My Not So Perfect Life

It’s funny how life works like a seesaw: Some things go up while others plunge down. My life is swiftly unraveling while Dad’s is finally, it seems, coming together. He’s sent me pictures of the constructed yurts, and they look wonderful. The bathroom block is gleaming, the fire pits look picturesque, the bunting is charming, and Biddy has stockpiled homemade jam. Meanwhile, we’ve sent out the brochures to everyone we can think of. Dad has left piles of them in every trendy café around Somerset, while I’ve targeted likely places in London. (I left a pile in a café in Wandsworth, and a woman in a Boden mac picked one up while I was still there. It was like magic.)

But that’s not the half of it. That’s not even the 10 percent of it. What’s happened to Dad and Biddy this week is like a lottery win, like a freak pot of gold under the rainbow. I still can’t quite believe it’s happened. The Guardian has profiled Ansters Farm Country Retreat in its “Glamping Roundup.”

It’s nuts! I mean, Ansters Farm isn’t even a thing yet! But clearly some journalist was under a deadline and found the website and thought, This’ll do. It’s all in the piece—the yurts, the chickens, even my prose about children being children. They printed a photo of a campfire in front of a yurt and captioned it: Ansters Farm is the latest family haven for hip glampers, and I nearly died when I saw it. I mean, The Guardian!

And if I’d still been at work, it would have been my greatest-ever triumph. I could have marched into Demeter’s office and said, There’s branding for you.

But I’m not.

It’s the last week of February and I don’t have a job. I don’t have the prospect of a job. I just have aching hands from typing job applications, googling brand agencies, and writing spec letters.

I’ve written an individual email for each application. I’ve researched every single possible company in the UK that I might suit. My mind is reeling with product names, campaigns, contacts. I’m exhausted. And panicky. Occasionally I glance in the mirror and see my own stricken face, and it’s so not the face I want to see that I quickly look away again.

I’m trying to keep the fear at bay by doing stuff. I’ve reorganized my hammock. I’ve re-drafted my monthly budget to make it last two months. I’m doing a ton of walking, because, you know, walking’s free. Plus it gives you endorphins and will therefore, in theory, cheer me up. Although I can’t say that’s really working. And I’m still up to date with Instagram. I’ve posted moody images of London streets at 4:00 A.M. (I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t mention that.) I’ve posted a photo of the new pretzel stand at Victoria. I sound bright and breezy and employed. You’d never know the truth.

Flora’s been in touch, quite a bit. She’s left phone messages and texts and a long email starting: Oh my GOOOOOOOD. I can’t believe the witch FIRED you, that is SO UNFAIR!!!!!!!!

I sent an email back, but I haven’t spoken to her. I just feel too vulnerable right now. Sarah’s also been in contact—in fact, she sent me a surprisingly long and sympathetic card. Apparently Demeter got rid of Sarah’s boyfriend too, before I arrived at Cooper Clemmow. He’s called Jake and he’s a really good designer, did nothing wrong, but got made redundant. He’s still unemployed all these months later, and they’re both fairly devastated but trying to be positive. She ended with, I know how hard this is for you, and a string of sad faces.

And, you know, I’m sure she had the best of intentions, or whatever, but it didn’t altogether cheer me up. I never went to that drinks at the Blue Bear either—how could I? I’m not part of the gang anymore. And, anyway, I couldn’t afford to pay for my round.

I’m hanging out a lot at home, but even that’s stressful, because of our new flatmate. Anita has sublet her room while she’s away in Paris. It’s totally against the rules, but our landlord never comes round. (I wish he would. He might get rid of the whey.) Our new flatmate is a cheerful blond girl called Irena who has rosy cheeks and wears a floral headscarf a lot of the time, and I had great hopes of her until she invited all her friends round.

I say “friends.” That’s not exactly what it is. They’re a religion. It’s the Church of the Something (I didn’t quite catch the name and now I don’t like to ask). And they all meet in her room and sing and have talks and shout, “Yes!”

I have nothing against the Church of the Something. I’m sure they’re very good people. Only they’re also quite noisy. So, what with the singing and the whey boxes and Alan yelling, “Knobhead!” at himself, it’s getting quite oppressive in here.

I’ve come into the kitchen to make my vegetable stew, and I’m crouching on the cardboard boxes, which are now so battered they keep half-collapsing. Maybe I should join the Church of the Something? The thought crosses my mind and I give a wry smile. Maybe that’s the answer. Only I don’t think I have the energy to shout, “Yes!” twenty times a night. I don’t have much energy at all, is the truth. I feel drained. Defeated.

