My Not So Perfect Life

I meet Demeter at ten o’clock the next morning with my brightest, friendliest, “hello, campers” manner. She’s wearing a gray tank top teamed with denim shorts just like Coco’s, plus Hunter wellies. (I told her to wear something suitable for walking.) She has pretty good legs, actually. Of course she does. She probably thinks she looks like Kate Moss at Glastonbury. She’s probably wearing those teeny shorts to look super-sexy for Alex.

I feel a surge of hatred that’s a bit like bile but manage to suppress it under a smile.

“So!” I greet her. “Demeter! Welcome to our bespoke nature walk. We’ll head up into the woods, stretch our legs, and see a huge variety of wildlife. Sound good?”

“Well, all right.” Demeter looks a bit unconvinced. “Is there a lot to see in the woods?”

“Oh yes,” I say, with a bland smile. “Don’t worry. You won’t be bored. Do you have sunscreen on?” I add. “It’s hot today.”

It’s not just hot, it’s baking. Biddy slathered all the children with sunscreen earlier on, and she’s made some ice lollies, which will be ready for lunchtime.

“I’m wearing factor fifty, actually,” says Demeter smugly. “I use this wonderful brand which I get at Space NK; it has neroli oil and argan milk—”

“Great,” I cut her off before she can do my head in with her boasting. “Let’s start, then.”

I only mentioned sunscreen to sound professional. Where Demeter’s going, she won’t need sunscreen. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

I lead the way briskly across the fields, the blood pumping through my veins. I’m a little hyper this morning. I woke at 5:00 A.M., fully alert, my head already full of Demeter.

And Alex. Both, I suppose.

OK, full disclosure: My head was actually full of Alex, with Demeter popping in for the odd cameo. Which is ridiculous. This is a guy I met a handful of times. A guy who’ll have already forgotten I exist. Why should he have got inside my brain? Why should I feel so…what, exactly?

Betrayed. That’s what I feel, I realize. I feel betrayed that he should go for someone like Demeter, who’s so married, so inappropriate, so Demeter-ish. When he could have had—

Well. All right. Before I sound totally tragic, here’s the thing. I’m not just saying, Oh, I wish he’d fallen in love with meeee….I mean, obviously I do wish that, kind of. But it’s bigger than that. It’s like: Are you really a Demeter person, Alex? Because I can’t see it. She doesn’t have your humor. She doesn’t have your flippant airiness, your live-wire irreverence. I can’t see the pair of you gelling, I just can’t, I can’t, I can’t…

“Sorry?” says Demeter, and I realize I’m muttering, “I can’t,” under my breath.

“Just doing a Vedari chant,” I say hastily. “Helps me focus. Now, keep your eyes peeled for voles.”

“Voles!” exclaims Demeter.

“They’re tiny creatures, rather like mice, but much more special.” I nod. “And there are stacks of them in this field.”

There’s no chance that she’ll catch sight of a vole, but at least it’ll keep her off my case for a bit. Sure enough, we walk on in silence, Demeter determinedly scanning the ground.

“So!” As we arrive at the edge of the woods, I turn like a tour leader. “Welcome to Ansters Woods. In here we’ll find a biodiverse world of animals, plants, and even fish, all working together in harmony.”

“Fish?” queries Demeter, and I nod.

“There are streams and ponds in the woods which are home to several very rare species.”

Which is, you know. Probably true. Whatever.

I’ve deliberately headed toward the thickest, most tangled part of the wood, and Demeter’s eyeing the brambles nervously. Well, what an idiot she is, wearing shorts.

“Ow!” Demeter’s voice suddenly rings out. “I’ve been stung by a nettle!”

“Bad luck,” I say blandly. As we walk on, I can’t help adding, “The trick with nettles is to grasp them. Grasp the nettle and everything will be OK. Don’t you agree?”

I can’t tell if Demeter gets the reference or not. She’s staring at the overgrown path ahead and seems unnerved.

“Don’t worry,” I say reassuringly. “I’ll cut us through the undergrowth. Keep close behind me and that way you’ll find it easier.”

I take a long, whippy stick and start slashing through the bushes, accidentally on purpose using such a vigorous, wheeling motion that I catch Demeter on the leg too.

