My Not So Perfect Life

“Come and sample my latest.” My dad turns from the kitchen counter and holds out a drink. It’s not a glass of vintage champagne or a sophisticated cocktail. It’s not even some artisan local organic cider. It’s Dad’s patented Christmas punch of whatever cut-price bottles of spirits he could get at the market, all mixed together with long-life orange juice, pineapple juice, and lime cordial. “Cheers, m’dear.”

It’s midday on Christmas Eve, and I’m at home in the country, and London seems a lifetime away. Everything’s different here. The air, the sounds, the expanse. We live on a farm in a part of Somerset which is so remote, no one’s ever heard of it. The papers keep talking about fashionable Somerset and celebrity Somerset….Well, believe me, we’re arse-end-of-nowhere Somerset.

Our house is in a valley, and all you can see from the kitchen window are fields, some sheep dotted around, the rise of the slope to Hexall Hill, and the odd hang glider in the distance. Some cows too, although Dad doesn’t go in for cows quite as much as he used to. Not enough money in them, he says. There are better games to be in. Although he doesn’t seem to have found any of those games yet.

Dad lifts his glass and gives me his crinkly, twinkly beam. No one can resist Dad’s smile, including me. All my life, I’ve seen him win people round with his charm, his bottomless optimism. Like that time I was ten and forgot about my holiday project. Dad just turned up at school, twinkled at the teacher, told her several times how certain he was that it wouldn’t be a problem…and sure enough, it wasn’t. Everything was magically OK.

I mean, I’m not stupid. There was a sympathy element there too. I was the girl with no mum….

Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Christmas Eve. I step outside the kitchen door, making my way through a cluster of chickens to breathe in the fresh West Country air. I must admit, the air is amazing here. In fact, the whole place is amazing. Dad thinks I’ve completely rejected Somerset, but I haven’t. I’ve just made a choice about how to live my life—

I close my eyes briefly. Stop it. How many imaginary conversations have I had with Dad about this? And now I’m having them when he’s standing three yards away?

I take a sip of punch and try to focus on the distant landscape rather than the farmyard, because the closer you get to the actual house, the less picturesque it becomes. Dad’s tried a lot of moneymaking wheezes over the years, none of which have worked—and all around the farmyard are the remains and detritus of them, which he’s never bothered clearing up. There’s the cider press, sitting in its barn, barely used. There’s the massage table, from when we were going to have a spa. (He couldn’t find a massage therapist cheap enough.) There’s the matching turquoise swirly eighties headboard and bedside tables that he bought off a mate, intending to set up a B&B. They’re still wrapped up in their plastic, leaning against a gate. They look terrible.

And there’s Colin the alpaca, roaming around in his little paddock, looking like the miserable sod he is. God, the alpacas were a disaster. Dad bought six of them, about three years ago, and he reckoned they were going to make our fortune. They were going to be an attraction, and we were going to set up an alpaca wool factory, and all sorts. He actually charged tickets for some school party to come and visit, but then an alpaca bit one of the kids, and he hadn’t done a risk assessment or whatever and it was all a total hassle.

Although that wasn’t as bad as his ANSTERS FARM WINTER WONDERLAND! VISIT FATHER CHRISTMAS IN HIS GROTTO! with cotton wool for snow and Poundland tat for presents and me as a fourteen-year-old resentful elf. It was twelve years ago now, but I still shudder at the memory. Those bloody green tights.

“Oh, it’s wonderful to have you home, Katie!” Biddy has come out too, holding her glass. She gives me a hug and pats my shoulder. “We miss you, darling!”

Biddy has been Dad’s girlfriend for years now. Or partner. Common-law wife, I suppose. After Mum died, for the longest time it was just Dad and me. It worked fine. I thought Dad would be on his own forever. There were a few local women, mostly blond, who came and went, and I didn’t really distinguish between them.

But then Biddy arrived, right before I went off to uni. From the start, she was different. She’s a quiet, persistent, sensible person, Biddy. She’s pretty in her own way—dark, slightly graying hair, deep-brown eyes—but she’s not flashy or trendy. There’s grit to her too. She used to be a chef at the Fox and Hounds, till the late hours got too much for her. Now she makes jam and sells it at fairs. I’ve seen her stand there patiently at her stall, six hours at a time, always pleasant, always willing to chat. She’d never overcharge a customer but never undercharge either. She’s fair. True and fair. And for some reason—I have no idea why—she puts up with Dad.

I’m only joking. Half-joking, maybe. Dad’s one of those people—sends you mad with frustration, then comes through just when you weren’t expecting it. When I was seventeen, I asked him over and over to teach me to drive. He put it off…forgot…said I was too young….Then one day, when I’d given up hope, he announced, “Right, Kitty-Kate, it’s driving day.” We spent all day in the car and he was the most kind, patient teacher you could imagine.