I stir my butternut squash and rutabaga stew (cheap and nutritious) and close my eyes with tiredness. And just for a moment, with my guard down, I let my mind roam into places it shouldn’t. Places that are cold and scary and full of questions I don’t want asked.

What if I don’t find a job?

I will.

But what if?

There’s a sudden dampness on my cheekbone. A tear is creeping out of one eye, I realize. It’s the steam, I tell myself furiously. It’s the onions. It’s the whey.

“All right, Cat?” Alan appears at the door of the kitchen, leaps up, and starts doing chin-ups from the lintel.

“Fine!” I force a bright smile. “Good!” I shake some dried herbs into my stew and give it a stir.

“Bunch of nutters, aren’t they?” He jerks his head toward Irena’s room.

“I think we should respect their beliefs,” I say, as another “Yesss!” resounds through the flat.

“Nooo!” Alan bellows over his shoulder, and grins at me. “Nutters. You know she wants another room for her friend? Asked if I’d move out. The nerve. They want to turn this place into a commune.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“D’you reckon they shag or whatever?”

“What?”

“Like, they haven’t all taken the pledge, have they?”

“I have no idea,” I say frostily.

“I was just wondering.” His eyes gleam. “A lot of these cults are into some crazy shit. Some of those girls are pretty hot.” He does a few more chin-ups, then adds, “I mean, Irena’s hot, come to that. Does she have someone?”

“I don’t know.” I scoop my stew into a bowl and say pointedly, “Excuse me.” I clamber down off the whey boxes and past Alan, heading back to my room. Please don’t let Alan hook up with Irena, I’m thinking. I’ve heard Alan having sex, and it’s like one of his motivational rants but ten times louder.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, start forking stew into my mouth, and try to find something positive to think about. Come on, Katie. It’s not all bad. I sent off a stack of applications today, so that’s good. Maybe I should go onto Instagram now. Post something fun.

But as I scroll through the images on my phone, they seem to be mocking me. Who am I kidding with all this fake, happy stuff? I mean, who am I kidding, exactly?

Tears are running openly down my face now, as though they don’t care who sees them. All my defenses are crumbling. There’s only so long you can tell yourself that a crap situation is good and believe it.

On impulse, I take a picture of my hammock. And then my rutabaga stew. It isn’t like any Instagram images of stew I’ve ever seen—it’s an unappealing pile of browny-orange slop, like prison food. Imagine if I posted that on Instagram. The crappy truth. See my cut-price supper. Look at my tights, falling out of their hammock. Look at all my job applications.

God, I’m losing it now. I’m just tired, I tell myself firmly. Just tired…

My phone suddenly rings and I jump, startled, nearly spilling my stew. And for a split second I think, A job, a job, a job?

But it’s Biddy. Of course it is.

I haven’t told Biddy—or Dad—about my job. Not yet. I mean, obviously I will tell them. I just don’t know when.

OK, full disclosure: I’m hoping desperately that I won’t ever have to tell them, ever. I’m hoping that I’ll somehow be able to sort things out quietly for myself, get a new job, and tell them after the event in a light and easy way: Yes, I’ve changed jobs; it’s no big deal, it was time to move on. Let them think it was my choice, a natural progression. Save them all that distress and worry. Save me all that distress and worry.

Because if I tell Dad I’ve been let go from my job at Cooper Clemmow…Oh God. Just the thought makes me wince. I won’t only be dealing with my own distress, I’ll be dealing with his righteous anger too. He’ll rail and fume and ask me what went wrong….And right now I don’t feel strong enough for that.

Biddy’s different, more reasonable. But now isn’t the moment to burden her. She’s got enough on her plate with the glamping venture—I can already tell she’s been overwhelmed. It’s been more money and work than she expected, and it’s consuming all her energy. I can’t make her load heavier with my problems.

Nor can I risk her offering me money, which I know she’d do like a shot. That’s her inheritance, and it’s going on the business, not on me. Honestly, I’d rather give up my flat in London than have Biddy subsidizing it.

And I may get a new job tomorrow. I may.

“Hi, Biddy!” I wipe my sleeve across my face. “How are you?”

