My Not So Perfect Life

We wake up in the early evening, a breeze cooling our skin. Alex glances at me and I see a sleepy smile come to his eyes. Then reality sets in.

“Shit.” He scrambles to his feet. “What time is it? Have we been asleep?”

“It’s the country air,” I say. “Knocks everyone out.”

“It’s six.” I can see him doing calculations in his head. “Demeter might be back.”

“Maybe.” I feel my rosy glow dim a little. I don’t want the bubble to burst. But Alex is already out of the bubble, his face alert, his fingers moving quickly as they do up his buttons.

“OK. We need to get back. I need to—” He breaks off and I finish the sentence in my head. Fire Demeter.

Already, he looks beleaguered and stressed out by the thought. Maybe some bosses get a kick out of sacking people and throwing their weight around—but it really doesn’t suit Alex.

I take the wheel this time, and as we bump back to the farmhouse, I can’t resist speaking my mind.

“You’re not enjoying this prospect, are you?”

“What, having to fire my friend and mentor?” he replies evenly. “Funnily enough, no. And I know she’s going to try to wriggle out of it, which will make it even harder.”

“But even if she wasn’t your friend and mentor?”

Alex is silent, his face taut, as we bump over a hillocky patch of ground. Then he sighs. “OK. You got me. I’m not cut out to be a boss.”

“I didn’t say that!” I say, dismayed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s true, though,” he interrupts. “This management stuff—I hate it. It’s not me. I should never have taken on the role.”

I drive on, feeling a bit speechless. The famous Alex Astalis feels insecure about his job?

“Have you ever shaken up a compass and seen the arrow whirling around, trying to find a place to settle?” says Alex abruptly. “Well, that’s my brain. It’s all over the place.”

“Demeter’s like that,” I volunteer. “Totally scattershot.”

“If you think Demeter’s bad, I’m ten times worse.” Alex gives me a wry grin. “But bosses aren’t like that. They’re focused. They can compartmentalize. They like process. And long tedious meetings.” He shudders. “Everything I hate, bosses love. Yet here I am, a boss.”

“No one likes long, tedious meetings,” I protest. “Even bosses.”

“OK, maybe not all bosses do,” he allows. “But a lot of manager types do. Biscuit people do.”

“Biscuit people?” I snort with laughter.

“That’s what I call them. They come into the meeting room and sit down and take a biscuit and plop back with this air of contentment, like Well, life can’t get any better than this, can it? It’s as though they’re settling in for a long-haul flight and they’re pretty chuffed to get the legroom and who cares what else goes on?”

I grin. “So you’re not a biscuit person.”

“I never even sit down at meetings.” Alex looks abashed. “It drives everyone mad. And I can’t deal with conflict. I can’t manage people. It bores me. It gets in the way of ideas. And that’s why I shouldn’t be a boss.” He sighs, gazing out of the window at the passing landscape. “Every promotion requires you to do less of the thing you originally wanted to do. Don’t you find?”

“No,” I say bluntly. “If I got a promotion I’d do more of the thing I want to do. But, then, I’m at the opposite end from you.”

Alex winces. “That makes me sound ancient.”

“You are ancient. In prodigy years.”

“Prodigy years?” Alex starts to laugh. “Is that like dog years? Anyway, who says I’m a prodigy?”

“You came up with Whenty when you were twenty-one,” I remind him.

“Oh yeah,” he says, as though he’d half-forgotten. “Well, that was just…you know. Luck.” He comes to. “Shall I get that gate?”

I watch as he unhooks the gate, then drive through and wait for him to close it and hop back in. The engine’s still running, but for a moment I don’t move. We’re in a kind of limbo-land here, and I want to broach something with Alex, while I have the chance.

“Was it really luck?” I say tentatively. “Or do you think maybe you were trying to impress your father?”

I want to add: Is that why you can’t stand conflict? But let’s not turn into Freud.

Alex is silent for a few minutes, and I can see thoughts buzzing round his eyes.

“Probably,” he says at last. “Probably still am.” Then he turns to me, with a wry acknowledging smile. “Will you stop being right?”

I grin back—touché—and start driving on again. I sense that Alex might carry on unburdening himself, and, sure enough, after a few moments he draws breath.

“Sometimes I worry my ideas might dry up,” he says, an odd tone to his voice. “I’m not sure who I’d be without them. Sometimes I think I’m really just an empty vessel floating about, downloading ideas and not much else.”

“You’re a funny, gorgeous, sexy guy,” I say at once, and he smiles at me as though I’m joking. I can tell he’s not pretending: He really feels this. I can’t believe I need to bolster Alex Astalis.

“What would you do,” I say impulsively, “if you weren’t rushing round the world, creating award-winning branding concepts?”

“Good question.” Alex’s face lights up. “Live on a farm. Drive the Defender. That was the best fun I’ve had in years. Eat Biddy’s scones.” We come to a halt in the yard, and Alex twines his fingers around mine on the steering wheel. “Kiss a beautiful girl every day.”

“You’d have to find a farm with a beautiful girl on it,” I point out.

“Don’t they all come with beautiful girls?” His dark eyes glow at me. “This one does.”

Beautiful. That word again. I want to take it away in my hands and keep it in a jar forever. But instead I smile easily back, as if perhaps I didn’t even hear him, and say, “Not all of them, no.”