“Ow!” she says.

“Oh, sorry,” I say in an innocent tone. “I totally didn’t mean to do that. Let’s carry on. Look around and you’ll see birch, ash, and sycamore trees, as well as oaks.” I give her about thirty seconds to peer at the trees, then continue: “So, what are you up to tonight, Demeter? It’s just you and the kids, isn’t it? You must be feeling so sad that your husband’s gone. So lonely, all alone in your yurt. Just you, no one else.”

As I speak, I feel resentment simmering. Look at her, in her denim shorts, catching some sun, revving up for a night of torrid sex.

“I know; it’s a shame. Just one of those things,” says Demeter with a shrug. She’s peering at the trees around us. “So, which is the sycamore?”

“I mean, you came here as a family.” I smile so hard, my cheeks start to tremble. “With your lovely husband who you made those special vows to. How long have you been married?”

“What?” Demeter looks puzzled. “Um…eighteen years. No, nineteen.”

“Nineteen years! Congratulations! You must really, really love him!”

“Er…yes,” says Demeter, looking bemused. “I mean, we have our ups and downs….”

“Of course you do. Don’t we all?” I give a shrill laugh. All this time, I’ve managed to keep outwardly calm around Demeter. But today I’m losing it a bit.

“So are there many interesting bird species in the woods?” asks Demeter, with her “alert and intelligent” expression that really rubs me the wrong way.

“Oh yes,” I say, breathing hard. “Definitely.” As a crow flutters out of a tree, I point upward. “Look! Did you see that?”

“No!” says Demeter, and immediately cranes upward too. “What was it?”

“A very rare bird,” I say. “Very rare indeed. The great crested…boaster.”

I nearly said, The great crested Demeter.

“It’s related to the warbler but much more rare,” I say. “Very predatory. Very toxic, nasty bird.”

“Really?” Demeter sounds fascinated.

“Oh yes.” I’m on a roll now. “It pushes the younger females out of the way and it won’t let them thrive. You wouldn’t want to come across it in the wild. It’s vicious. Selfish. I mean, it looks good. It has very sleek plumage. But it’s very crafty. Very pretentious.”

“How can a bird be pretentious?” Demeter sounds puzzled.

“It preens itself all the time,” I say after a pause. “And then it gouges out the other birds’ eyes.”

“Oh my God.” Demeter looks like she might be sick.

“Because it’s got to be top bird. It’s got to have everything. It doesn’t care if the other birds in the wood are struggling.” I pause. “But then, when it’s off guard and vulnerable, the other birds take revenge on it.”

“How?” Demeter looks utterly gripped.

“They have their means,” I say with a bland smile. I wait for Demeter to ask another question, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a weird, appraising look.

“I was reading a book about local birds last night,” she says slowly. “It didn’t mention the great crested boaster.”

“Well, like I say, it’s very rare. One of our rarest. Shall we?”

I motion for us to carry on, but Demeter doesn’t follow. Her eyes are running over me as though for the first time. Oh God, she doesn’t suspect something, does she? Was the great crested boaster a step too far?

“Have you always lived in the country?” she asks.

“Oh yes!” I laugh, relieved to be on firmer ground. “I was born in the farmhouse,” I add, broadening my burr. “My dad’ll show you the marks on the kitchen wall, measuring my height over the years. This is home for me.”

“I see.” Demeter looks only partially reassured, but she starts following me again.

“You’ll want to see the ponds,” I tell her over my shoulder. “Beautiful wildlife at the ponds. We’ll go there now.”

They’re always called “the ponds,” but it’s one pond, really. One quite large, fairly deep pond and one shallower dip, right next to it, which is sometimes a pond and sometimes a swamp. At this time of year, it’s swamp. About three foot deep of swampy, froggy mud, all topped off with bright-green weed.

And that’s where Demeter’s heading, whether she knows it or not. I want her plastered in mud, dripping with weed, screaming with fury, and then—final touch—immortalized in a viral photo, which I’m sure Flora will have great pleasure in disseminating to the world. My phone’s in my pocket, covered in protective plastic. I’m all set. The only issue is going to be getting her into the swamp. But even if I have to dive in first myself, I’m doing it.