Biddy’s been phoning me a lot, ever since Christmas. It’s actually been a real upside to this whole glamping thing—I’m talking to her so much more. I’ve helped her order furniture for the yurts, and we’ve discussed where to put every fire pit and bench. She’s also had a lot of queries for Alan about the website, and, to be fair to him, he’s been super-patient. In fact, between us, Alan and I are the total architects of this project.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I, darling? You’re not eating? We’ve just been trying out a new lamb tagine recipe, actually. If we do offer dinners, I think it’ll be…quite good.”

Quite good. In the language of Biddy-understatement, that means utterly delicious. I have a sudden image of her doling out some fragrant marinated local lamb, sprinkled with herbs from the garden, while Dad pours some of his Cash & Carry red wine.

“Great!” I say. “Well done! So, did you want to talk about menus?”

“No. No, sorry, that wasn’t it. Katie, the thing is—” Biddy breaks off. She sounds nervous, I suddenly realize.

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes! Fine! Oh, love…” Biddy seems tongue-tied.

“What?” I demand. “Biddy, what?”

“Oh, Katie.” She gulps. “People have started booking.”

“What?”

“I know!” She sounds dumbfounded. “They’re using the website. It’s all working. I’ve taken five inquiries today alone. We’ve got three families booked in over the Easter weekend and four the week after. Four families, Katie!”

“Oh my God.”

Even I feel quite shocked. I mean, I knew people would come, in principle. But four families? All at once?

“Well, that’s amazing! Biddy, you’ve done it!”

“But we haven’t!” she wails. “That’s the point! Oh, darling, I’m petrified. We’re going to have real customers, and I don’t know how we’re going to manage them, or entertain them, or…what if something goes wrong? And your dad’s no help—I mean, he’s a good man, but…”

She trails off, and I gape at the phone. I’ve never heard Biddy sound so rattled.

“You’ll be great!” I say reassuringly. “I mean, you’ve got your lovely breakfasts and all the activities….”

“But how do we organize it all? I’ve asked Denise from the village to help out, but all she does is ask me questions I can’t answer.”

“Well, put her on to me. Or do you want me to come down at the weekend?”

Even as I say the words, I feel a sickening wrench. A return ticket to Somerset costs a fortune. How on earth can I afford that? But I’ve offered now.

“Oh, Katie.” Biddy seems to dissolve. “Would you? We rely on you so much, you know. When you’re around, everything seems to fall into place. We’ll pay your ticket, of course. And I know you’re busy with your wonderful job in London, and we’re ever so proud of you, but there was another thing….” She hesitates as though she can’t bring herself to continue.

“What?”

There’s silence down the line and I wrinkle my brow in puzzlement. Just what can’t Biddy bring herself to say?

“Biddy? Biddy, are you still there?”

“Katie, you wouldn’t have any holiday, would you?” says Biddy in a rush. “You wouldn’t be able to help us out, just at the start? Stay a week or two, maybe? Or as long as you can.”

“Biddy…” I begin automatically, then break off. I don’t know what I want to say. I didn’t see this coming.

“I know, I know.” Biddy instantly backtracks. “I shouldn’t ask. It’s not fair. You’re making your way in the world, and if you can’t do it, we absolutely understand. You’ve got your career, your life, your flat—how’s the redecoration going, by the way?”

“Oh. Yes, it’s fine…it’s…argh! Oh God! Aaaargh!”

With no warning, the world has turned black. For a terrifying instant I think I’m being attacked. Something’s hitting me, banging me, surrounding me….I flail with my arms, panting, panicking…then suddenly realize what’s happened.

My bloody hammock’s collapsed.

I fight my way out of a black jersey skirt which has enveloped my head and survey my bed in dismay. The hammock is hanging dismally from one corner. All my crap is everywhere—clothes, hair products, books, magazines. It’ll take forever to sort all this out again. The only plus is that my bowl of stew was on the floor and didn’t get knocked over.

Actually, that’s not a plus.

“Katie?” Biddy’s anxious voice is coming out of the phone. “Katie, what’s happened?”

I grab the phone. “I’m fine. Sorry. Just knocked something over. I’m fine. Um…” I try to get my thoughts in order. “What were we saying?”

“I realized I never said, darling, we’ll pay you!”

“What?” I say blankly.

“If you could come and help out, we’d pay you, of course. You know we’ve been wanting to pay you for everything you’ve done already, love, and now it looks like we’ll have a budget….”

