My Not So Perfect Life(71)

Both children look dumbfounded at this idea.

“She enjoys working,” Coco says at last, with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

“Well, Biddy enjoys baking,” I say with a shrug. “But you still say thank you nicely when she gives you a scone.”

“It’s not the same,” says Coco, sounding cross. “She’s our mum.”

“You don’t say thank you for holidays,” puts in Hal, as though this is some article from the Geneva Convention which he refuses to deviate from, out of principle.

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I say pleasantly. “Because when I was your age, we could never afford holidays. I’d have been really envious of you guys, on holiday all the time.”

“We don’t go on that many holidays,” says Coco, looking sulky, and I feel an urge to slap her. I’ve seen photos of her in Demeter’s office. Skiing. Standing on a white-sand beach. Laughing on a speedboat in some tropical clime.



“I didn’t ever go abroad till I was seventeen,” I say pleasantly. “And now I can’t afford to go abroad either. And I could never afford a Jack Wills hoodie. You’re a lucky girl, Coco. I mean, Jack Wills!”

Coco cautiously touches her hoodie, the one she was disparaging a moment ago. Then she looks at my T-shirt—an unbranded Factory Shop special.

“Well,” she says, with less of a swagger in her voice. “Yeah. Jack Wills is cool.”

“See you,” I say lightly, and walk away.

I perch on a nearby wall, pretending to check my activities folder, wondering how this will play out. But if I was hoping that both kids would start discussing how ungrateful they’ve been and how to make amends, then I was nuts. They both sit there silently, with the same sulky expressions, gazing at their phones, as though we never had a conversation.

As Demeter returns to the table, she looks exhausted and a bit freaked. She sits down, gazing into the middle distance, chewing her lip. For a while, no one says anything. But then Coco lifts her eyes from her phone for a nanosecond and mutters, “Mum, the holiday’s really great.”

Instantly, Demeter springs into life. The weariness disappears from her face, and she gazes at Coco like someone whose lover just told her he will marry her, after all.

“Really?” she says. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yeah. So, like…” Coco hesitates as though making the supreme effort. “You know. Thanks.”



“Darling! It’s my pleasure!” Demeter looks absolutely radiant, simply because her child gave her a grudging thank-you. It’s pitiful. It’s tragic.

“Yeah,” says Hal, and this single syllable seems to make Demeter’s day even more perfect.

“Well, it’s lovely,” she says. “It’s lovely just to spend time together.”

There’s a tremble in her voice, and her eyes give that sudden panicky, darting movement I know so well. What is up with her? What is up?

At that moment, Dad comes sauntering up to their table, holding a load of brochures.

“Now,” he begins, in his most charming way, “can I say that you are delightful guests. Just delightful. We see a lot of glampers, and you…” He points with his weatherbeaten finger to Demeter, then Coco, then Hal. “You come out on top.”

“Thank you,” says Demeter, with a laugh, and even Coco looks pleased.

“And for that reason,” carries on Dad breezily, “we’d like to invite all your friends to come and join us next year. Because we’re sure they’ll be just as delightful as you.” He hands Demeter a stack of Ansters Farm brochures from his pile. “Spread the word! Spread the joy! We’ve got ten percent discounts for all your friends!”

Demeter takes the brochures, and I can tell she’s amused by Dad’s little riff.

“So we’re the best guests here, are we?” she says, her mouth twitching.

“By a mile,” says Dad emphatically.



“So you’re not offering this ten percent discount to anyone else?”

“Ah.” Dad twinkles knowingly back at her. “Well, it would be unfair if we didn’t let a few of the other guests in on it. But we’ll be hoping it’s your friends who come along.”

Demeter laughs. “Of course you will.” She turns the brochure over a few times, opens it, and looks at the layout. “This is good,” she says suddenly. “I thought that before. Very appealing, great design…Who produced it for you?”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dad looks pleased. “That was our Katie did that.”

“Katie?” Demeter seems a bit stunned. “Katie as in…Katie?”

“That’s right.” Dad catches sight of me. “Katie, Demeter here likes your brochure!”

“Come here!” Demeter beckons me so commandingly, I feel my legs obeying her. I tug my curly blue hair down over my face, pushing my sunglasses firmly up my nose.

I know I’m straying onto dangerous ground here. I should make an excuse and walk away. But I can’t. I feel a bit breathless, keyed up with hope. I’m still in thrall to her, I realize. I’m still desperate for her praise.

Demeter’s reading my brochure. She’s not just reading it, she’s studying it closely. She’s taking my work seriously. For how long have I dreamed of this happening?