My breaths are coming fast as we walk along. My ears are buzzing; I’m twitching at every sound from the trees. Every so often, I have a spasm of nerves and think: Do I really want to do this?

Shall we just go back to the farmhouse instead?

But then I picture Demeter tapping at her phone with that smug smile, summoning Alex like a take-out order the minute her husband disappeared. Demeter making me do her roots…thrusting her Net-A-Porter boxes at me…complaining about her tiny journey to work…Demeter staring at me in the lift at Cooper Clemmow. She couldn’t even remember if she’d let me go, because, hey, what does the life of some junior girl sitting in the corner matter?

There I was feeling sorry for her—well, what a joke. She doesn’t need my pity. I mean, look at her. I glance at her long legs, clad in designer wellies. Her confident, I’m-the-boss stride. If she had a brief moment of vulnerability, it’s long passed now, and I was a mug to fall for it. Because Demeter’s always been an expert at using other people to sort her life out. Husband disappeared? Order in your lover instead. Deleted a crucial email? Get your assistant to sort it out. Somehow she always manages to come out on top.

Except today.

“Somerset has amazing birds,” I say, leading her toward the ponds. “There are loads of rare species around here, so as we walk, you should look up, all the time. Look up.”

Not down at your feet. Not down at the mud and slippery oil that I may possibly have planted earlier.

As we round a clump of bushes, the ponds come into sight ahead of us. The swamp is a patch of lime-green weed. It couldn’t look more glistening and noxious. No one’s about. All the other glampers are miles away, doing their foraging in Warreton Forest, and no one else has access to these woods. The silence around us is eerie and expectant. All I can hear is my own breath and our footsteps on the increasingly muddy ground, sloping downward toward the swamp.

“Look up,” I keep exhorting her. “Look up.”

Everything becomes boggy around here. And very slippery, even before it’s been laced with hemp oil. It’s OK, as long as you’re careful, don’t walk too fast, and don’t even think about running.

Which is why I’m about to make Demeter run.

“Oh wow!” I whisper as though in sudden excitement. “Can you see the kingfishers? Millions of them! Hurry!” I up my pace to what looks like a run, although I’m careful to plant my feet carefully and stay balanced. “You go first.” I turn and make a generous gesture to Demeter. “Go ahead of me. But hurry! Hurry!”

Like a shopper at the Harrods sale, Demeter starts pegging it in a tiptoe run, her eyes fixed upward, gathering momentum. She doesn’t see the point at which soggy mud turns to oil slick. She doesn’t even notice when she starts to skid—until her feet finally hit the slipperiest bit of the oil slick, and she hasn’t got a chance. She slides down toward the swamp, flailing her arms, looking like a really terrible snowboarder.

“Oh my God!” she gasps. “Oh my—oh God!”

“Careful!” I call out cheerfully. “It gets slippery….Oh no!”

I’m watching with all my attention, not even letting myself blink. I want to enjoy this fully. I want to see every single moment: Demeter thrashing her arms in panic…Demeter sliding off the bank…Demeter poised in midair…Demeter’s horror as she realizes what’s about to happen…

And Demeter landing in the swamp. With not so much of a splash as a thwump. It’s three solid feet of mud, and as she crashes into it, the mud sprays up in great gloopy splatters, landing on her face and hair. There’s green weed on her head and down her cheeks, and I can see some sort of bug crawling along her shoulder.

Yes! This could not have gone better. Look at her!

She immediately tries to scramble to her feet, but it’s not so easy—and she falls several times before she manages to stand up. By this time she’s in the middle of the swamp, and if I’d planned the perfect photo op, then this would have been it. Demeter looking drenched, muddy, undignified, and furious.

“Help me out!” She waves an indignant hand at me. “I’m stuck!”

“Oh dear!” I call back, getting my phone out. Trying to hide my euphoria, I take a few photos, then carefully stash my phone back in its bag.

“What are you doing?” shouts Demeter.

“Just coming to help you,” I say soothingly. “You know, you should be careful around swamps. You should never hurry.”

“But you told me to hurry!” Demeter explodes. “You said, ‘Hurry!’ ”

“Never mind. We’ll soon get you back to your yurt. Come on,” I beckon.

