My Not So Perfect Life(48)

“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!”