My Not So Perfect Life(59)

“OK, well, that’s good news,” Demeter’s saying. “Can you tell the team on Monday? God knows they need the morale boost….Yes…Yup.” She’s striding around the deck now, the way she does in the office when she’s giving one of her rants. “I know; the cow-welfare concept was brilliant. I can’t remember whose idea that was now….”

My eyes open in shock. Cow welfare? That was my idea. Doesn’t she remember?

As I watch her pacing around, completely oblivious to me, a wave of anguish crests over me. That was my idea; my future; my life. OK, it wasn’t a Farrow & Ball everything-perfect life. But it was my London life and now it’s been shattered. And the worst thing is, it didn’t count for anything. She doesn’t remember me at all. There I was, worried about being recognized. What a joke.



Just for an instant, I want to pour lemonade over her head. But instead I stand perfectly still like a wooden dummy, holding the tray, watching her finish the conversation and put away her phone.

“Now.” She turns her attention to me. “Why don’t you put that lemonade down here? I want to ask you about these activities.” She picks up our activities sheet from the table and jabs at it with a manicured nail. “I have an allergy to willow, and I see that the activity tomorrow is willow-weaving. I’m also mushroom-intolerant, so I can’t do the foraging activity on Tuesday either.”

I want to laugh, or explode. An allergy to willow? Only Demeter.

“I see. Well, all the activities are optional, so…”

“Yes, but if I don’t weave willow, what will I do?” Demeter fixes me with gimlet eyes. “Are there substitute activities? Obviously I’ve paid for willow-weaving and mushroom-foraging, so I feel there should be some other option available to me. That’s what I feel. Something rustic. Or maybe yoga? Do you offer yoga?”

God, she’s a pushy cow.

“I’ll sort out an alternative for you,” I say, in my best customer-service manner. “I’ll find you some bespoke activities.”

The word “bespoke” works wonders, just as I knew it would.

“Oh, something bespoke would be wonderful.” Demeter reaches for a glass of lemonade. “Well,” she says, smiling now that she’s got everyone running around after her. “It’s very beautiful here. Very calm. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful, relaxing time.”

—



As I walk back to the farmhouse, I’m a whorl of conflicting emotion. She didn’t recognize me. She looked right at me, but she still didn’t recognize me. That’s good. I’ll be safe. My secret won’t come out. It’s all good….

Oh, but God, I can’t bear her. How do I stay polite all week? How do I do this? There’s a burning sense of injustice inside me that I can’t quell.

I could flood her yurt. Easy. Tonight. Go out with a flashlight, drag the hose along…

No. No, Katie. Stop it.

With a supreme effort, I shut down the stream of revenge fantasies which has started pouring through my mind. Demeter is probably the most influential guest we’ve ever had. I can’t have her going back to London and telling everyone Ansters Farm is crap. We have to give her and her family a good time.

Oh, but…but…

I sit down on a wooden stump, staring morosely at the picturesque view. I need to get my mood in order before I go inside; otherwise, Biddy will pick up on it. After a while, Steve comes into view, and in spite of myself, I smile.

He has earphones in and is walking along with a rolling gait, doing weird dance moves with his arms. I recognize those moves from the fifth-form dance. Maybe he’s practicing his wedding dance.



Oh God, he probably is. I clap a hand over my mouth briefly, then regain control.

“Hey, Steve.” I wave hard to get his attention, and he comes over, pulling out his earphones. “Listen, I might need some extra help tomorrow. One of the guests wants a bespoke activity.”

“Bespoke?” Steve makes a face. “What’s that, then?”

“Dunno.” I sigh. “I’ll have to make something up. She can’t do the willow-weaving because she’s allergic.”

“Which guest?” Steve surveys the yurts.

“She’s in Cowslip. Her name’s Demeter.”

“De-me-ter?” Steve looks as foxed as Dad did.

“I know.” I shrug. “It’s Ancient Greek. It means ‘goddess of the harvest.’?”

“Harvest?” Steve thinks for a moment. “Well, she can harvest some strawberries if she wants to.”

I consider this. Would Demeter be impressed by a strawberry-picking activity?

“Maybe. It’s not very artisan, though, is it? She’s all about learning farm skills. Or yoga, except we don’t do yoga.” I squint at him. “What are you up to tomorrow? Could she join in whatever you’re doing? You know, some genuine farm activity?”

“I’m muck-spreading.” Steve shrugs. “She won’t want to do that.”

“Muck-spreading?” I can’t help a giggle. “Oh, that would be perfect. Hello, Demeter, welcome to your morning of muck-spreading.”

“Should’ve done it yesterday,” Steve’s saying. “But your dad, he wanted a couple of fences mended.” He fixes me with one of his reproachful looks. “Now, I’m not blaming those glampers or nothing. But have you seen the stile into North Field?”