“I’m stuck,” Demeter repeats, giving me an accusing look. “My feet have sunk into the mud.”

“Just lift up your leg.” I mime pulling a leg out of a swamp, and Demeter copies—but as she wrenches her leg out, her wellie is missing.

“Shit!” she says, flailing her arms again. “My boot! Where’s my boot?”

Oh for God’s sake.

“I’ll get it,” I say, feeling like a mother with a three-year-old. I wade into the swamp, reach Demeter, and feel around in the mud for the boot. Demeter is meanwhile standing on one leg, clinging to my arm. “Here.” I fish out the missing wellie. “Shall we go?”

I turn toward the bank, but Demeter doesn’t turn with me.

“Why did you tell me to hurry?” she asks in even, ominous tones. “Did you want me to fall in?”

I feel a tiny spasm of alarm, which I quell. She can’t prove anything.

“Of course not! Why would I want that?”

“I don’t know,” says Demeter in the same ominous way. “But it’s weird, isn’t it? And you know what else? I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

She scrutinizes my face and I bow my head hastily under my baseball cap.

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” I give a hasty laugh. “I’m a Zummerzet girl. Never been to Lunnon town in my life. I don’t even know where Chiswick is.”

“Why did you say ‘Chiswick’?” snaps Demeter.

At once I curse myself. Shit. Idiot. I’m losing concentration.

“Didn’t you say you work in Chiswick?” I answer as lightly as I can. “Summat like that?”

“No, I never mentioned it.” Demeter holds my wrist so tight that it hurts. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Katie!” I try to wriggle out of her grasp. “Now, let’s go and have a nice slap-up cream tea…or cake…jam tarts….”

“You’re hiding something.” Demeter gives me an angry wrench and I lose my footing.

“Aargh!” I land in the swamp and feel mud slapping onto my face. Oh my God, this is gross. I scramble into a sitting position, wipe my eyes, and glare at Demeter. All my self-control has gone. I feel as if my kite string has snapped; the kite is soaring away.

“Don’t you dare do that!” I slap swamp mud at her.

“Well, don’t you fucking dare!” Demeter slaps mud back at me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

“I’m not up to anything!”

I crawl to the side of the swamp and dip my head in the fresh water of the adjoining pond, trying to calm my adrenaline rush. OK. Regroup. This was not the plan. I have to keep it together. This may be Demeter, but she’s a guest too. I cannot be having a mud fight with her. I mean, it really wouldn’t sound good on TripAdvisor.

Although—who’s to believe her word against mine? You know. If it came to it.

Feeling steadier, I lift my head from the fresh water. My face is clean, all traces of mud gone. My baseball cap’s disappeared somewhere, but never mind. I pull my dripping hair back and scrunch it into a knot. Right. Back to my professional tour-leader act.

“OK.” I turn to Demeter. “Well. I think we should finish the nature walk there. I do apologize for any—”

“Wait,” she says, her voice suddenly quivering. “Wait right there. Cath.”

My stomach does a loop the loop of terror.

“No, Cat.” Demeter corrects herself, her eyes like gimlets. “Cat. Isn’t it?”

“Who’s Cat?” I manage to keep in control of my voice.

“Don’t give me that!” Demeter sounds so incandescent, I almost feel my skin shrivel. “Cat Brenner. It’s you, isn’t it? I can see it now.”

I’ve wrecked my disguise, I realize with a sickening thud. The hat and the makeup and the curly hair. All gone. How could I have been so stupid?

For a few petrified seconds, my mind gallops around my options. Deny…run away…other…

“OK, it’s me,” I say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. “I changed my nickname. Is that against the law?”

A crow flaps past, cawing, but neither of us moves. We’re both standing motionless in the swamp, covered in mud, staring at each other as though life is on pause. My blood is pulsing in terror, but I feel a strange relief too. At least now she’ll know. She’ll know.

Demeter has her swivelly-eyed, has-the-world-gone-mad look. She keeps peering at me, then frowning, then going all distant, as though she’s consulting her memory.

Things could go anywhere from here. Anywhere. I feel almost exhilarated.

“OK, I don’t understand,” says Demeter, and I can tell she’s trying to stay calm, with difficulty. “I don’t. I’m trying to understand, I’m trying to get my head round this, but I can’t. What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“You engineered me into the swamp!” Demeter’s starting to sound agitated. “You told me to hurry so I would fall in. Do you have something against me?”