“I’d put it in the search engine, then. En suite bathroom, fields of sheep, beautiful girl with freckles like stardust.” He touches my nose. “Actually, I think there is only one of those.”

He leans over to kiss me—and there he is again. The sweet, gentle Alex that’s been such a surprise. The truth is, I’m falling for this guy, and I can’t find a single reason in my brain not to, except for Demeter’s voice running through my mind: Any woman who got involved with Alex Astalis would have to be insane.

Why insane? I need to talk to her.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be a boss anymore,” I say as we finally draw apart, my head buzzing a little. “I’m not sure it’s making you happy.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He nods, his eyes absent—then suddenly focuses on me. “Whereas you, Katie, should be a boss. You will be, one day. I know it. You’ll be a big boss.”

“What?” I stare at him in disbelief.

“Oh yes.” He nods matter-of-factly. “You’ve got what it takes. Stuff I haven’t got. You’ve got a way with people. I watched you just now, managing your cleaner. You know what you want and you make it happen and nothing gets broken. There’s a skill in that.”

I gaze back at Alex, feeling a bit overcome. No one’s ever said anything like that to me before, and my insecure, defensive hackles can’t help rising: Is he just being kind? But he doesn’t look like he’s trying to do me a favor. There’s not one patronizing note in his voice—he sounds like he’s saying it as he sees it.

“Come on.” He opens the door. “I can’t put off the evil moment anymore. Let’s see if Demeter’s back.”

—

I’m half-hoping Demeter will be at the farmhouse already, will greet us with her old Demeter panache and stride around on her long legs with some story about how she’s fixed everything and spoken to Adrian and it’s all marvelous now. But there’s no sign of her.

The afternoon’s golden glow has ebbed away, and Dad’s already got a campfire going at the center of the yurt village. On Tuesday nights we always have a campfire, sausages, toasted marshmallows, and a singsong. Everyone loves a fire and a singsong after a few beers—even though the actual songs we sing depend on who the glampers are. (One time we had a guy staying who’d been a backing singer for Sting. That was amazing. But last week we had the I-know-all-of-Queen’s-repertoire-listen-to-me! dad. That was bad.)

Biddy is walking along the path, lighting lanterns as she goes, and she looks up with a smile as I approach.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Have you seen Demeter?”

“Demeter? No, love. I thought she’d gone to London.”

“She did. But I thought she might be back….” I sigh anxiously, then glance at Alex. He’s standing on the edge of the yurt village, already scowling miserably at his phone. He must be picking up his emails.

“Look, there’s nothing you can do for now,” I say, tapping his shoulder. “Why not come and sit by the campfire and…you know. Relax?”

The campfire usually brings out the inner child in people, and I’m hoping it might appeal to the quirky, playful side of Alex that I love. As we sit down on the grass, the flames cast an orange flickering light on his face. The familiar crackle-and-spit sound of the fire instantly calms my nerves, and the smell is like every bonfire night I’ve ever known. I turn to see if he’s enjoying it too—but his face is still tense and preoccupied. Bearing in mind the situation, I can’t really blame him.

On the plus side, everyone else seems to be having fun. All the glampers are toasting marshmallows, leaning forward with their toasting irons. Occasionally Giles throws a firelighter onto the fire to get an extra-large flame, and I lean politely over to him.

“Actually…that’s a bit dangerous for the children?”

“Only a bit of fun,” he says, but stops and swigs his beer and I breathe out. The last thing we need is some monster flame singeing someone’s eyebrows. I mean, we do have enormous buckets of water placed at strategic points, but even so.

On the other side of the fire there seems to be a bit of jostling and dispute going on.

“Stop it!” exclaims Susie suddenly, and I realize a full-scale row is breaking out. “No one else can get a look in!” she’s saying heatedly to Cleo. “Your children have pinched all the best places, all the toasting irons….”

“For heaven’s sake,” says Cleo in her drawling way. “It’s a campfire. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when my children can toast marshmallows as well as yours—”

“Here we go! Here we go now!” Dad’s cheerful voice penetrates the atmosphere, and we all look up to see him skipping into view with a jingle-jingle sound. He’s wearing white trousers, a waistcoat, jingle bells attached to his legs, and sticks in his hands. Accordion music is playing from a CD player plonked on the grass. “La-la-la…” He starts singing some random line or other. “La-la-la…And-a-one-and-a-two…”

“Farmer Mick!” shriek the children as though he’s a celebrity. “Farmer Mick!”

I clap a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh. Dad’s been talking about Morris dancing, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I mean, what the hell does he know about Morris dancing?

He’s still humming an indistinct tune and skipping about, and every so often he bangs his sticks. You couldn’t call it dancing. More…capering. The grown-ups are watching as if they’re not sure if it’s a joke or not, but the children are all whooping and cheering.

“Who’s going to be my assistant?” Dad whips a bell-covered stick from his waistcoat and proffers it at the children. “Who wants to join the dance?”

“Me!” they all shout, grabbing for the bell stick. “Meeeeee!”

I can see Poppy standing up eagerly. She’s the little girl who’s here with her single dad, and she seems really sweet. But Cleo at once pushes Harley forward.

“Harley, you dance, darling. Harley does ballet and jazz dance and Stagecoach every Saturday—”

“For God’s sake, give it a rest!” Susie explodes. “Poppy, why don’t you dance, sweetheart?”

