My Not So Perfect Life

  “OK. I think if you’re going to do this, you should do it high-end. Really high-end. Do food…put on activities…make this a luxury glamping resort for families.”

  “A resort?” Dad looks taken aback.

  “Why not? You’ve got the space, you’ve got the resources, Biddy’s had experience in catering….”

  “But not in the rest of it, love.” Biddy looks worried.

  “I’ll give you pointers. The more luxury you go, the higher prices you can charge, the more profit you’ll make.”

  “High prices?” Biddy looks even more anxious.

  “People love high prices,” I say confidently.

  “What?” Dad looks skeptical. “I think you’re wrong there, love.”

  “I’m not! It’s prestige pricing. They see the prices and they think it must be good. If you’ve got some money to invest, high-end is the way to go. You’ll need luxury tents, for a start.” I count off on my fingers. “Yurts or tepees or whatever. And proper beds. And…” I search around in my mind for things I’ve seen on Instagram. “High thread count.”

  My dad and Biddy exchange looks. “What count?”

  “Thread count. Sheets.”

  Biddy still looks baffled. She and my dad use the duvet sets that Biddy brought when she moved in. They’re cream and spriggy and date from the 1980s. I have no idea what thread count they are, probably zero.

  “Biddy, we’ll go online and I’ll show you. Thread count is essential.” I try to impress this on her. “You need four hundred, at least. And nice soap.”

  “I’ve got soap.” Dad looks proud of himself. “Job lot from the Factory Shop. Thirty bars.”

  “No!” I shake my head. “It has to be some kind of local handmade organic soap. Something luxury. Your customers want to have London in the country. Like, rustic, but urban rustic.”

  I can see Biddy writing down London in the country.

  “You’ll need to put some showers in one of the barns,” I add.

  Dad nods. “We’ve thought of that.”

  One of his skills is plumbing, so I’m not too worried about that—as long as he doesn’t choose some terrible knock-off sanitary ware in bilious green.

  Another idea hits me. “And maybe you should have an outside shower for summer. That would be amazing.”

  “An outside shower?” My dad looks appalled. “Outside?”

  Dad’s pride and joy is his Jacuzzi, which he bought secondhand and installed himself when we had some government-rebate windfall. His idea of a top relaxing evening is to sit in his Jacuzzi, drinking one of his homemade cocktails and reading the Daily Express. He’s not really an outside shower type of guy.

  I nod. “Definitely. With wooden screens. Maybe with a wooden pail that drenches you, or something?”

  “A wooden pail?” Dad looks even more horrified.

  “It’s what they want.” I shrug.

  “But you just said they want to be urban! Make up your mind, Katie!”

  “They do and they don’t.” I’m struggling to explain. “They want nice soap, but they want to use it looking at the sky, listening to cows. They want to feel rural…but not actually be rural.”

  “They sound like bloody lunatics.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug again. “But they’re lunatics with money.”

  The phone rings, and Dad answers. I can see Biddy diligently writing down thread count, handmade soap, cows.

  “Hello? Oh yes. The scented logs? Of course. Let me just look in the order book….”

  “Scented logs?” I say in an undertone to Biddy.

  “It’s a new thing I’m doing,” she replies. “Pine-scented logs for Christmas. We’re selling them in bundles. You infuse them with pine oil. It’s very easy.”

  “That’s clever!” I say admiringly.

  “It’s gone quite well.” Biddy blushes. “Very popular.”

  “Well, you can sell them to the glampers. And your jam. And your gingerbread biscuits. And give them your homemade granola for breakfast….”

  The more I think about it, the more I think Biddy will be the perfect hostess for a bunch of glampers. She even has apple cheeks, like a proper farmer’s wife.

  Then Dad’s voice impinges on my thoughts.

  “No, we don’t have a sign. Where are you?” He takes a sip of his drink. “Oh, you can’t come that way.” He chuckles as if it’s perfectly obvious. “The satnav always gets it wrong….Oh, that gate? Yes, that gate will be shut….No, I don’t know the gate code….Well, you’ll have to come round the long way.” He listens again. “No, we don’t provide bags. Most of our customers bring their own. OK, we’ll see you shortly.” He puts down the phone and nods at Biddy.