I mean, I still failed. Turns out Dad’s got no idea how to teach driving; in fact, the examiner stopped the test halfway because apparently I was “unsafe.” (He was particularly unimpressed by Dad’s advice: Always accelerate toward changing traffic lights, in case you can nip through.) But, anyway, the thought was there, and I’ll always remember that day.

That was Dad’s gentler, more serious side. He doesn’t always show it, but underneath the swagger and the twinkles and the flirting he’s as soft as butter. You just have to watch him at lambing. He looks after all the orphan lambs as tenderly as though they were his real babies. Or take the time I had a bad fever when I was eleven. Dad got so worried, he took my temperature about thirty times in an hour. (At last he asked Rick Farrow, the vet, to stop in and have a look at me. He said he trusted Rick over any doctor, any day. Which was fine until the story got out at school. I mean, the vet.)

I still remember Mum. Kind of. I have dim splashes of memory like an unfinished watercolor. I remember arms around me and a soft voice in my ear. Her “going out” shoes—she only had the one pair, in black patent with sensible heels. I remember her leading me around the fields on my pony, clucking fondly to both of us. Brushing my hair after bath time, in front of the telly. I still feel a sad, Mum-shaped hole in my life when I allow myself…but that’s not often. It would feel disloyal to Dad, somehow. As I’ve got older, I’ve realized how hard it must have been for him, all those years, bringing me up alone. But he never let me realize it, not once. Everything was fun, an adventure for the pair of us.

I have a memory of him when I was six, the year after Mum died: Dad sitting at the kitchen table, peering at the Littlewoods catalog, his brow furrowed, trying to pick out clothes for me. Wanting so badly to get it right. He can make you weep, he’s so kind. And then he can make you weep because he sold your precious matching bedroom-furniture set with no warning to a guy from Bruton who gave him a really good deal. (I was fifteen. And what I still don’t get is, how did the guy from Bruton even know about my bedroom furniture?)

Anyway, that’s Dad. He’s not exactly what he seems. Then, the minute you’ve worked that out, he is exactly what he seems. And I think Biddy understands that. It’s why they work as a couple. I used to watch all those other women Dad had, and even when I was a child I could tell they didn’t quite get Dad. They could only see charismatic, charming, rogue-ish Mick, with his moneymaking schemes. Standing rounds at the pub, telling funny stories. That’s what appealed to them, so he played up that side. But Biddy isn’t about charisma; she’s about connection. She talks directly. She doesn’t mess around or flirt. I sometimes see them talking quietly together, and I can tell that Dad relies on her, more and more.

She’s careful and discreet, though, Biddy. She doesn’t ever get between me and Dad. She knows how close the two of us were, all those years together, and she’s all about standing back. Never venturing an opinion. Never offering unsolicited advice. Nor have I ever asked her for advice.

Maybe I should.

“Crisp, Kitty-Kate?” Dad has followed me outside into the winter sunshine with a bowl of crisps. His graying, curly hair is still rumpled from doing his morning jobs outside, and his skin is as weatherbeaten as ever, his blue eyes shining like sapphire chips.

“I was just saying to Katie, it’s lovely to have her home,” says Biddy. “Isn’t it?”

“Certainly is,” replies Dad, and he raises his glass toward me. I raise my own and try to smile—but it doesn’t come easily. I can’t meet Dad’s eye without seeing the little splinters of sadness among the twinkles. So I gulp my drink, waiting for the moment to pass.

If you saw us from the outside, you’d have no idea. You’d think we were a father and daughter reuniting happily on Christmas Eve. You’d never sense the waves of hurt and guilt bouncing invisibly between us.

The internship in Birmingham never caused a problem. Dad understood that it was all I could get; he knew I didn’t want to settle in Birmingham; he didn’t worry. The internship in London, he rationalized as well. I was “just starting out” and no wonder I had to get some experience.

But then I took the job at Cooper Clemmow, and something froze. I remember breaking the news to him and Biddy, right here. Oh, he did all the right things—hugged me and said, “Well done.” We talked about visits and weekends, and Biddy made a celebratory cake. But all the time I could see the stricken look in his face.

We haven’t really been right with each other since then. And certainly not since the last time he came up to London, almost a year ago now, with Biddy. God, it was a disaster. Something went wrong with the tube and we were late for the show I’d booked. A group of young guys jostled Dad, and I think—not that he’d ever admit it—he was scared. He told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of London. I was so tired and disappointed, I burst into tears and said…some stuff I didn’t mean.