“Give what a rest?” demands Cleo, sounding offended. “I’m simply pointing out that my child is a trained dancer….”

I catch Dad’s eye and he gets my drift at once.

“Everybody dance!” he bellows. “All the kiddies up! And-a-one-and-a-two-and-a—”

“Katie.” A voice in my ear makes me turn, and I see Demeter’s son, Hal, at my side.

“Hi, Hal!” I greet him. “Have you toasted a marshmallow yet?” Then I look more closely at him. He’s pale and blinking hard. “Hal,” I say urgently. “What’s happened? What’s up?”

“It’s Coco.” He looks a bit desperate. “She’s…she’s drunk.”

—

Thankfully she made it out of the yurt in time. I find her retching into a nearby patch of grass and put a comforting arm around her whilst simultaneously averting my eyes and thinking, Urgh. Gross. Hurry up.

When she seems a bit better, I lead her over to the outdoor shower. I’m not going to drench her—even though it’s tempting—but instead I dampen a sponge and clean her up a bit, then get her back to the yurt.

I mean, it could be worse. She could be comatose. As it is, she’s able to walk and talk, and there’s already a bit of color returning to her cheeks. She’ll live.

“Sorry,” she keeps saying in a mumbly voice. “I’m so sorry.”

As we get into the yurt, I flinch at the sight. So this is what happens when two teenagers are left to their own devices for a day. There are plates and crumbs everywhere—they must have been raiding Biddy’s larder—plus sweet wrappers, phones, an iPad, magazines, makeup…and, sitting in the middle of it all, a half-empty bottle of vodka. Nice.

I put Coco into bed, prop her up against a mound of pillows, then sit on the bed. I gesture at the vodka bottle and sigh. “Why?”

“Dunno,” says Coco, with a defensive, sulky shrug. “I was bored.”

Bored. I look at the magazines and the iPad. I think about the campfire and the marshmallows and Dad capering like a mad thing, just to entertain everyone. I think about Demeter, working her socks off to pay for Jack Wills hoodies.

I should have taken bloody Coco to muck out the stable, that’s what I should have done.

“Where did you get it?”

“Brought it. Are you going to tell Mum?” Coco’s voice quickens with worry.

“I don’t know.” I give her a stern look. “You know, your mum really loves you. She works super-hard to pay for all your cool stuff. And you’re not that nice to her.”

“We said thank you for the holiday,” says Coco in a defensive way.

“What, so that’s it, you say ‘thank you’ once and you’re quits? And what’s this ‘Mrs. Invisible’ crap I keep hearing? If there’s one thing your mum’s not, it’s invisible. And you know what? It’s hurtful. Really hurtful.”

I can see Coco and Hal exchanging guilty looks. I think they’re actually quite nice kids; they’ve just got into a bad habit of being down on their mum. And their dad hasn’t been helping. But he’s not here right now.

And then a new thought hits me. If Demeter’s managed to hide all her best qualities from her own staff, she’s probably done the same with her kids too.

“Listen,” I say. “Do you even know what your mum does at work?”

“Branding,” says Coco, so tonelessly that I know it’s just a word to her.

“OK. And do you know how awesome she is at it? Do you know how clever and bright and brilliant she is?”

Both Coco and Hal look vacant. Clearly this thought has never passed through their brains.

“How do you know about my mum’s work?” queries Hal.

“I used to work in the same area. And, believe me, your mum is a legend. A legend.”

I pat the bed, and after a moment Hal comes to sit down. I feel like I’m telling the pair of them a bedtime story. Once upon a time there was a scary monster called Demeter, only she wasn’t really scary after all. Or a monster.

“Your mum’s full of ideas,” I tell them. “She’s bursting with them. She sees a packaging design and she instantly knows what’s wrong or right with it.”

“Yeah,” says Coco, rolling her eyes. “We know. You go round the supermarket and she’s got an opinion on, like, every single box.”

“Right. So, did you know she’s won a stack of awards for those opinions? Did you know that she can inspire big teams of people to do amazing work? She can take a whole bunch of ideas and distill them into a concept, and as soon as she says it you think, Yes.”

I glance up, and they’re both listening intently.

“Your mum can bring a room to life,” I continue. “She makes people think. You can’t be lazy when she’s around. She’s original, she’s inspiring…she’s inspired me. I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”

I said that more for effect than anything else—but as the words hit the air, I realize I mean them. If it weren’t for Demeter, I wouldn’t have learned everything that I have. I wouldn’t have created the Ansters Farm brochure and website in the same way. We might not have taken off.

“You’re very lucky to have her as your mum,” I conclude. “And I know, because I don’t have a mum.”

“Isn’t Biddy your mum?” Coco looks puzzled.

“She’s my stepmum. And she wasn’t around when I was younger. I grew up with no mum, so I was especially observant. I looked at everyone else’s mums. And yours is one of the best. She’s having a really tough time at work right now, did you know that?” I add.

Coco and Hal look at me dumbly. Of course they didn’t know. Another trouble with Demeter, I’m realizing, is her instinct to protect others. Protect Rosa from knowing she was rejected. Protect her kids from knowing she’s stressed. Keep up the charmed, life-is-perfect myth.

