My Not So Perfect Life(37)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Well.” Biddy glances at Dad.

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

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

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

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



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

“Of course we are,” mutters Dad.

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

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

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

I can see Biddy forcing a smile through her disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” Dad looks baffled.

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

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



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

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

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