  “Customer for your logs.” He chuckles again. “She sounded a bit confused, poor love.”

  “No wonder she was confused!” I erupt. “Dad, do you have any idea about customer service?” Dad looks blank, and I clutch my head. “You can’t behave like that if you open a glamping site! You need a map! Directions! Bags! You need to hold the client’s hand. Hold it throughout. Make them feel secure every minute of the process. Then you’ll have a happy customer.”

  I suddenly realize I’m channeling Demeter again. In fact, I’m echoing her word for word.

  Well, so what? Demeter may be the boss from hell and having torrid sex with the guy I thought I liked, but she’s still the most talented person in the office. If I don’t try to learn from her, I’m a fool.

  I’ve been reading that book she lent me, Our Vision, and making notes on it. Not only that, I’ve been deciphering all Demeter’s scribbled comments in the margins and making notes on those too. And I’ve only written stupid cow once. Which I think is quite controlled of me.

  “You see?” Biddy chimes in. “This is why we need Katie’s advice. She knows. Now, you listen to her, Mick.”

  I’ve never heard Biddy so assertive, and I give an inward cheer.

  “So, another question.” I look from Biddy to Dad. “Have you thought about marketing? You need a brand. An image.” My dad and Biddy look back at me helplessly and I feel a sudden tweak of love for them both. This is something I could do for them. I could create a glamping brand.

  My mind is already at work. I’m seeing images. Taglines. Photos of fields, lambs, bunting, campfires…Oh God, it could look amazing.

  “I’ll make you a leaflet,” I say. “And a website. I’ll create your brand. You just do the practical details. I’ll do the image.”

  “Would you, love?” Biddy claps a hand over her mouth. “That would be wonderful!”

  “I want to,” I say. “Really, I do.”

  And it’s true. Not only do I want to—I can’t wait.

  —

  I work at it all Christmas. It consumes me. The sun is out again on Christmas Day, and instead of going to church with Dad and Biddy, I rush round the farm, taking endless pictures of fields, cows, random gateposts, whatever I can find. I download generic pictures of yurts, daffodils, fire pits, lambs, and a close-up of a child splashing in a lake which could easily be Fisher’s Lake. I get a shot of Dad’s tractor. I build a makeshift den with sticks, decorate it with the only string of bunting I possess, and get a picture of that. I take a close-up of Biddy’s jam, cunningly styled on an ancient linen tea towel, with some dried lavender sprigs in the foreground. (Biddy makes lavender bags every year too. And chamomile tea.)

  Choosing the font takes a while, but in the end I find one which totally speaks to me. It’s cool, retro, a bit rustic but not twee. It’s perfect. I filter the pictures, play around with layout, and then start brainstorming copy.

  Demeter’s voice is in my head yet again as I type:

  Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Local. Nature. Values. Family. Haven. Space. Simple. Slowdown. Laughter. Freedom. Mud.

  No, scrap mud. No mud, no silage, no slaughterhouses, no sheep with gross diseases of the foot. No reality.

  Earth. Craft. Ancient. Wagon. Campfire. Slow-cooked. Handmade. Pure. Fresh air. Fre
sh milk. Fresh, authentic, traditional, organic, local, hand-kneaded, homemade bread. (Gluten-free available.)

  By Boxing Day I’ve finalized the brochure, and though I say it myself, it’s mouthwatering. It’s fabulous. I want to come and stay at Ansters Farm.

  “What do you think?” I hand over my printed-out draft layouts and wait for Dad and Biddy to comment.

  “Goodness!” Biddy peers at the picture of the farmhouse. “Is that us?”

  “I Photoshopped it a tiny bit.” I shrug. “It’s what you do.”

  “What’s this, www.anstersfarm.com?” queries Dad.

  “It’s the website I’m going to make for you,” I say. “It’ll take a bit longer to set up, but it’ll have the same vibe.”

  Both Dad and Biddy are reading the copy, looking a bit perplexed.

  “Organic hammocks,” reads Biddy. “Luxe yurts. Freedom for couples, families, lovers. Be who you want to be.”