Well, enough. These kids aren’t toddlers; they can bloody well support her.

“Maybe she hasn’t told you.” I shrug. “But take it from me, things are difficult. And the way you can help is to be charming and appreciative and keep this yurt tidy and not ask for stuff or complain or get pissed on vodka.”

I eye Coco, and she looks away.

“I won’t,” she mumbles, so indistinctly I can barely hear her.

“I’ll tidy up the yurt,” volunteers Hal, who seems eager to make amends.

“Great.” I stand up to leave. “And, Hal, keep an eye on Coco. Do not leave her. Any problems, you come and get me or the nearest grown-up. I’ll be back in half an hour to check on you. OK?”

Hal nods vigorously. “OK.”

“Are you going to tell Mum?” Coco’s plaintive voice comes from the bed. “Please?”

Her face is pale and she’s lost that annoying, sulky chin-jut she often has. She actually looks about ten years old. But I’m not letting her off the hook that easily.

“Depends,” I say, and push my way out of the yurt.

—

As I’m walking across the field, I come upon Dad, sitting alone on a bench, sipping a can of beer. His Farmer Mick hat is off, his bells are lying silent by his side, and he looks exhausted.

“Hi, Dad.” I sit down beside him.

“Hi, love.” He turns to look at me, his eyes crinkling in affection. “Where did you go rushing off to just now?”

“Coco.” I roll my eyes. “Drank too much. I had to sort her out.”

“Drank too much?” Dad’s eyes open wide, then he gives a wry shrug. “They all do it. I remember you coming home once from a party in a terrible state. About her age, you were.”

“I remember that too.” I grimace. I’d had too many black velvets, as I recall. Not one of my finest moments.

“I was that worried. Sat up all night with you, dozy fool that I was.” He grins merrily. “You woke up as right as rain, ate a plateful of eggs and bacon!”

I’d forgotten Dad sat up all night with me. He must have been really stressed out. And just him; no one to share it with.

“Sorry.” I give him an impulsive hug.

“You don’t need to say sorry. What else are dads for?” He sips his beer, and as he moves, the bells jingle at his side.

“I like the Morris dancing,” I say. “It’s funny.”

“Well, it keeps them entertained, doesn’t it?” Dad flashes me another smile, but I can still see a cast of weariness in his face.

“Listen, Dad…don’t overdo it, will you? You and Biddy. You’re putting so much energy into this.”

“Paying off, though, isn’t it?” He spreads an arm toward the campfire; the contented hubbub of the glampers; the shadowy yurts. “Finally got something right, Katie, love. You got it right.”

“We all got it right,” I correct him. “I think ‘Farmer Mick’ is about fifty percent of our success.”

“Ha!” Dad gives a pleased laugh. “Keeps me young.” He sips his beer again, and for a while we’re silent. Then he adds, in slightly wary tones, “You need to be careful about overdoing it too, love.”

“Me?”

“I saw you at the computer the other day. Stressed out, you looked. They shouldn’t be working you like that. You’ve got enough on your plate here.”

He pats my shoulder and my stomach clenches so hard, I have to shut my eyes briefly. I feel a bit winded by the sudden realization that Alex is right. This situation is bad. I can’t keep lying to Dad about my job, I can’t.

“Actually…Dad…” I begin, feeling sick. How am I going to put this? Where do I start? What if he flips out?

“Yes, love?” replies Dad absently. He’s peering through the dusk at some distant approaching figure. Probably just a glamper wandering around.

“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” I swallow hard. “It’s about me…and…and my job in London….”

“Oh yes?” Dad’s face closes up slightly. He’s clearly not very keen on hearing about my job in London. If only he knew what I was about to tell him.

“Well. The thing is…” I rub my nose, feeling even sicker. “It’s…What’s happened is—”

“Dave!” Dad’s exclamation drowns me out. “Dave Yarnett! What are you doing here, you old rogue?”

Dave Yarnett? My eyes focus in disbelief on the familiar figure of Dave, in his trademark black leather jacket. His paunch is snugly clad in a knockoff Calvin Klein T-shirt, his graying beard neatly trimmed and his eyes sparkling as he approaches.

“Mick!” He slaps Dad on the back. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted you to have first look at my latest lot. You interested in rugs? Persian rugs?”

“We don’t need any rugs,” I say at once, and Dave shoots me a look of gentle reproach.

“Now, Katie, I’m offering your dad a retail opportunity here. All these glampers of yours—they’ve got houses to furnish, haven’t they? I got this job lot of rugs from a bloke in Yeovil. Proper Persian antiques. Bit of furniture too. Take a look, anyway.”

“Sorry, Katie.” Dad pats me on the shoulder again. “I’ll just have a quick look. Be back in a minute.”

I know Dad. He can never resist a poke around Dave Yarnett’s van.

“OK, no problem.” I shrug, feeling a guilty relief wash over me. I’ll tell him later, when it’s a better time. When I’ve worked out a script. And maybe had a vodka or two. “Hey, don’t buy any rugs,” I call after Dad, as he disappears off with Dave. “Not without discussing it. We’re a partnership now!”

—

I sit there awhile longer, watching the sky change tone gradually, from intense mid-blue to a softer indigo. Dave’s van disappears back down the drive and I see Dad making his way over to the campfire again. I just hope he isn’t making plans to turn us into the Ansters Farm Glamping and Rug Emporium.

