time’s he arriving?” I ask, as casually as I can. “This Astalis person?”
“Not till eleven-ish. Plenty of time to make the room nice.” Biddy smiles at me. “And what are you going to do with Demeter? She told me you’re arranging another bespoke activity. You two are quite a pair!”
I stare back, my brain in overdrive. I’d forgotten about the bespoke activity. I’d forgotten about spending another morning with Demeter. Something “nice,” I promised myself. Something “fun.” Well, that was before I knew what a self-centered, conniving, two-faced bitch she really was.