Since then, we’ve danced warily around each other. Dad hasn’t suggested visiting again. I haven’t asked him to. We don’t talk a lot about my life in London, and when we do, I’m careful to stay upbeat. I never mention my problems. I’ve never even shown him where I live. I couldn’t let him see my flat and my tiny room and all my stuff slung in a grotty hammock. He just wouldn’t understand.

Because here’s the other thing about Dad; here’s the flip side of us being so close for so long: He feels everything on my behalf, almost too keenly. He can overreact. He can make me feel worse about a situation, not better. He rails at the world when it goes wrong for me, can’t let things go.

He never forgave that guy Sean who broke my heart in the sixth form. He still scowls if I mention the saddlery. (I did a summer job there, and I thought they underpaid me. Only by a tiny amount, but that was it as far as Dad was concerned. He’s boycotted them ever since.) And I know he reacts like that because he loves me. But sometimes it’s hard to bear his disappointment at life as well as my own.

The first time I had a run-in with a colleague at work, when I was starting out in Birmingham, I told Dad about it. Well, that did it. He mentioned it every time we spoke, for about six months. He told me to complain to HR…suggested I wasn’t standing up for myself enough….He basically wanted to hear that the colleague had been punished. Even after I’d told him again and again that it was all fixed and I wanted to move on and could we please not discuss it anymore? As I say, I know he was only showing he cared—but still, it was draining.

So the next time I had an issue, I quietly sorted it out for myself and said nothing. Easier for me, easier for Dad. It’s easier for him if he doesn’t know I’ve traded his beloved Somerset for a hard, struggling existence, if he believes I’m leading what he calls “the high life in London.” It’s easier for me if I don’t have to expose every detail of my existence to his uncomprehending, anxious gaze.

And, yes, it gives me heartache. We were so close, the Dad-and-Katie team. I never kept anything from him, not my first period, not my first kiss. Now I’m constantly careful. The only way I can rationalize it is that I will be honest with him, when I can tell him things that will make him happy. When I’m more secure, less defensive.

Just not yet.

“I was remembering Father Christmas’s Grotto,” I say, taking a crisp, trying to lighten things. “Remember the fistfight that broke out?”

“Those wretched children.” Dad shakes his head indignantly. “There was nothing wrong with those balloons.”

“There was!” I burst into laughter. “They were duds and you knew it! And as for the Christmas stockings…” I turn to Biddy. “You should have seen them. They fell apart in the children’s hands.”

Dad has the grace to look a bit shamefaced, and I can’t help laughing again. This is the territory we do best on, Dad and me. The past.

“So, has Biddy told you?” Dad spreads his arms out, as though to indicate the fields in front of us.

“Told me what?”

“No, I haven’t,” says Biddy. “I was waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I look from one to the other. “What’s up?”

“Glamping,” says Dad with a flourish.

“Glamping? What do you mean, glamping?”

“It’s where it’s at, love. Saw it in the papers. All the celebs are at it. We’ve got the land, we’ve got the time….”

“We’re serious,” says Biddy earnestly. “We want to open a glamping site here. What do you think?”

I don’t know what I think. I mean…glamping?

“Could be a money-spinner,” says Dad, and I feel a familiar trickle of alarm. I thought Biddy had calmed him down. I thought the days of Dad’s crazy schemes were over. The last I heard, he was going to start getting odd jobs in the neighborhood and build up a handyman business to supplement the farm income. Which is a sensible idea.

“Dad, opening a glamping site is a massive deal.” I try not to sound as negative as I feel. “It needs investment, knowledge…I mean, you don’t just wake up one morning and say, Let’s do glamping. For a start, don’t you need permission?”

“Got it!” says Dad triumphantly. “At least, as near as damn it. It’s this farm diversification business, isn’t it? Bring business to the area. The council’s all for it.”

“You’ve spoken to the council?” I’m taken aback. This is more serious than I realized.

“I did,” says Biddy. Her dark eyes are shining. “I’ve had an inheritance, love.”

“Oh, wow,” I say in surprise. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not huge, but it’s enough. And I really think we could do this, Katie. We’ve got the land, and it’s crying out for some use. I think we’d enjoy it. I don’t suppose…” She hesitates. “No. Of course not.”

“What?”

“Well.” Biddy glances at Dad.

“We wondered—do you want to come in on the business with us?” says Dad with an awkward laugh. “Be a partner?”

“What?” I goggle at him. “But…how can I come in on the business? I’m up in London—”

I break off and look away. I practically can’t say “London” around Dad without wincing.