  “With grass underfoot and the wide sky above, children can be children,” reads Dad. “Well, what else would they be?”

  “We mix traditional values with modern comforts in a haven from modern life,” reads Biddy. “Oh, Katie, that does sound good.”

  “Forget your stresses as you enjoy our program of rural activities. Corn-dolly-making, tractor rides, stick-whittling…” Dad looks up. “Stick-whittling? For Pete’s sake, love. People don’t come on holiday to whittle sticks.”

  “They do! They think whittling sticks is back to nature!”

  “I could bake cakes,” volunteers Biddy. “With the children, I mean.”

  “As long as it’s a local, authentic Somerset recipe,” I say sternly. “No additives. No chocolate buttons.”

  “Weekly stargazing barbecues,” reads Dad, and looks up again. “Who’s doing those?”

  “You are,” I tell him. “And you’re doing tractor rides and cow-milking.”

  “All about Esme.” Biddy has turned to the back page and is reading aloud.

  “Who’s Esme?” demands Dad.

  “One of the chickens. You’ll have to name all the animals,” I instruct him. “Every chicken, every cow, every sheep.”

  “Katie, love.” Dad looks as though I’ve gone out of my mind. “I think you’re going too far here.”

  “You have to!” I insist. “The chicken’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”

  “Esme and her family are part of farm life,” reads Biddy. “Visit their henhouse and collect your very own warm eggs. Then scramble them on the fire pit with our locally sourced hemp oil and wild mushrooms.” She looks up anxiously. “Locally sourced hemp oil?”

  “I’ve already found a supplier,” I tell her with satisfaction. “It’s totally the new olive oil.”

  “Enjoy with our homemade organic bread and range of award-winning jams.” Biddy flinches. “Award-winning?”

  “You’ve won loads of prizes at fairs,” I remind her. “Those are awards, aren’t they?”

  “Well.” Biddy turns the printouts over and over, as though digesting them. “It does look wonderful, I must say.”

  “We can upload fresher pictures on the website,” I say. “Once you’ve got the yurts and everything. But this is like a sneak preview.”

  “But none of it’s true!”

  “It is! I mean…it will be. It can be. I’m going to get this printed up on special paper,” I add.

  I already know the paper I want to use. It’s a recycled, unfinished paper that we used once at Cooper Clemmow for a cereal brand. I remember Demeter giving the office one of her spontaneous lectures on why this paper was the ideal choice, and, I have to admit, I lapped up every word. It’ll look perfect.

  I could probably spend all day discussing the design, but after a while Dad says he has to check on some sick cow, and he heads out.

  “Ansters Farm Country Retreat.” Biddy is looking lovingly at the front of the leaflet again. “Doesn’t it look beautiful? I don’t know how you can leave, darling. Don’t you ever think about moving back?” There’s a wistful cast to her expression, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt. I think Biddy picks up on it, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know your life is very exciting in London….”

  I let her words hang in the air without contradicting them but without nodding either. It’s quiet and cozy, sitting here with Biddy, and I almost feel like drawing closer and confiding in her. Asking her about Dad, how hurt he really is. Whether he’ll ever get over the fact that I’ve chosen London over him.

  But I haven’t got the guts to speak. I guess I’m too scared of what I might hear. The prickliness between me and Dad isn’t great, but it’s tolerable. Whereas to have my worst fears confirmed would just…Even the thought makes me flinch. No. Don’t go there.

  Biddy would never volunteer anything without being asked; she’s scrupulous like that. She’s positioned herself in our family with the utmost tact, and there are places she just doesn’t go. So even though I feel as if the subject is dancing around us in the ether, demanding to be discussed, neither of us says a word about it. We sip our tea and it slowly ebbs away again, like these things always do.

  After a while, I pull the leaflet toward me. The truth is, I do feel a little tug in my heart as I survey the farm, looking as picturesque as any glossy magazine spread. It gives me such a feeling of…what, exactly? Pride? Love? Longing?

  “Evening, all.” A familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. A familiar, droning, totally unwelcome voice. I look up, trying to mask my dismay—but there he is, Steve Logan, striding into the room with his long, long legs. He’s six foot five, Steve. Always has been.

