My Not So Perfect Life(57)

“So authentic. Absolutely wonderful.”

A voice stops me in my tracks. It’s a ringing, imperious voice. And it sounds just like—

No.

“Marvelous view. Look, Coco. Look at this view. And is everything organic?”

My heart has started to thud. It can’t be.



“…absolutely adore to find some proper West Country cuisine; you’ll have to recommend a spot…”

It can’t be. But it is. It’s Demeter.

Here.

I feel rooted to the spot, between yurts, like a paralyzed gazelle. Whoever she’s talking to isn’t answering loudly enough to be audible. So all I can hear is Demeter’s voice, crashing arrogantly through the quiet, asking typical Demeter questions.

“And is the river organic?…And is all the produce local?…Now, when you say sustainable…”

I’m still stranded on the grass. I have to move. I have to get a grip. But I can’t. My face is prickling and my breaths feel weak. What is she doing here?

“Actually, it’s Demeter,” I hear her saying now, in that smug way she has when she explains her name. “De-meeeeter. It’s Ancient Greek.”

I suddenly spot Dad coming out of the kitchen. He’s holding the master folder, which is where I put all the printouts, guest forms, everything that Dad and Biddy don’t want to read on screens.

“Dad,” I gasp, and scuttle over to him, keeping well out of sight. “Who are those people? Can I just check…” I’ve already grabbed the folder and am riffling through the paperwork, my hands so shaky that they barely work. “Here we are. The Wiltons.”

My mind is racing. I know her as Demeter Farlowe. But maybe that’s her maiden name. Is Wilton her married name? Is it?



Well, why shouldn’t it be?

“James and Rita,” I read. “Rita.”

“I know.” Dad chuckles. “Funny name for a woman that age. I thought that when I wrote it down.”

“So, you took the booking?” I need every scrap of information. I need to know how this has happened.

“She phoned up from her car.” Dad nods—then his expression changes. “Now, don’t tell me I didn’t put the payment through properly. Because I did exactly what you taught me, love—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not that….”

My head is spinning. I’ve just seen the address on the form: Stanford Road. It’s definitely her. My chest feels so constricted, I’m not sure I can breathe.

Demeter. Here.

“Love?” Dad peers at me. “Katie?”

“She’s not called Rita, OK?” I manage. “I just heard her saying so. She’s called Demeter. De-me-ter.”

“Demeter?” Dad looks highly dubious. “That’s not a name.”

“It is a bloody name!” I feel like shaking him. If he’d only written it down right in the first place…“It’s Greek! It means ‘goddess of the harvest’!”

“Well. Takes all sorts. De-me-ter.” Dad tries the word out again, wrinkling his nose. Then he surveys me again, looking puzzled. “Love, what’s the problem? It’s just a name. No harm done.”

I stare back silently, my thoughts roaring in my head. I don’t even know where to start. No harm done?

“There’s no problem,” I say at last. “I just don’t like getting things wrong. We’ll need to change all the place names and lists and everything. And explain about the note. It doesn’t look professional.”



Dad strides off toward the shower barn, whistling a merry tune, and I swivel slowly on the spot. I can still hear a conversation going on by Demeter’s yurt. It must be Biddy who’s checking her in, and they’re still at it. Go figure. Demeter is exactly the kind of person to monopolize all the attention.

Slowly I edge my way back toward the yurt. As I get near enough to hear, I stop still and listen with all my might.

“I read about you in the Guardian piece, of course,” Demeter’s saying in her lordly way. “And I had a brochure. Someone gave it to me—I can’t remember who now. And so this is a proper, authentic farm?”

“Oh yes,” I hear Biddy reply. “The Brenner family have farmed this land for over two hundred years. I’m the newcomer!”

“How fabulous,” says Demeter. “I’m a great supporter of authentic rural practices. We can’t wait to start the activities, can we, Coco?”

Coco. That’s the daughter. She was Chloe on the form.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,” says Biddy. “If there’s anything you want, please come up to the farmhouse. I’m always there, or Farmer Mick, or Katie. You haven’t met her, but she’s Farmer Mick’s daughter. My stepdaughter.”

“Wonderful,” says Demeter. “Thank you so much. Oh, one last question—are the sheets organic?”

I’ve heard enough. I back away and sprint into the farmhouse. I don’t stop till I get safely into my room. Then I bang the door shut and sit on my bed, staring at the ancient peeling wallpaper, breathing hard. How am I going to survive a week of Demeter? I can’t bear it. I have to leave.