“We know!” says Biddy. “We’re so proud of you, love, with your job and your amazing life. Aren’t we, Mick?”

Biddy is a stalwart supporter of my London life, despite the fact she’s about as keen on cities as Dad is. But I wish she wouldn’t try to prompt him like that.

“Of course we are,” mutters Dad.

“But we thought, if you did fancy a change…” Biddy continues. “Or in your spare time…or weekends? You’re so bright and clever, Katie….”

They’re serious. They want me to come in on the business with them. Oh God. I love Biddy. I love Dad. But that’s a huge responsibility.

“I can’t be a partner.” I shove my hands through my hair, avoiding their eyes. “I’m sorry. Life in London is so busy; I just don’t have time….”

I can see Biddy forcing a smile through her disappointment.

“Of course,” she says. “Of course you don’t. You’ve done so well, Katie. Have you had your bedroom redecorated yet?”

I feel another massive twinge of guilt and take a sip of punch, playing for time. I came up with the redecorating story when Dad and Biddy came to visit. (That way, we didn’t need to go near the flat and I could take them out to Jamie’s Italian.) Then I told them it was stalled. Then I told them it was on again.

“It’s on the way!” I smile brightly. “Just need to get the color scheme right.”

“Color scheme,” echoes Dad, with a wry smile at Biddy. “You hear that, Biddy?”

Our farmhouse has never had a color scheme in its life. We’ve got ancient furniture that’s been there for hundreds of years (well, maybe a hundred years) and walls that have been the same mustard or salmon pink since I was a child. What the house really needs, I suppose, is someone to gut it, knock down some walls, come in with a Farrow & Ball chart, and make the most of the view.

Although, actually, the thought of changing a single detail makes me feel all hot and bothered.

“Anyway, it was just a thought,” says Biddy brightly.

“Of course you haven’t got time, Kitty-Kate,” says Dad, his tone a little wistful. “It’s understandable.”

He’s such a familiar sight, standing there in the Somerset sunshine, with his wrinkles and his heavy, stained jersey and his work boots covered in mud. All my life, Dad’s been there. Pottering around the house, in the fields, taking me to the pub and feeding me crisps. Trying to make our millions. Not just for him, for me too.

“Look.” I exhale. “I didn’t mean I can’t help. Maybe with the marketing stuff or something?”

“There!” Biddy’s face lights up in delight. “I knew Katie would help! Anything you can do, love. You know about these things. Give us some advice.”

“OK, so what exactly are you going to do?” I gesture around the land. “Take me through the whole plan.”

“Buy some tents,” says Dad promptly. “Dave Yarnett’s got a good line in them. Gave me the idea in the first place. He’ll throw in sleeping bags too.”

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “Not tents. Yurts.”

“You what?” Dad looks baffled.

“Yurts. Yurts. Have you never heard of yurts?”

“Sounds like an illness of the you-know-wheres,” says Dad, twinkling. “Doctor, Doctor, I’ve got the yurts.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke, and Biddy shoots him a reproving glance.

“I’ve heard of them,” she says. “It’s Moroccan tents, isn’t it?”

“I think they’re Mongolian. Anyway, that’s what everyone glamps in. Yurts, or retro caravans, or shepherd’s huts…something different.”

“Well, how much are they?” Dad looks unenthusiastic. “Because Dave’s doing me a very good deal—”

“Dad!” I cry, exasperated. “No one will come and glamp in cut-price tents from Dave Yarnett! Whereas if you bought some yurts, made them look nice, put up some bunting, cleared up the yard…”

I survey the landscape with a new eye. I mean, the view is spectacular. The land stretches away from us, green and lush, the grass rippling in the breeze. I can see, in the distance, the sun glinting on our little lake. It’s called Fisher’s Lake, and we used to row on it. We could buy a new rowing boat. Kids would love it. Maybe a rope swing. We could have fire pits…barbecues…an outdoor pizza oven, maybe….

I can see the potential. I can actually see the potential.

“Well, I’ve already told Dave I’m ordering ten tents,” says Dad, and I feel a spike of frustration, which somehow I squash down.

“Fine.” I down my drink and force a smile. “Do it your way.”

—

It’s not till later that afternoon that the subject comes up again. Biddy’s preparing potatoes for tomorrow and I’m icing the gingerbread men she made this morning. We’ll put them on the Christmas tree later. I’m utterly engrossed, piping tiny smiles and bow ties and buttons, while Christmas hits play through the stereo. The table is Formica-topped, and the chairs are dark green painted wood with dated oak-leaf cushions. Above us is hanging the blue glittery decoration that we’ve hung up every year since I was ten and saw it for sale in a garage. It couldn’t be less Livingetc, but I don’t care. I feel warm and snug and homey.