  Well, not always, clearly. But since he was about twelve, and everyone at school used to dare him to go into the off-license and buy a can of beer. (Because obviously a super-tall twelve-year-old boy looks exactly like an adult.)

  “Hi, Steve,” I say, trying to sound friendly. “Happy Christmas. How are you?”

  Steve works for Dad on the farm, so it makes sense that he’s popped in. But I was really hoping he wouldn’t.

  OK, full disclosure: Steve is the first guy I ever slept with. Although, in my defense, there was not a lot of choice.

  “Cup of tea, Steve?” says Biddy, and when he nods, she disappears to the kitchen. Steve and I are alone. Great. The thing about Steve and me is, we were together for about five minutes, and I regretted it as soon as we began, and I can’t now imagine what I saw in him apart from: 1. He was a boy. 2. He was available. And 3. I was the only one of my friends not to have a boyfriend.

  But Steve has behaved ever since as though we’re some long-standing divorced couple. He and his mum still refer to me as his “ex.” (Hello? We barely dated and we were at school.) He makes in-jokes about the time we spent together and shoots me “significant” glances, which I deliberately misunderstand or ignore. Basically, my way of coping with Steve has been: Avoid him.

  But things should be different now, after what Biddy has told me.

  “So, congratulations!” I say brightly. “I heard you got engaged to Kayla. Fantastic news!”

  “That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right. Asked her in November. It was her birthday.” Steve has this low, intense, monotonous way of talking which is almost mesmerizing. “Put the proposal on Instagram,” he adds. “Want to see?”

  “Oh. Er…of course!”

  Steve gets out his phone and hands it to me. Dutifully, I start scrolling through photos of him and Kayla in some plushy restaurant with purple wallpaper.

  “Took her out for dinner at Shaw Manor. Three courses…everything.” He looks up a bit belligerently. “I know how to spoil her.”

  “Wow,” I say politely. “Lovely photos. Gorgeous…forks.”

  There are pictures of every detail of the restaurant. The forks, the napkins, the chairs…When the hell did he propose if he was taking all these photos?

  “Then I gave her the presents. But the proposal, that was hidden in the last present. In a poem.”

  “
Amazing!” I search for words. “That’s just…Wow.” I’m still scrolling through pictures of place settings, trying to keep my face set to “interested.”

  “I mean, if it had been you, I’d have done it different.” Steve shoots me a look from beneath his brows. “But of course it wasn’t you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it had been me’?” I feel a stab of alarm.

  “I’m just saying. Everyone’s different. You’d like different things out of a proposal. You and Kayla, you’re different.”

  OK, this conversation has gone awry. I do not want to be talking to Steve Logan about what I might or might not like out of a proposal.

  “So, what else is new?” I ask brightly, handing his phone back to him. “Give me the gossip.”

  “New outlet store’s opened in West Warreton,” he informs me. “It does Ted Baker, Calvin Klein….”

  “Great!”

  “I know you have Ted Baker in London, but we’ve got it here now. I’m just saying.” Steve gives me one of his passive–aggressive looks. “You know. Just saying.”

  “Right—”

  “I mean, I know you think you’ve got everything in London, but—”

  “I don’t think I’ve got everything in London,” I cut him off. Steve has always been chippy about London, and the trick is not to talk to him about it.

  “We’ve got Ted Baker.” He eyes me as though he’s proved some massive point. “Discount.”

  This is torture.

  “Biddy!” I call lightly, but she doesn’t hear me. “Well, anyway.” I summon my most pleasant tones. “Best of luck with the wedding—”

  “I could break up with her.” He speaks in low tones, leaning toward me.

  “What?”

  “If you say the word.”

  “What?” I stare at him, aghast. “Steve, if you want to break up with her, you shouldn’t be marrying her!”

  “I’m not saying I want to break up with her. But I would. You know. If you and me…” He makes a weird motion with his hands. I don’t even want to think about what he’s trying to describe.

  “No! I mean…that’s never going to happen. Steve, you’re engaged.”

  “I never gave up on you. Did you give up on me?”