I decide to head back over to the fire myself, toast a marshmallow, and get myself a sugar hit. But as I’m walking in that direction, I see a familiar car wending its way up the drive. Oh my God. Demeter.

I increase my pace to a run and arrive in the farmyard as she’s getting out. She looks white and exhausted. Her eyebrows are drawn in a frown and there’s a piece of paper in her hand, which she keeps glancing at.

I’m about to greet her when another voice gets in first: “Hello, Demeter.”

It’s Alex, stepping out of the kitchen door. He’s holding his phone and staring grimly at Demeter. Like an assassin.

“I’d like to see you for a meeting,” he says. “Biddy says we can use the sitting room.”

I feel a dart of shock. That’s what he’s been doing. Setting up the execution chamber.

“Now?” Demeter seems a little stunned. “Alex, I’ve only just got back. I need some time, I need a chance…”

“You’ve had plenty of time. Plenty of chances.” His voice is strained, and I can tell he’s been psyching himself up to do this. “Things have been getting worse for months. Now they’ve tipped over the edge. Demeter, you know that. Things are a shambles. And that’s why we need to talk.”

“I need to work some things out first.” Demeter closes her car door, then comes toward him on trembling legs, her eyes like shadows in her pale face. “Please, Alex. Give me till tomorrow.”

“Demeter.” He steps toward her, his face tight, avoiding her eye. “I don’t want to be doing this, you know I don’t, but I have to. Things have got out of hand and they can’t carry on. We’ll put together a story for the press; you’ll get a good package—” He stops. “We should go to the meeting room.”

“I’m not going to any meeting room.” Demeter shakes her head adamantly. “Alex, there’s another side to this. There’s stuff that doesn’t make sense. I need to show it to you.”

But Alex isn’t listening.

“All we think is, you took on a big job,” he presses on doggedly, as though reading lines. “It was too much, but it’s not your fault—”

“Stop the spiel, Alex!” Demeter yells. “Just listen to what I have to say! OK, so I went home today. I looked through some old emails, trying to…I don’t know. Work out what the hell has been going on.” She gestures to a massive bin bag I hadn’t noticed before, stuffed full of email printouts.

“What the hell?” says Alex incredulously, as some of the printouts start to flutter on the evening breeze.

“They were in my attic. I print out a lot of emails,” says Demeter defensively. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but…Anyway, so I found this.” She holds out the paper and Alex glances at it without interest.

“It’s an email.”

“Look at it!” Demeter exclaims, shaking it at him. “Actually look at it!”

Alex puts both fists to his face. “You will kill me,” he says in a muffled voice. He looks up. “OK, what?” He takes the paper, reads it, then raises his head again blankly. “It’s an email from Lindsay at Allersons. Forwarded to you from Sarah, two weeks ago. So what?”

“Read it aloud.”

For a moment, Alex looks as though he might spontaneously combust. But he starts to read: “Dear Demeter, thanks for that, and I must say, we appreciate your ongoing patience—”

“Stop there.” Demeter lifts a hand. “My ongoing patience. Do you see? My ongoing patience.”

Alex frowns blankly. “What about it?”

“Why would Allersons ‘appreciate my ongoing patience’? They say they were waiting for us to get a move on. So why would I have needed to be patient?”

“Who knows?” Alex brushes it off. “It’s a turn of phrase.”

“It’s not! It’s crucial! This email fits with my version of things, where they told me to halt on everything until further notice. I remember reading it. I replied to it! Do you realize I thought I was going mad?” She jabs at the paper. “Well, I’m not!”

“Jesus, Demeter.” Alex sounds exasperated. “We’ve been through this. Sarah’s shown us the email correspondence; none of it accords with what you’re saying—”

“Well, that’s my point!” She cuts him off, trembling.

“What? What’s your point?”

“I don’t know exactly. At least…” She sounds suddenly hesitant and less Demeter-ish. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but maybe someone hacked into my computer and…I don’t know. Messed with my emails.”

“Oh Jesus.” Alex looks as though this is all he needs.

“Alex, I know I received an email from Lindsay, telling me that Allersons wanted to pause. It said they were waiting for some research to come in.” Demeter’s voice shoots up in agitation. “I read it! I saw it!”

“OK, so show me now. Is it on your laptop?”

“No.” Demeter looks beleaguered. “It…it disappeared. I went up to London to find the printout, and I couldn’t, but I found this one instead. This email isn’t on my computer either. I know, I know it sounds crazy…but look. This is proof. Look!” She thrusts the paper at him and he reluctantly takes it. “If you give me time to go through all my old printouts…I’m sure I’ve been hacked, or something….”

“Stop saying that!” Alex looks properly upset. “Demeter, I’m an old friend and I’m telling you: Don’t go around saying things like that. You sound—” He breaks off. “Who would do it, anyway? And why?”

“I don’t know.” Demeter sounds desperate. “But it doesn’t make sense, nothing makes sense—”

“Hey,” I chip in. I’ve been gazing at the email over Alex’s shoulder and something’s caught my attention. “Look at the email address. It should be Demeter-dot-Farlowe at Cooper Clemmow-dot-com. But this has been sent to Demeter-underscore-Farlowe at Cooper Clemmow-dot-com. It’s a totally different email account.”