“Katie,” says Biddy suddenly, in a low voice, and I look up in surprise. “Please, love. You know what your dad’s like. He’ll buy these wretched tents and open up and it’ll be a disaster….” She puts her potato peeler down. “But I want this to work. I think it can work. We’ve got the money to invest; now’s the time….”

Her cheeks are faintly pink and she has a determined look about her that I don’t often see.

“I agree.” I put down my icing bag. “It’s an amazing site, and there’s definitely demand. But you need to do it right. And maybe I don’t have time to be a partner, but I still want to help….” I shake my head. “But I really don’t want to see you throw money away on cheap tents.”

“I know!” Biddy looks anguished. “I know! We don’t know what’s right, and your dad can be so obstinate….”

I meet eyes with her sympathetically. This is an understatement. My dad fixes onto a viewpoint—whether it’s the tube is full of terrorists or alpacas will make our fortune—and it’s practically impossible to budge him.

Then, to my surprise, I suddenly hear Demeter’s voice in my head: You need a bit of tenacity.

She’s right. What’s the point of being the only member of the family with experience in marketing and not speaking out? If I don’t at least try to talk Dad round, then I’m being feeble.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Who are you going to talk to?” Dad comes in, holding the Radio Times, looking merry.

“You,” I say briskly. “Dad, you have to listen to me. If you’re going to open a glamping business, it has to be cool. It has to be…” I search for the right word. “Hip. Authentic. Not crappy tents from Dave Yarnett.”

“I’ve told Dave I’m buying them now.” Dad looks sulky.

“Well, un-tell him! Dad, if you buy those tents, you’re just throwing away money. You need to have the right image, or no one will come. I work with successful businesses, OK? I know how they operate.”

“You need to listen to Katie!” Biddy cries. “I knew we were getting it wrong! We’re buying yurts, Mick, and that’s the end of it. Tell us what else we need, Katie.”

She pulls out a notebook from the kitchen table drawer, and I see Glamping written on it in Biro.

“OK. I think if you’re going to do this, you should do it high-end. Really high-end. Do food…put on activities…make this a luxury glamping resort for families.”

“A resort?” Dad looks taken aback.

“Why not? You’ve got the space, you’ve got the resources, Biddy’s had experience in catering….”

“But not in the rest of it, love.” Biddy looks worried.

“I’ll give you pointers. The more luxury you go, the higher prices you can charge, the more profit you’ll make.”

“High prices?” Biddy looks even more anxious.

“People love high prices,” I say confidently.

“What?” Dad looks skeptical. “I think you’re wrong there, love.”

“I’m not! It’s prestige pricing. They see the prices and they think it must be good. If you’ve got some money to invest, high-end is the way to go. You’ll need luxury tents, for a start.” I count off on my fingers. “Yurts or tepees or whatever. And proper beds. And…” I search around in my mind for things I’ve seen on Instagram. “High thread count.”

My dad and Biddy exchange looks. “What count?”

“Thread count. Sheets.”

Biddy still looks baffled. She and my dad use the duvet sets that Biddy brought when she moved in. They’re cream and spriggy and date from the 1980s. I have no idea what thread count they are, probably zero.

“Biddy, we’ll go online and I’ll show you. Thread count is essential.” I try to impress this on her. “You need four hundred, at least. And nice soap.”

“I’ve got soap.” Dad looks proud of himself. “Job lot from the Factory Shop. Thirty bars.”

“No!” I shake my head. “It has to be some kind of local handmade organic soap. Something luxury. Your customers want to have London in the country. Like, rustic, but urban rustic.”

I can see Biddy writing down London in the country.

“You’ll need to put some showers in one of the barns,” I add.

Dad nods. “We’ve thought of that.”

One of his skills is plumbing, so I’m not too worried about that—as long as he doesn’t choose some terrible knock-off sanitary ware in bilious green.

Another idea hits me. “And maybe you should have an outside shower for summer. That would be amazing.”

“An outside shower?” My dad looks appalled. “Outside?”

Dad’s pride and joy is his Jacuzzi, which he bought secondhand and installed himself when we had some government-rebate windfall. His idea of a top relaxing evening is to sit in his Jacuzzi, drinking one of his homemade cocktails and reading the Daily Express. He’s not really an outside shower type of guy.

I nod. “Definitely. With wooden screens. Maybe with a wooden pail that drenches you, or something?”

“A wooden pail?” Dad looks even more horrified.

“It’s what they want.” I shrug.

“But you just said they want to be urban! Make up your mind, Katie!”

