My Not So Perfect Life(73)

“Exactly! It’s really, really important.” I try to impress this on Biddy. “Don’t mention work to Demeter. Don’t ask her where she works. And don’t…” I feel sick at the very thought. “Don’t mention Cooper Clemmow.”

I resume peeling potatoes, feeling a bit weak. That was close. It still is close. It’s precarious. Whatever I say to Biddy, she still may take it upon herself to big up my London job to Demeter. With just one wrong word, everything could come out. Oh God…I close my eyes, breathing hard. Should I come clean now? Tell Biddy and Dad everything? But they’ll be so upset, and they’ve got enough on their plates as it is….

“Katie?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump. “Darling, I think you’ve peeled that potato enough,” she says with a laugh, and I look down in a daze. I’ve been peeling the same potato, round and round, until it’s about the size of a marble.

“Right.” I muster a smile. “Not concentrating.”

“By the way,” adds Biddy, “I meant to tell you before. Guess what? We have our first B&B guest arriving tomorrow!”

“Oh, great!” I say, distracted for a moment. “That’s brilliant news!”

The B&B room has been Biddy’s project. It was her idea to have an “overspill” room in the house for people who don’t want to glamp. It’s a ground-floor room with its own entrance—it fact, it used to be a sitting room that we hardly ever used. Biddy painted it in Farrow & Ball (my advice), and Dad turned the outhouse loo into a tiny en suite shower, and it’s all 400-thread-count sheets, like in the yurts.



“Who is it?” I ask. “Are they staying long?”

“Just a night,” says Biddy. “He must want to have a look at the yurts or something. He wanted to stay in one, actually, but I told him they were full.”

“Does he want to do any activities?”

“Oh.” Biddy looks troubled. “I didn’t ask. Well, we’ll find out when he arrives. Funny name he’s got. Astalis.” She peers at her own writing. “Can that be right? Astalis?”

The world has gone black for a moment.

“Astalis?” I repeat, in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.

“Alex Astalis.” Biddy wrinkles her brow. “I wonder if he’s any relation to that famous Astalis chap….What’s he called again…”

Alex is coming here. Why’s he coming here? And then, in the next instant, I know exactly why he’s coming here.

“When…” I’m trying to keep control of myself. “When exactly did he call?”

“It was earlier on,” says Biddy. “About two-thirty.”

Two-thirty. About ten minutes after James told Demeter he was going away. I have a sudden image of Demeter sitting there at the lunch table, texting, that half-smile playing on her lips. She didn’t hang about, did she? She didn’t bloody hang about.

“I hope he finds the bed comfortable,” Biddy is fretting. “I found it a little hard myself, but your dad said it was fine….”

“I’m sure it’ll be OK,” I say numbly.



He won’t need the bed, is what I feel like saying. He won’t need the room. He’ll be in the yurt all night with Demeter.

There I was, softening toward her, thinking she had it tough—but look at her. The minute her husband’s out of the way, she ships in her lover. She didn’t even wait half an hour after James had kissed her and told her he loved her. She’s a bitch, she’s a selfish bitch….

And now I’m torturing myself, imagining Alex and Demeter in the yurt. Candles lit. Writhing around athletically on the sheepskin. My breaths are coming in short, angry bursts. I feel like a melting pot of fury and frustration…and, OK, envy. Some envy.

Quite a lot of envy.

And then I jolt in panic. Shit. What if Alex recognizes me? He doesn’t have Demeter’s facial-recognition problem. He’s more switched on. I cannot come across him in any shape or form, or everything really will implode….

OK. Stop freaking out. It’ll be fine. I’ll have to pretend to be ill or something. I don’t want to see him, anyway; can’t think of anything worse.

“What time’s he arriving?” I ask, as casually as I can. “This Astalis person?”

“Not till eleven-ish. Plenty of time to make the room nice.” Biddy smiles at me. “And what are you going to do with Demeter? She told me you’re arranging another bespoke activity. You two are quite a pair!”

I stare back, my brain in overdrive. I’d forgotten about the bespoke activity. I’d forgotten about spending another morning with Demeter. Something “nice,” I promised myself. Something “fun.” Well, that was before I knew what a self-centered, conniving, two-faced bitch she really was.



“Do you want to do baking?” suggests Biddy. “I could help you with that.” But slowly I shake my head.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll come up with something else.” I give Biddy a bland little smile. “This might be Demeter’s last activity with me. I want to think of something absolutely perfect.”





I meet Demeter at ten o’clock the next morning with my brightest, friendliest, “hello, campers” manner. She’s wearing a gray tank top teamed with denim shorts just like Coco’s, plus Hunter wellies. (I told her to wear something suitable for walking.) She has pretty good legs, actually. Of course she does. She probably thinks she looks like Kate Moss at Glastonbury. She’s probably wearing those teeny shorts to look super-sexy for Alex.