She looks so ignorant, so oblivious, that I draw breath. Do I have something against her? Where do I start?

“And catching me with that stick!” she exclaims, before I can respond. “That was on purpose too. This whole morning has been a vendetta, hasn’t it? Has this whole week been a vendetta?” I can see her thoughts working, tracking back, analyzing everything, until her eyes snap with suspicion. “Oh my God. Is Vedari a real thing?”

“Of course it’s not a real bloody thing!” I explode with pent-up frustration. “Only a totally pretentious early adopter like you would fall for something like that. It’s pitiful! I just had to mention Gwyneth Paltrow and you were all over it!”

“But the website!”

“I know.” I nod with satisfaction. “Good, wasn’t it?”

I feel a shaft of triumph as I see her face dropping. Ha. Gotcha.

“I see,” says Demeter, in the same controlled, even tones. “So you’ve taken me for a fool. Well, congratulations, Cat, or Katie, or whatever you call yourself. But what I still don’t understand is, why? Is this because you lost your job? Are you blaming me for that? Because, one, that was not my fault personally, and, two, as I said to you at the time, losing your job is really not the end of the world.”

She draws herself up tall, despite the swamp, casting herself as the tolerant, put-upon boss figure, and my rage simmers up again into a froth.

“You know something, Demeter?” I say, casting around for my own version of dignity. “When you don’t have any funds and you’d rather die than ask your parents for cash, then losing your job pretty much is the end of the world.”

“Nonsense!” says Demeter with asperity. “You’ll find another job.”

“I’ve applied and applied! I’ve got nothing! At least, nothing that pays. But I’m not like Flora; I can’t afford to work for no pay. All I ever wanted was to live in London, and that day my dream got squashed, and of course that wasn’t your fault. But it was your fault that you didn’t even remember if you’d let me go or not!” My voice rises in anguish. “That was my life you held in your hands, and you didn’t even remember! You were like, Ooh, unimportant junior person whose name I can’t recall, have I ruined your life today or not? Please remind me.”

“All right,” says Demeter after a pause. “I accept that. My behavior was…unfortunate. Things were very difficult for me at that time—”

“How could they be difficult?” I throw any remaining caution to the winds. “You’ve got the perfect bloody life! You’ve got everything!”

“What are you talking about?” Demeter stares at me.

“Oh, come on!” I explode. “Don’t look at me like that! You have the perfect life! You’ve got the job, the husband, the lover, the kids, the money, the looks, the trendy clothes, the celebrity friends, the invitations to parties, the haircut, the Farrow and Ball front door, the gorgeous stone steps, the holidays…” I run out of breath. “I mean, you’ve got it all. And you stand there and look at me like What perfect life?”

There’s another silence. I can hear my own breath coming, short and fast; I have never felt such tension in these woods, never. Then Demeter comes wading through the swamp to me. Her face is still plastered with mud, but I can see the fury simmering in her eyes.

“OK, Katie,” she spits. “You want my perfect life? You want to know about my perfect life? I’m tired all the time. All the time. My husband and I have a hellish struggle balancing two jobs, but we need the money because, yes, we bought ourselves a big family house with a big, crippling mortgage, and, yes, we redecorated it, which was probably a mistake, but everyone makes mistakes, right? I go to restaurant launches to network for my job. I sit on judging panels, ditto. Parties, ditto. I wear heels that give me backache and I look at my watch every half hour, wishing I could escape.”

I stare at her, dumbstruck. I’m remembering the Net-A-Porter boxes, the photos on Instagram, the upbeat tweets. Demeter here, there, and everywhere, being sparkling and brilliant. It never in a million years occurred to me that she might not enjoy it.

“I never have time to see my friends,” Demeter continues without missing a beat. “Every time I come home late, my children give me a hard time. I’ve missed so many moments of their lives, I’d weep if I could, but I’m beyond weeping over that particular issue. I’m an aging woman in a young people’s game, and one day that’s going to lose me my job. My hair is going gray, as you know. And I think I’m getting dementia. So fuck off with your ‘perfect life.’ ”

“Dementia?” I stare at her.