“They do and they don’t.” I’m struggling to explain. “They want nice soap, but they want to use it looking at the sky, listening to cows. They want to feel rural…but not actually be rural.”

“They sound like bloody lunatics.”

“Maybe.” I shrug again. “But they’re lunatics with money.”

The phone rings, and Dad answers. I can see Biddy diligently writing down thread count, handmade soap, cows.

“Hello? Oh yes. The scented logs? Of course. Let me just look in the order book….”

“Scented logs?” I say in an undertone to Biddy.

“It’s a new thing I’m doing,” she replies. “Pine-scented logs for Christmas. We’re selling them in bundles. You infuse them with pine oil. It’s very easy.”

“That’s clever!” I say admiringly.

“It’s gone quite well.” Biddy blushes. “Very popular.”

“Well, you can sell them to the glampers. And your jam. And your gingerbread biscuits. And give them your homemade granola for breakfast….”

The more I think about it, the more I think Biddy will be the perfect hostess for a bunch of glampers. She even has apple cheeks, like a proper farmer’s wife.

Then Dad’s voice impinges on my thoughts.

“No, we don’t have a sign. Where are you?” He takes a sip of his drink. “Oh, you can’t come that way.” He chuckles as if it’s perfectly obvious. “The satnav always gets it wrong….Oh, that gate? Yes, that gate will be shut….No, I don’t know the gate code….Well, you’ll have to come round the long way.” He listens again. “No, we don’t provide bags. Most of our customers bring their own. OK, we’ll see you shortly.” He puts down the phone and nods at Biddy.

“Customer for your logs.” He chuckles again. “She sounded a bit confused, poor love.”

“No wonder she was confused!” I erupt. “Dad, do you have any idea about customer service?” Dad looks blank, and I clutch my head. “You can’t behave like that if you open a glamping site! You need a map! Directions! Bags! You need to hold the client’s hand. Hold it throughout. Make them feel secure every minute of the process. Then you’ll have a happy customer.”

I suddenly realize I’m channeling Demeter again. In fact, I’m echoing her word for word.

Well, so what? Demeter may be the boss from hell and having torrid sex with the guy I thought I liked, but she’s still the most talented person in the office. If I don’t try to learn from her, I’m a fool.

I’ve been reading that book she lent me, Our Vision, and making notes on it. Not only that, I’ve been deciphering all Demeter’s scribbled comments in the margins and making notes on those too. And I’ve only written stupid cow once. Which I think is quite controlled of me.

“You see?” Biddy chimes in. “This is why we need Katie’s advice. She knows. Now, you listen to her, Mick.”

I’ve never heard Biddy so assertive, and I give an inward cheer.

“So, another question.” I look from Biddy to Dad. “Have you thought about marketing? You need a brand. An image.” My dad and Biddy look back at me helplessly and I feel a sudden tweak of love for them both. This is something I could do for them. I could create a glamping brand.

My mind is already at work. I’m seeing images. Taglines. Photos of fields, lambs, bunting, campfires…Oh God, it could look amazing.

“I’ll make you a leaflet,” I say. “And a website. I’ll create your brand. You just do the practical details. I’ll do the image.”

“Would you, love?” Biddy claps a hand over her mouth. “That would be wonderful!”

“I want to,” I say. “Really, I do.”

And it’s true. Not only do I want to—I can’t wait.

—

I work at it all Christmas. It consumes me. The sun is out again on Christmas Day, and instead of going to church with Dad and Biddy, I rush round the farm, taking endless pictures of fields, cows, random gateposts, whatever I can find. I download generic pictures of yurts, daffodils, fire pits, lambs, and a close-up of a child splashing in a lake which could easily be Fisher’s Lake. I get a shot of Dad’s tractor. I build a makeshift den with sticks, decorate it with the only string of bunting I possess, and get a picture of that. I take a close-up of Biddy’s jam, cunningly styled on an ancient linen tea towel, with some dried lavender sprigs in the foreground. (Biddy makes lavender bags every year too. And chamomile tea.)

Choosing the font takes a while, but in the end I find one which totally speaks to me. It’s cool, retro, a bit rustic but not twee. It’s perfect. I filter the pictures, play around with layout, and then start brainstorming copy.

Demeter’s voice is in my head yet again as I type:

Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Local. Nature. Values. Family. Haven. Space. Simple. Slowdown. Laughter. Freedom. Mud.

No, scrap mud. No mud, no silage, no slaughterhouses, no sheep with gross diseases of the foot. No reality.

Earth. Craft. Ancient. Wagon. Campfire. Slow-cooked. Handmade. Pure. Fresh air. Fresh milk. Fresh, authentic, traditional, organic, local, hand-kneaded, homemade bread. (Gluten-free available.)