Even Alex is silenced. He peers closely at the email address, his brow furrowed.

“Oh my God.” Demeter grabs the paper from him. “I never even noticed that.”

“There are lots of possible explanations,” begins Alex. “It could be…I don’t know. An IT-department experiment. Or maybe you started a new email account yourself and forgot—”

“Me, start an email account?” retorts Demeter derisively. “Are you joking? I wouldn’t know where to start! Sarah does all that stuff. She organizes my emails, she forwards things, she’s the only one who ever—” Demeter breaks off and we meet eyes. And I feel a huge lurch.

Sarah.

It’s like a curtain has fallen down. I can suddenly see. Sarah. Oh my God.

Demeter’s face has turned ashen. I can see her mind is turning over this idea as quickly as I am. Sarah. Sarah.

It all makes sense. Emails changing…messages disappearing…Sarah and her hostile, exaggerated patience…Demeter standing in the office, peering at her phone as though she thinks she’s going mad…

“Sarah?” I say at last.

“Sarah,” echoes Demeter, looking a bit ill. “Oh God.”

“What?” Alex is looking from Demeter to me and back again. “Who’s Sarah?”

Demeter seems speechless. So I draw breath, trying to organize my racing thoughts.

“She’s Demeter’s PA. You know, with the ponytail? She basically runs Demeter’s life. She writes emails in Demeter’s voice; she is Demeter, often. And she’s always forwarding Demeter’s emails back to her when they get deleted. So she could easily…well…” I breathe out. “Fake one.”

“Why?” Alex looks bewildered. “Why would anyone do that?”

Again, Demeter and I exchange looks. It’s hard to convey an office atmosphere to someone who hasn’t lived in it forty hours a week.

“To screw with me,” says Demeter, her voice bleak. “At least, I would imagine.”

“Again—why?”

“My relationship with her hasn’t been…perfect.” Demeter is wringing her thin hands.

“She’s never forgiven you for making her boyfriend redundant,” I venture. “She wrote me this whole letter about it. She sounded pretty bitter. And if she’s been holding that against you all this time, if she wanted to get revenge—”

“OK, let’s stop right here.” Alex interrupts, looking alarmed. “These are very serious accusations—”

“Think about it, Demeter,” I continue, ignoring Alex. “She ran your in-box. She could enable different accounts. Control which emails you saw and didn’t see, write replies in your name, send things and delete them—I mean, she could conduct an entire fake correspondence if she wanted to.”

I’m recalling how Sarah would boast about how many emails she used to send out in Demeter’s voice. “I’ve been Demeter all afternoon,” she used to say, in that long-suffering way. And who checked them? I bet Demeter never did.

“Enough!” snaps Alex. “There’s no evidence for this.”

“This is evidence!” Demeter shakes the page at him. “This is! It doesn’t make any sense! And there were other emails like this; I saw them.”

“But you say you replied to them too,” objects Alex.

“Yes.” Demeter’s face falls. “I did.” She puts her fingers to her brow, looking desperate. “Oh God, nothing makes sense—”

“Did you ever check the email address you were replying to?” I ask. “Lindsay’s address?”

“What?” Demeter stares at me. “Of course not. It just popped up in my email contacts.”

“Well, then.” I shrug. “I’m guessing your replies never made it to Lindsay. And we can prove it,” I add in sudden inspiration. “Ask Lindsay if she ever sent Demeter this email.” I gesture at the paper. “And if she says she didn’t—”

“Contact Allersons?” echoes Alex incredulously. “Allersons never want to speak to any of us again!”

“Then commandeer Sarah’s computer. They can trace all this stuff….”

“Are you mad?” He glares at me. “Do you know what a state our staff morale is in right now? You think I’m going to go blundering in with these fantasyland tales? Demeter, you’re an old friend and I respect you very deeply, but this is over. Over.”

“You’re not still getting rid of Demeter?” I say in disbelief. “Not after this?”

“There is no ‘this’!” he explodes. “Demeter, when you said ‘evidence,’ I thought you meant evidence. Something solid. Not one email and a far-fetched theory. I’m sorry. You’ve had your chance, but now it’s the end of the line.”

And the way he says it, my heart starts to thud.

“Alex, leave it till tomorrow,” says Demeter, sounding desperate. “Sleep on it.”

“I have people on my back. I need to get this done.” He rubs his face, looking thoroughly miserable. “So if you’re really refusing to come to the meeting room, refusing to do this properly—”

“Stop!” My voice rockets up in panic. “Stop! Don’t fire!”

“You’re fired.” Alex’s voice is like a bullet. “End of.”

“You can’t do that!” I cry, outraged. “Un-fire her!”

But Alex is already stalking out of the yard, back toward the yurt village. The fire is still in full blaze, and some of the glampers are singing along to a guitar. Steve Logan has joined the throng, and I can see him swaying along to “Brown Eyed Girl.”

“You can’t do that!” I shout again as I leg it after Alex. “That wasn’t even a proper firing! It was against EU regulations!”

I have no idea if that’s true, but it probably is.

“Please, Alex,” says Demeter, hurrying beside me. “This email is proof that something weird’s been going on. And if you can’t even—”

She stops abruptly as Dad looms out of the darkness, jingling his Morris-dancing bells at her.

