I thought when I told her about my new job, she’d be delighted for me. But she’s been all prickly. She even said at first I shouldn’t take the job, as she was sure I could do better. (What? Is she nuts?) Then she backtracked and said, “No, you have to take it.” Then she fired a whole load of questions at me about the job and exactly what my deal was—then seemed to lose interest. We haven’t really talked about it, the last few days.
And all the time there’s this big, unanswered question which, every time I think about it, makes me feel a bit hollow: Why didn’t she offer me a job?
She could have done. I mean, they need new staff. It’s been carnage at Cooper Clemmow since it all came out. Sarah’s been fired. Rosa’s been fired. Flora was leaving to travel, anyway, so she wasn’t fired, but she won’t get a reference. None of them will get references, in fact. Which means they’ll find it very, very hard to find work now.
Although that’s better than prosecution, which is what it could have been. Should have been. They deserve it, especially Sarah, and I’ve told Demeter so loads of times. Sometimes I think I’m more angry about what happened than she is. I’d love to see Sarah standing in the dock, weeping into her retro-print hankie, mascara smeared everywhere….
But Demeter’s decided that she’s not going to press charges. Her point of view is that sometimes you have to be pragmatic. She doesn’t want the whole story coming out in the press; she doesn’t want to testify in court; she doesn’t want to become known as the woman whose staff stitched her up. She wants to move on. And Adrian is willing to support her, whatever she decides. So. Case closed.
Demeter did take the rest of the department out to lunch, though, and explain a few things. She told Mark that she’d nominated him for the Stylesign Award. She explained that Rosa never had been selected for the mayor’s project. She apologized for being scatty and tactless. Then she explained exactly why the other three had been fired. Apparently there was stunned silence for a full three minutes. I wish I’d been there.
So the department is up and running again—apparently much more happily than before. But it has some holes in it now, obviously. And I don’t know what they’re doing about it. Nor can I bring myself to ask.
Anyway, who cares? I have a job. A fab job. There’s no point feeling hurt by Demeter. Or Alex. I have more important things to do, like training up Denise to take my place here.
“OK, let’s try again.” I adopt a wide-eyed glamper’s expression. “Hello! We’ve just arrived! Is this Ansters Farm?”
I’m in the kitchen, doing some role play with Denise, who needs a bit of work on the charm side of things.
“ ’Course it’s Ansters Farm,” Denise responds flatly. “Says so on the sign.”
“No, don’t say that. Just say, ‘Yes, it is! Well done!’ ”
“ ‘Well done’ for coming on holiday?” says Denise sardonically, but I ignore her.
“OK, now, smile. Say something like, ‘What a lovely dog!’ ”
“Them ones with dogs are the worst,” counters Denise. “Bloody pain, they are.”
“Well, they pay your wages. So smile and pat the dog. Got it?”
“Fine!” explodes Denise. “What a beautiful dog,” she says in syrupy tones, an unnerving smile on her face. “We can’t wait to welcome your wonderful dog. In fact, we love him already, on account of him being so marvelous. See, I can do it,” she adds with a sniff. “Now can I get on with my cleaning?”
I give an inward grin. I think she’ll rise to the challenge.
“How’s it going?” Biddy comes into the kitchen, holding a bundle of carrots from the garden, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt run through me. It happens every time I see Dad or Biddy—i.e., about a hundred times a day.
Not that I let on. Biddy won’t allow me to feel guilty for a moment. Not a sliver of a moment. The minute I started saying how bad I felt at leaving them, she got quite cross.
“We are so, so proud of you,” she said, clutching my hands. “You’ve given us so much, Katie. Without you, we’d have none of this, none of it. You’ve done your bit, my love. Now you go and follow your dreams. You deserve it.”
And I know she means it. But it’s another reason I don’t feel as euphoric as I expected. I love this place. Maybe I’m allowing myself to love it more now. I’m proud of the business, of Dad in his Farmer Mick outfit, of the yurts all lit up by lanterns at night. Ansters Farm has turned into such a thing. It’s going to be hard to leave.
“Do you need help with those?” I say to Biddy, nodding at the carrots. And I’m just rolling up my sleeves when I hear a voice behind me that makes me think I’m hallucinating.
“Hi, Katie.”
Is that…Alex?
“Katie! Oh, good, you’re here.” Another voice greets me, and I blink. Demeter?
I whip round—and I’m not hallucinating. They’re both here in Somerset. Standing in the kitchen doorway. Demeter’s wearing one of her edgy London outfits, and Alex has had a haircut, I dimly notice. I’m so flummoxed, I can barely speak.
“What—” I look from face to face. “What are you doing here?”
Alex grins. “As ever, you get straight to the point. It was Demeter’s idea, so blame her. We could have just got on the phone….”
“Katie deserves more than a phone call,” says Demeter.