By Boxing Day I’ve finalized the brochure, and though I say it myself, it’s mouthwatering. It’s fabulous. I want to come and stay at Ansters Farm.

“What do you think?” I hand over my printed-out draft layouts and wait for Dad and Biddy to comment.

“Goodness!” Biddy peers at the picture of the farmhouse. “Is that us?”

“I Photoshopped it a tiny bit.” I shrug. “It’s what you do.”

“What’s this, www.anstersfarm.com?” queries Dad.

“It’s the website I’m going to make for you,” I say. “It’ll take a bit longer to set up, but it’ll have the same vibe.”

Both Dad and Biddy are reading the copy, looking a bit perplexed.

“Organic hammocks,” reads Biddy. “Luxe yurts. Freedom for couples, families, lovers. Be who you want to be.”

“With grass underfoot and the wide sky above, children can be children,” reads Dad. “Well, what else would they be?”

“We mix traditional values with modern comforts in a haven from modern life,” reads Biddy. “Oh, Katie, that does sound good.”

“Forget your stresses as you enjoy our program of rural activities. Corn-dolly-making, tractor rides, stick-whittling…” Dad looks up. “Stick-whittling? For Pete’s sake, love. People don’t come on holiday to whittle sticks.”

“They do! They think whittling sticks is back to nature!”

“I could bake cakes,” volunteers Biddy. “With the children, I mean.”

“As long as it’s a local, authentic Somerset recipe,” I say sternly. “No additives. No chocolate buttons.”

“Weekly stargazing barbecues,” reads Dad, and looks up again. “Who’s doing those?”

“You are,” I tell him. “And you’re doing tractor rides and cow-milking.”

“All about Esme.” Biddy has turned to the back page and is reading aloud.

“Who’s Esme?” demands Dad.

“One of the chickens. You’ll have to name all the animals,” I instruct him. “Every chicken, every cow, every sheep.”

“Katie, love.” Dad looks as though I’ve gone out of my mind. “I think you’re going too far here.”

“You have to!” I insist. “The chicken’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”

“Esme and her family are part of farm life,” reads Biddy. “Visit their henhouse and collect your very own warm eggs. Then scramble them on the fire pit with our locally sourced hemp oil and wild mushrooms.” She looks up anxiously. “Locally sourced hemp oil?”

“I’ve already found a supplier,” I tell her with satisfaction. “It’s totally the new olive oil.”

“Enjoy with our homemade organic bread and range of award-winning jams.” Biddy flinches. “Award-winning?”

“You’ve won loads of prizes at fairs,” I remind her. “Those are awards, aren’t they?”

“Well.” Biddy turns the printouts over and over, as though digesting them. “It does look wonderful, I must say.”

“We can upload fresher pictures on the website,” I say. “Once you’ve got the yurts and everything. But this is like a sneak preview.”

“But none of it’s true!”

“It is! I mean…it will be. It can be. I’m going to get this printed up on special paper,” I add.

I already know the paper I want to use. It’s a recycled, unfinished paper that we used once at Cooper Clemmow for a cereal brand. I remember Demeter giving the office one of her spontaneous lectures on why this paper was the ideal choice, and, I have to admit, I lapped up every word. It’ll look perfect.

I could probably spend all day discussing the design, but after a while Dad says he has to check on some sick cow, and he heads out.

“Ansters Farm Country Retreat.” Biddy is looking lovingly at the front of the leaflet again. “Doesn’t it look beautiful? I don’t know how you can leave, darling. Don’t you ever think about moving back?” There’s a wistful cast to her expression, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt. I think Biddy picks up on it, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know your life is very exciting in London….”

I let her words hang in the air without contradicting them but without nodding either. It’s quiet and cozy, sitting here with Biddy, and I almost feel like drawing closer and confiding in her. Asking her about Dad, how hurt he really is. Whether he’ll ever get over the fact that I’ve chosen London over him.

But I haven’t got the guts to speak. I guess I’m too scared of what I might hear. The prickliness between me and Dad isn’t great, but it’s tolerable. Whereas to have my worst fears confirmed would just…Even the thought makes me flinch. No. Don’t go there.

Biddy would never volunteer anything without being asked; she’s scrupulous like that. She’s positioned herself in our family with the utmost tact, and there are places she just doesn’t go. So even though I feel as if the subject is dancing around us in the ether, demanding to be discussed, neither of us says a word about it. We sip our tea and it slowly ebbs away again, like these things always do.

After a while, I pull the leaflet toward me. The truth is, I do feel a little tug in my heart as I survey the farm, looking as picturesque as any glossy magazine spread. It gives me such a feeling of…what, exactly? Pride? Love? Longing?