“La-la-la…and-a-one-and-a-two…” He bangs his sticks together cheerily at Demeter and she flinches, dropping the email printout.

“Shit!” I shout, as the paper gusts away on the breeze.

“Get the email!” shouts Demeter, chasing it desperately. “Get it!”

We’re both running frantically after the floating paper, toward the fire, stumbling over children’s feet in the darkness, causing a trail of shrieks and “ow”s but not caring. We have to get that email.

“Excuse me…let me through…” I edge past Cleo and Giles, who are lying full length in front of the campfire as Nick strums his guitar.

“Well, really,” says Cleo, affronted. “There’s room for everyone, you know….”

“Oh God,” gasps Demeter, swiping for the paper but missing.

“Get it!”

“I’m trying to—”

“No!” I scream in sudden dread as I see Giles reaching for another firelighter to throw on the flames. “No, don’t, don’t—”

But it’s too late; he’s thrown it. The fire flares up with a fresh burst of energy and catches the paper midair. Within twenty seconds it’s burned away to nothing except a few specks of ash.

It’s gone.

I’m so stunned, I can’t move for about thirty seconds. Then I turn to Demeter and she looks like a ghost.

“Demeter, it’ll be OK,” I say desperately. “I believe you; something strange has definitely been going on—shit!” I gasp as I see a spark coming from her trousers. “Your leg! Fire! FIRE!”

To my horror, Demeter’s slouchy linen trousers have started to smolder at the edges. She must have caught a flame when she was trying to get the email.

“No,” she says, as though this is the last straw, and starts stamping her foot, trying to quench the flames.

“Buckets!” cries Dad, dropping his jingle-bell stick and running. “Fire! Get the buckets!”

“Coming through, coming through, coming through, everyone—” Steve’s strident, intoning voice cuts through the hubbub. The next thing I know, there are screams and cries of surprise, Demeter is drenched in freezing water, head to foot, and Steve is standing there with an empty bucket and a look of grim satisfaction.

I cannot believe he just did that.

“Well…thanks,” says Demeter, shivering and pushing her dripping hair off her face. “I suppose. Although did you need to throw it all over me?”

“Health and safety,” he says. “Plus you deserve it. Don’t she, Katie?” He gives me a great big wink, and I glare back, livid.

“Steve, you moron.” I’m almost too angry to speak. “You total moron.”

“Just acting on your behalf,” he says unrepentantly. “She did you a wrong, so. Therefore. Ergo. You don’t mess around with Katie,” he adds ominously to Demeter. “Not unless you don’t want me not to hear about it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” I say, feeling an urge to hit Steve. “What are you even trying to say?”

“I’m saying it like it is, Katie.” Steve gives me his bulgy-eyed look. “Saying it like it is.”

“You got him to do that to me?” says Demeter in disbelief.

“No!” I say in alarm, but I’m not sure Demeter even hears me. She seems at the end of her tether, unaware of everyone around.

“Haven’t you done enough?” She shakes her head. “Haven’t you punished me enough? What else are you going to do, tie me up and set the dogs on me? I mean, Jesus, Katie. I know I let you go insensitively, I know you think I ruined your life, but it’s what I had to do, OK? It was my job!” She’s practically shouting by now. “I had to let you go. And I know it was difficult, but sometimes you just have to get over things! You have to—”

“Let you go?” Dad interrupts. “What’s she talking about, love?”

I jump like a scalded cat and turn to see Dad peering at Demeter with a bright-eyed, inquiring expression.

“Shit,” says Demeter, and brings a hand to her head. “Katie, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Does she know you from London?” Dad looks still more puzzled. “Katie, who is this?”

“She works for Cooper Clemmow,” Steve tells him with lugubrious importance. “Googled her, didn’t I? ‘Demeter Farlowe’ she calls herself there. And he works there.” Steve jerks a finger toward Alex, who has been standing on the sidelines. “They’re Katie’s bosses, come down from London. That’s who they are.”

Dad is looking from Demeter to Alex, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Why didn’t you let on who you were?” he says shortly, addressing them both. “What’s the big secret?”

“Well.” Demeter glances at me. “It’s…delicate….”

“Have you come here to fire Katie?” he says, in sudden wrath. “Because that’s not on. That’s not on!” he practically bellows. “She’s been a good employee, has our Katie.” He turns on Alex, who gives a startled jump. “She’s on the computer all the time, taking calls, working all hours…even during her so-called sabbatical….I mean, what kind of bosses are you, anyway? It’s exploitation! That’s what it is!”

“Dad, stop!” I lift up a hand in desperation. “You’ve got it wrong. They haven’t come to fire me. The truth is…” I gulp hard, feeling unsteady on my feet. “I was trying to tell you earlier….”

Tears are edging down my cheeks. I’m aware of all the glampers staring at me in shock, and Demeter standing there, still dripping, and Alex…Alex, gazing at me with the kindest, saddest expression I’ve ever seen….

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” I manage. “You and Biddy. Right now.”

—

The “what” is easy. It’s the “why.”

After I’ve explained exactly what happened, what exactly the reasons for my redundancy were, and how I’ve attempted to rejoin the job market, I still haven’t told them anything, really. Dad and Biddy are sitting on our old, faded pink chintz sofa in the sitting room—this felt like a sitting-room thing—and they’re both silenced.

