My Not So Perfect Life(98)

“Your mum’s full of ideas,” I tell them. “She’s bursting with them. She sees a packaging design and she instantly knows what’s wrong or right with it.”

“Yeah,” says Coco, rolling her eyes. “We know. You go round the supermarket and she’s got an opinion on, like, every single box.”

“Right. So, did you know she’s won a stack of awards for those opinions? Did you know that she can inspire big teams of people to do amazing work? She can take a whole bunch of ideas and distill them into a concept, and as soon as she says it you think, Yes.”



I glance up, and they’re both listening intently.

“Your mum can bring a room to life,” I continue. “She makes people think. You can’t be lazy when she’s around. She’s original, she’s inspiring…she’s inspired me. I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”

I said that more for effect than anything else—but as the words hit the air, I realize I mean them. If it weren’t for Demeter, I wouldn’t have learned everything that I have. I wouldn’t have created the Ansters Farm brochure and website in the same way. We might not have taken off.

“You’re very lucky to have her as your mum,” I conclude. “And I know, because I don’t have a mum.”

“Isn’t Biddy your mum?” Coco looks puzzled.

“She’s my stepmum. And she wasn’t around when I was younger. I grew up with no mum, so I was especially observant. I looked at everyone else’s mums. And yours is one of the best. She’s having a really tough time at work right now, did you know that?” I add.

Coco and Hal look at me dumbly. Of course they didn’t know. Another trouble with Demeter, I’m realizing, is her instinct to protect others. Protect Rosa from knowing she was rejected. Protect her kids from knowing she’s stressed. Keep up the charmed, life-is-perfect myth.

Well, enough. These kids aren’t toddlers; they can bloody well support her.

“Maybe she hasn’t told you.” I shrug. “But take it from me, things are difficult. And the way you can help is to be charming and appreciative and keep this yurt tidy and not ask for stuff or complain or get pissed on vodka.”



I eye Coco, and she looks away.

“I won’t,” she mumbles, so indistinctly I can barely hear her.

“I’ll tidy up the yurt,” volunteers Hal, who seems eager to make amends.

“Great.” I stand up to leave. “And, Hal, keep an eye on Coco. Do not leave her. Any problems, you come and get me or the nearest grown-up. I’ll be back in half an hour to check on you. OK?”

Hal nods vigorously. “OK.”

“Are you going to tell Mum?” Coco’s plaintive voice comes from the bed. “Please?”

Her face is pale and she’s lost that annoying, sulky chin-jut she often has. She actually looks about ten years old. But I’m not letting her off the hook that easily.

“Depends,” I say, and push my way out of the yurt.

—

As I’m walking across the field, I come upon Dad, sitting alone on a bench, sipping a can of beer. His Farmer Mick hat is off, his bells are lying silent by his side, and he looks exhausted.

“Hi, Dad.” I sit down beside him.

“Hi, love.” He turns to look at me, his eyes crinkling in affection. “Where did you go rushing off to just now?”

“Coco.” I roll my eyes. “Drank too much. I had to sort her out.”



“Drank too much?” Dad’s eyes open wide, then he gives a wry shrug. “They all do it. I remember you coming home once from a party in a terrible state. About her age, you were.”

“I remember that too.” I grimace. I’d had too many black velvets, as I recall. Not one of my finest moments.

“I was that worried. Sat up all night with you, dozy fool that I was.” He grins merrily. “You woke up as right as rain, ate a plateful of eggs and bacon!”

I’d forgotten Dad sat up all night with me. He must have been really stressed out. And just him; no one to share it with.

“Sorry.” I give him an impulsive hug.

“You don’t need to say sorry. What else are dads for?” He sips his beer, and as he moves, the bells jingle at his side.

“I like the Morris dancing,” I say. “It’s funny.”

“Well, it keeps them entertained, doesn’t it?” Dad flashes me another smile, but I can still see a cast of weariness in his face.

“Listen, Dad…don’t overdo it, will you? You and Biddy. You’re putting so much energy into this.”

“Paying off, though, isn’t it?” He spreads an arm toward the campfire; the contented hubbub of the glampers; the shadowy yurts. “Finally got something right, Katie, love. You got it right.”

“We all got it right,” I correct him. “I think ‘Farmer Mick’ is about fifty percent of our success.”

“Ha!” Dad gives a pleased laugh. “Keeps me young.” He sips his beer again, and for a while we’re silent. Then he adds, in slightly wary tones, “You need to be careful about overdoing it too, love.”

“Me?”



“I saw you at the computer the other day. Stressed out, you looked. They shouldn’t be working you like that. You’ve got enough on your plate here.”