“Evening, all.” A familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. A familiar, droning, totally unwelcome voice. I look up, trying to mask my dismay—but there he is, Steve Logan, striding into the room with his long, long legs. He’s six foot five, Steve. Always has been.

Well, not always, clearly. But since he was about twelve, and everyone at school used to dare him to go into the off-license and buy a can of beer. (Because obviously a super-tall twelve-year-old boy looks exactly like an adult.)

“Hi, Steve,” I say, trying to sound friendly. “Happy Christmas. How are you?”

Steve works for Dad on the farm, so it makes sense that he’s popped in. But I was really hoping he wouldn’t.

OK, full disclosure: Steve is the first guy I ever slept with. Although, in my defense, there was not a lot of choice.

“Cup of tea, Steve?” says Biddy, and when he nods, she disappears to the kitchen. Steve and I are alone. Great. The thing about Steve and me is, we were together for about five minutes, and I regretted it as soon as we began, and I can’t now imagine what I saw in him apart from: 1. He was a boy. 2. He was available. And 3. I was the only one of my friends not to have a boyfriend.

But Steve has behaved ever since as though we’re some long-standing divorced couple. He and his mum still refer to me as his “ex.” (Hello? We barely dated and we were at school.) He makes in-jokes about the time we spent together and shoots me “significant” glances, which I deliberately misunderstand or ignore. Basically, my way of coping with Steve has been: Avoid him.

But things should be different now, after what Biddy has told me.

“So, congratulations!” I say brightly. “I heard you got engaged to Kayla. Fantastic news!”

“That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right. Asked her in November. It was her birthday.” Steve has this low, intense, monotonous way of talking which is almost mesmerizing. “Put the proposal on Instagram,” he adds. “Want to see?”

“Oh. Er…of course!”

Steve gets out his phone and hands it to me. Dutifully, I start scrolling through photos of him and Kayla in some plushy restaurant with purple wallpaper.

“Took her out for dinner at Shaw Manor. Three courses…everything.” He looks up a bit belligerently. “I know how to spoil her.”

“Wow,” I say politely. “Lovely photos. Gorgeous…forks.”

There are pictures of every detail of the restaurant. The forks, the napkins, the chairs…When the hell did he propose if he was taking all these photos?

“Then I gave her the presents. But the proposal, that was hidden in the last present. In a poem.”

“Amazing!” I search for words. “That’s just…Wow.” I’m still scrolling through pictures of place settings, trying to keep my face set to “interested.”

“I mean, if it had been you, I’d have done it different.” Steve shoots me a look from beneath his brows. “But of course it wasn’t you.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it had been me’?” I feel a stab of alarm.

“I’m just saying. Everyone’s different. You’d like different things out of a proposal. You and Kayla, you’re different.”

OK, this conversation has gone awry. I do not want to be talking to Steve Logan about what I might or might not like out of a proposal.

“So, what else is new?” I ask brightly, handing his phone back to him. “Give me the gossip.”

“New outlet store’s opened in West Warreton,” he informs me. “It does Ted Baker, Calvin Klein….”

“Great!”

“I know you have Ted Baker in London, but we’ve got it here now. I’m just saying.” Steve gives me one of his passive–aggressive looks. “You know. Just saying.”

“Right—”

“I mean, I know you think you’ve got everything in London, but—”

“I don’t think I’ve got everything in London,” I cut him off. Steve has always been chippy about London, and the trick is not to talk to him about it.

“We’ve got Ted Baker.” He eyes me as though he’s proved some massive point. “Discount.”

This is torture.

“Biddy!” I call lightly, but she doesn’t hear me. “Well, anyway.” I summon my most pleasant tones. “Best of luck with the wedding—”

“I could break up with her.” He speaks in low tones, leaning toward me.

“What?”

“If you say the word.”

“What?” I stare at him, aghast. “Steve, if you want to break up with her, you shouldn’t be marrying her!”

“I’m not saying I want to break up with her. But I would. You know. If you and me…” He makes a weird motion with his hands. I don’t even want to think about what he’s trying to describe.

“No! I mean…that’s never going to happen. Steve, you’re engaged.”

“I never gave up on you. Did you give up on me?”

“Yes, I did! I totally gave up on you!” I’m hoping to shock him into reality, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Think about it,” he says, taps his phone, and winks.

He’s insane.

“I’m really happy you’re engaged,” I say briskly. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful life together. I must go and help Biddy.”

As I leave the room, I want to scream. And Biddy asks me if I want to move back here? She must be bloody joking.