“But, Katie…” says Dad at last, and he doesn’t need to say any more. He looks profoundly shocked, as though the world isn’t as he thought it was. And it’s my fault.

“Dad—” I break off, my cheeks taut with the effort of not crying. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought, if I quickly got myself a new job…”

“So that’s what you’ve been up to,” says Biddy gently.

“I’ve applied for so many jobs. So many jobs…” The memory of how many jobs I’ve applied for feels exhausting. “I thought you’d never need to know.” I bite my lip and close my eyes, wishing it were three months ago and I had the chance to do everything differently. “I’m sorry.” At last I open my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dad….”

“Katie, don’t be sorry,” he says at once, his voice rough with some emotion I can’t read. “Love, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. You’ve had a hard time of it, and I just wish we’d known…I wish we could have helped…but there it is.” He leans forward and takes my hands tightly in his big ones. “Katie, all we care about is your happiness. Sod the lot of them. Sod them. You come back here. You run Ansters Farm for us. You’re a brilliant, brilliant girl, and if they can’t see it, well, we can. Right, Biddy?”

I don’t know how to respond. I glance over at Biddy, and she’s shaking her head, a little frown notched between her brows.

“But, Mick,” she says in those quiet, measured tones of hers, “I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that. I don’t think Katie wants to make her life and career here. Do you, darling? Or am I wrong?”

I’ve never felt such tension in this room; it’s like the air is viscous with it. I need to speak; I need to tell the truth. But without hurting my dad.

“Dad…” My voice trembles so much, I can hardly utter the words. “I want to live in London. I still want to give it a go. I know you’ll never understand it, but it’s my dream.” I rub my face hard, feeling desperate. “But I don’t want to break your heart. If I go to London I know I will. And so I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. I don’t…I can’t…”

My words are all mixed up and incoherent in my head. Tears are running down my face again. I dart a glance at Dad and he appears stricken.

“Katie!” he says, and exhales. “Love. What gave you the idea I don’t want you to live in London?”

Is he serious?

“Well…you know,” I gulp. “Like, saying London’s overpriced and dangerous and dirty…telling me to buy a flat in Howells Mill…”

“Mick!” exclaims Biddy. “Why did you tell Katie to buy a flat in Howells Mill?”

“I only suggested it,” says Dad, looking caught out.

“I feel guilty all the time. All the time.” As I say the words out loud, I feel a massive relief. And dread. I’m venturing into places I would never have dared to tread before. But maybe they need venturing into.

“You know what? I want to say something.” Biddy’s voice makes me start. As I turn to her in surprise, I can see that her cheeks are pink. She looks nervous but resolute. “I always try to stand back when it’s the two of you at odds. I try not to put my oar in when it’s not wanted. But I think right now it’s needed. Because I can see two people I love—I love the pair of you, you know that, don’t you?” Biddy adds, her cheeks flaming even darker pink. “I can see two people who are hurting each other, and I won’t stand it anymore. Mick, can’t you see what pressure it puts on Katie, telling her to buy a flat in Howells Mill, for Pete’s sake? Why would she do that? And you know what I thought about our last trip to London….” Biddy turns to me and adds, “I told your dad he should apologize to you, some of the ridiculous things he said.” She lifts a hand as Dad opens his mouth to protest. “I know you worry about Katie, Mick. But eight million people live in London safely enough, don’t they? They haven’t all been gunned down or mugged, have they?”

Dad is looking a bit shamefaced. Meanwhile, I’m so gobsmacked by Biddy’s sudden eloquence, I can’t find a response.

“But there’s something else, Katie.” She turns back to me. “You know, we’re not stupid. We know life in London is tough and expensive and all the rest of it. We see the headlines; we watch the news reports. You always sound so positive, as though everything’s a dream come true…but it can’t be that easy all the time? Is it?”

There’s a huge pause. I’m feeling slightly as though I want to throw myself to Biddy’s knees and hug her.

“No,” I admit at last. “It’s not. It’s not at all.”

“No one’s life has to be perfect.” Biddy leans over and puts an arm round me, tight. “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself, love. Whoever started the rumor that life has to be perfect is a very wicked person, if you ask me. Of course it’s not! And none of this nonsense about breaking your dad’s heart,” she adds. “How could you ever break his heart?”

Slowly, almost not daring to, I raise my eyes to meet Dad’s. Dad’s eyes. They’ve been my benchmark all my life, my North Pole. I gaze into their blue depths, allowing myself to see his love, burning amid the twinkles. And just a few splinters, still.

I think Biddy hasn’t got it quite right. I think maybe I did break Dad’s heart a little. But maybe I did that just by growing up.

“Love…” Dad exhales slowly. “I’m sorry. I know what it must look like to you. And I’ll be honest: I’m not the greatest fan of London. But if you like it, maybe I’ll come to like it.” He glances at Biddy and hastily amends: “I will come to like it.”

“Well, you may not need to.” I make an attempt at a lighthearted laugh. “If I stay unemployed.”

“Those bastards…” Dad instinctively clenches a fist, and Biddy puts a soothing hand on his arm.

“Mick,” she says. “Katie’s a grown-up. She’ll find her way. Let her do that. And now we’d better all get on, don’t you think?” As she stands up, she winks at me, and I can’t help smiling back.