“Oh, and those steps you mentioned? I hate those fucking steps more than anything in the world.” Demeter starts shaking all over. She seems to have reached a whole new level of anger. “Have you ever tried wheeling a pram up a flight of ten steps? Because it’s a nightmare. Those steps have been the bane of my existence. Do you know what happened the Christmas Eve that my daughter was five? I was bringing in the presents from the car and carrying them up the icy steps when I slipped and fell. I spent the whole of Christmas Day in hospital.”

“Oh,” I say nervously.

“So don’t talk to me about my fucking steps.”

“OK.” I swallow. “Right. Um…sorry I mentioned the steps.”

I’m a bit shell-shocked, actually. I had such a firm vision of Demeter tripping down her beautiful stone steps in a designer coat, looking all smug and Demeter-ish, living the perfect princess life. But now that’s been supplanted by new images. Demeter lugging a pram up the steps. Demeter slipping and falling.

That kind of thing never occurred to me.

“It’s OK.” Demeter seems to calm down a little. “And I’m sorry I let you go insensitively. I truly am. I was in a real state that day, but that should not have stopped me treating you fairly and with respect. I would like to apologize…Cat?”

“Katie,” I say awkwardly. “Cat never really took.”

“Katie, then.” She holds out her muddy hand, and after a pause, I take it and we shake.

“Don’t tell Dad and Biddy,” I say abruptly. “Please.”

“Don’t tell them what?” Demeter’s eyes glitter at me. “That you pushed me into the mud? Don’t worry, I wasn’t intending to. This is fairly embarrassing for me too.”

“No, not that. Don’t tell them I got made redundant. They think…” I look at the ground. “They think I’m on sabbatical for six months.”

“What?”

“They got the wrong end of the stick, and I couldn’t tell them the truth. It was too—” I break off. “I just couldn’t.”

“So—what—they think you’ve been on sabbatical from Cooper Clemmow all this time?” Demeter seems incredulous.

“Yes.”

“And they believe that?”

“They think I’m…you know. Quite important at the company,” I practically whisper.

“I see.” Demeter digests this. “So what are you going to do when the six months are up?”

“I’ll get a job,” I say robustly. “Or if not…well, it’s my problem. I’ll sort it.”

“Right.” Demeter raises her eyebrows skeptically. “Well, good luck with that.” Then something seems to occur to her. “Hey. How do you know about my steps, anyway?”

“Oh. That.” I feel myself flushing. “Well, Flora told me where you live, and I…I happened to be in the area.”

“And you decided to go and look at my house,” says Demeter flatly. “And think to yourself, She lives in that house, she must be a rich bitch.”

“No! Well…maybe a bit…” I pause awkwardly. “It’s an amazing house. I saw it in Livingetc.”

“We hoped doing Livingetc might mean we could rent it out for photo shoots,” says Demeter, sounding matter-of-fact. “But nobody wanted it.”

“It’s still fantastic, though.”

“I look at it and I see mortgage payments,” says Demeter. “The kids love it, though. We could never move.”

I never thought about mortgage payments either. I thought Demeter lived such a gilded life, she didn’t have to worry about stuff like that.

“You always behave like your life is perfect,” I say abruptly.

“I put a good face on things,” Demeter says after a pause. “Doesn’t everyone? I’ve always thought—wait!” She interrupts herself with an almighty gasp. “Rewind. I knew I’d missed something. What was that you said, ‘lover’? I haven’t got a lover!”

I feel a spasm of anger. Really? She’s going to deny it, even now? I feel like we had a little entente cordiale going, and now she’s smashed it.

“Of course you have,” I say shortly. “Everyone knows.”

“Everyone knows what?”

“That you’re sleeping with Alex Astalis.”

“What?” Demeter peers at me. “What are you saying to me? What?”

For fuck’s sake.

“Everyone knows,” I reiterate. “That’s why he brought you in to Cooper Clemmow. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, Demeter. The way you two are with each other…always laughing and joking….”

“We’re old friends!” expostulates Demeter. “That’s all! My God—who told you this?”

“Just…people at the office.” I’m not going to get Flora into trouble. “But, I mean, it’s common knowledge. You haven’t hidden it very well.”