“You’d…” I rub my face. “You’d pay me.”

It’s a job offer. I’ve had a job offer. I almost want to laugh hysterically—but I don’t. I stir my stew, fighting my own thoughts.

An idea has crept into my head, an idea I can barely contemplate. Because it feels like an idea of failure. Of giving up. Of everything collapsing into dust.

I had so many dreams. I used to lie on my bed and study the tube map and imagine becoming one of those fast, confident people I’d seen on day trips to the capital. People in a hurry, with goals, aims, broad horizons. I’d imagined getting on a career ladder that could take me anywhere if I worked hard enough. Working on global brands; meeting fascinating people; living life to the max.

And, yes, I knew it would be hard. But maybe not this hard.

“Katie?”

“Sorry. Just…thinking.”

It wouldn’t be giving up, I tell myself sternly. It would just be…what? Regrouping. Because I can crack this. But maybe I need some time out first.

“Biddy, hold on,” I say abruptly. “There’s something I need to check.”

I put down the phone, hurry out of my room, and knock on Irena’s door. There’s no response, but I push my way in, anyway, telling myself that this is urgent and Irena’s god will understand.

The room is a sea of bowed, silent heads. Shit. Obviously this is a moment of prayer or something and now I’ve disturbed it. But I’m not backing away. I have to know.

I tiptoe through the cross-legged figures until I reach Irena, who’s sitting on the bed, her blond hair shining, her eyes closed, and her rosy face rapt. Alan’s right, I find myself thinking; she is very hot.

“Irena?” I whisper in her ear. “Irena, sorry to disturb, but is it true you want to sublet a room?”

Irena’s eyes pop open and she turns to look at me.

“Yes,” she whispers back. “It’s for my friend Sonia.”

She gestures at Sonia, who is even more blond and hot than Irena. Bloody hell. Alan’s going to think he’s gone to heaven.

“Well, you can have mine.”

“Great!” Irena’s eyes widen. “When?”

“As soon as we can fix it up. Come and see me when you’ve finished.”

I tiptoe away again, thinking frantically. How exactly am I going to finesse this? I can’t come clean to Biddy. She’s in such a state right now. If she gets hassled by me and my problems too, then that won’t help anybody.

So…OK. Here’s what I’m going to do: 1. Help Biddy and Dad. 2. Not alarm them. 3. Quietly sort out my life. 4. Tell them the details on a need-to-know basis, preferably when everything is safely back on track again.

(5. Even when things are back on track, they will never need to know every painful detail of my life. 6. Especially how Demeter couldn’t even remember if she’d fired me or not. 7. Or how I got mistaken for a homeless person.)

The only teeny problem is: What do I actually say? Right here and now? What do I say?

I pick up my phone and take a deep breath.

“Biddy…there is a kind of…er…possibility,” I say into the phone. “It’s hard to explain…kind of complicated….Anyway, the point is, I can help you. I’ll come down tomorrow.”

“You’ll come down?” Biddy sounds stunned. “Oh, Katie, love! How long can you stay for?”

“Not sure yet,” I say vaguely. “I need to talk to some people…make some arrangements…probably a couple of weeks. Or a few weeks. Something like that.”

“So, is it a sabbatical you’re taking?” Biddy hazards. “Like that nice lady a couple of years ago who wanted to learn jam-making, remember? On sabbatical from her job in the city. Six months, she had. Do you think you’ll get that long?” I can hear the hope in Biddy’s voice. To be honest, I’m not sure what to answer.

Six months. I have to find a job in six months, surely.

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” I say at last, dodging the question. “It’ll be lovely to see you! I can’t wait!”

“Oh, Katie, nor can I!” Biddy’s joy bursts down the line in a torrent. “To have you at home again for a bit! Your dad will be thrilled; everyone will be thrilled; oh, love, I really think we can make this glamping into something with your help….”

She talks on and on, and I lean back on my littered, lumpy bed, staring up at my stained ceiling. Her loving, enthusiastic voice is like balm on sore skin. Someone wants me. I’m already looking forward to home-cooked food, a room with an actual wardrobe, the view of the hills.

But at the same time, my resolve is hardening like lacquer. I’m taking time out, but I’m not giving up. I mean, I’m only in my twenties; am I going to let one setback crush my ambition? No. I’m still going to work in branding one day. I’m still going to stride over Waterloo Bridge and think, This is my city. It’s going to happen.