My Not So Perfect Life(51)

I told Fi about the glamping, and she asked a few mildly interested questions—but then she wanted to know, So when will you be back in London? and Don’t you MISS it? Which touched a sore spot. Of course I do. Then she started telling me about all the celebrities she’d spotted in some hotel bar that weekend.

And I know she’s still Fi, my mate Fi, down-to-earth Fi…but it’s getting harder to reconcile this glamorous New York Fi with the friend I could tell anything to. There’s less and less about our lives that overlaps. Maybe I should go out to New York, forge our friendship again. But how can I afford to do that?



Anyway, it’s hardly my most pressing problem. There are jobs to be done. I’m about to help Biddy with the beets when my phone buzzes in my pocket with an email. It’s from McWhirter Tonge, the company I’ve just interviewed for. Oh God…

Casually, I open the kitchen door and step outside. The late May sun is warming the fields stretching ahead of me. A spire of smoke is rising from one of the campfires in the yurt village, and I can hear the distant chacking of jackdaws coming from a copse of ash trees in North Field. Not that I’m really listening or admiring the scenery. I only care about this email. Because you never know…please…

As I jab at the screen, I feel sick with hope. I interviewed for them last week. (I told Dad and Biddy I was seeing friends.) It’s the only interview I’ve had, the only crumb of hope I’ve been given, the only application I’ve made that’s got anywhere. The offices were in Islington, and they were tiny, but the people were cool, and the work seemed really interesting, and—

Dear Cat:

Thanks so much for taking the time to visit us last week. It was good to chat and we enjoyed meeting you, but unfortunately…

Just for a moment everything seems to go dark. Unfortunately.

I let my phone fall down, blinking away the tears that have started to my eyes. C’mon, Katie. Pull it together. I take a few deep breaths and pace a little on the spot. It’s one job. One rejection. So what?



But a cold feeling is creeping over me. This was the only chance I had. No one else has even offered me an interview.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. When I started out, I had lots of emails offering me positions with stacks of potential or opportunities for development or valuable industry experience. It only took me about three phone calls to work out what those phrases mean: “No money.” “No money.” “No money.”

I can’t work for no money. However much experience it gives me. I’m past that stage.

“All right, Katie?” Biddy’s voice hails me and I whip round guiltily. She’s depositing some peelings on the compost heap and eyes me with curiosity. “What’s up, love?”

“Nothing!” I say quickly. “Just…you know. Work stuff.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Biddy shakes her head. “What with everything you do here, and all these emails you’re always sending…”

“Well, you know.” I give a weird-sounding laugh. “Keeps me busy.”

Biddy and Dad think that when I’m spending hours at the computer, I’m conversing with my London colleagues. Bouncing around ideas. Not desperately sending out application after application.

I force myself to skim the rest of the email from McWhirter Tonge:

…incredibly strong field…candidate with significantly more experience…keep your name on file…interest you in our intern scheme?



The intern scheme. That’s all they think I’m fit for.

And I know the job market is competitive, and I know everyone finds it hard, but I can’t help thinking: What did I do wrong? Was I crap at the interview? Am I crap, full stop? And if so…what am I going to do? A big black chasm is opening up in my mind. A scary dark hole. What if I can’t find any paying job, ever?

No. Stop. I mustn’t think like that. I’ll send off some more applications tonight, widen the net—

“Oh, Katie, love.” Biddy comes over. “I meant to ask you, I had an inquiry earlier, and the lady asked about sustainability. What is it we say again?”

“We talk about our solar panels,” I say, glad of the distraction. “And the outdoor shower. And the organic vegetables. And we don’t mention Dad’s Jacuzzi. I’ll write you out a crib sheet, if you like.”

“You’re a star, Katie.” Biddy pats my arm, then directs a reproving glance at my phone. “Now, don’t let those London bosses get to you, darling. You’re on your sabbatical, remember!”

“That’s right.” I smile wanly as she heads back into the kitchen, then sink onto the grass. I feel like I’m two people right now. I’m Cat, trying to make it in London, and I’m Katie, helping to run a glamping site, and it’s fairly exhausting being both.

On the plus side, the farm does look spectacular today. I’ll go around later, take some photos and social-media them. My eye is caught by the glinting solar panels on the shower barn, and I feel a twinge of pride. It was my idea to put in the solar panels. We’re not totally green at Ansters Farm—we use a supplementary boiler and we do have proper loos—but we’re not totally un-green either. After only a few weeks of the season, I soon realized that some glampers are all about: Are you sustainable? Because that’s really important to us. Whereas others are all about: Are there proper hot showers or am I going to die of cold? Because I was never that sure about glamping in the first place; it was Gavin’s idea. So it’s great to be able to reassure both camps.