“There’s nothing to hide!” Demeter practically detonates. “This is just a ridiculous rumor! I mean, Alex? I love him dearly, but any woman who got involved with Alex Astalis would have to be insane.”

I can’t believe it. She won’t admit it, will she?

“Stop denying it when we all know it’s true!” I yell. “What’s Alex coming here for if he’s not your lover?”

Demeter looks startled. “What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t very subtle,” I say pointedly. “He didn’t exactly book in under the name ‘Mr. Smith.’ You called him as soon as your husband told you he was off to Brussels, didn’t you? Biddy said he rang up at two-thirty. Nice.”

“What?” Demeter gives every impression of being horrified. Can’t she give it a rest?

“Stop pretending!” I say furiously. “It’s really tedious!”

“I’m not pretending!” As Demeter’s voice rockets around the wood, she sounds on the edge of panic. “Are you telling me that Alex Astalis is on his way here? Is this true?”

She’s so agitated, I pause in my thoughts. Whatever else is true, she seems genuinely shocked at this news.

“Well…yes. He’s staying in the farmhouse. Arriving this morning.” I glance at my watch. “It’s nearly eleven. He might even be here by now.”

Demeter doesn’t reply. For a moment I think she might not have heard. But then, three seconds later, she sinks down into the swamp, as though her legs won’t hold her anymore.

“He’s firing me,” she whispers.

“What?” I’m astounded, almost wanting to laugh at the idea. “No.”

“Yes.” Her face is ashen and she’s staring blindly ahead. “Alex has come here to see me, obviously.” She counts off on her fingers, as though working out a logic problem. “If he wanted a meeting, he’d have made contact. He hasn’t. So he wants to take me by surprise. There’s only one reason for that: He’s letting me go. Asking me to resign. However he does it.”

“But…” I’m so shocked, I find myself sitting down in the swamp too. “But why would they fire you? You’re the boss! You’re the genius! You’re the whole thing.”

Demeter gives a weird little laugh and turns to face me. “You haven’t been in touch with anyone from work, have you?”

“Not really,” I say uncomfortably. “I knew things were going a bit wrong….”

“Well. They went a lot wrong. And I don’t even understand how. I don’t understand…”

Demeter slowly bends her head to her knees. Her damp hair falls forward, off her neck, and I see her gray roots showing at the base of her skull. The sight makes her seem suddenly vulnerable once more. It’s the side she’s trying to keep from the world—like that moment with Carlo. And as I watch her, curled up like a hiding animal, I feel a weird, unfamiliar feeling. Like I want to pat her back reassuringly.

“Look,” I venture. “It might not be what you think. Maybe he’s come here on holiday. He might have seen the brochure on your desk, decided to book himself a little break….”

Demeter raises her head. “Do you really think so?”

I can see hope battling with despair on her mud-splattered face. “Well, it’s possible. After all, the brochure is really good….” I risk a little wink at Demeter, and she laughs, her tension briefly lifting.

“It is really good. I stand by everything I said before: You’ve got talent, Katie. The truth is, I should never have let you go. I should have got rid of that good-for-nothing Flora instead. You were always more proactive, more lively—” Her face jolts with realization. “Wait. It was you!” She jabs a finger. “You came up with the cow-welfare idea, didn’t you? It’s the basis of the whole rebrand.”

“Oh. Well, yes. It was me.”

Hope is flowering in my chest. Maybe Demeter…maybe she’ll…

“I’d love to help you with your career,” says Demeter, as though reading my mind. “Especially now I know who you really are. But there won’t be much chance of that if I lose my job—” She interrupts herself, her eyes suddenly sharp. “Oh my God, I have it. Katie, you find out for me. You find out.”

“What?” I gape at her.

“Go and talk to Alex as soon as he arrives. Make conversation. Find out if he’s here to let me go. You can do it, I know you can.”

“But—”

“Please.” She grabs my hands. “Please. If I know he’s come to fire me, I can put together a defense. I’ll have half a chance to save myself. Please, Katie, please…”

And I don’t know if it’s because finally she’s got my name right or if it’s the wretched look in her eye, or just that I feel I’ve been mean enough to her for one holiday, but I find myself slowly nodding.