“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.”