“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?”
“Yes, I did! I totally gave up on you!” I’m hoping to shock him into reality, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Think about it,” he says, taps his phone, and winks.
He’s insane.
“I’m really happy you’re engaged,” I say briskly. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful life together. I must go and help Biddy.”
As I leave the room, I want to scream. And Biddy asks me if I want to move back here? She must be bloody joking.
By the beginning of February, Dad and Biddy have bought yurts, feather duvets, fire pits, vintage-style kettles, one hundred meters of bunting, and two hundred labels reading ANSTERS FARM JAM. Dad’s midway through converting a barn into a shower-and-loo block, with nice rustic tiles on the floor. (Not the vicious bright-blue lino he was going to get cheap from his mate in the trade. Honestly, you can’t trust him for a minute.)
Meanwhile, the website for the Ansters Farm Country Retreat is up and running, and it looks amazing! I got Alan to do it for a reduced fee, by saying that if he did, I wouldn’t phone the landlord to complain about his whey and chicken stock. And so he agreed. The boxes are still all over the flat but I don’t care, because the website is awesome. There are pages after pages of wonderful country images, with alluring descriptions and a really easy booking form, plus a link to the Pinterest page I’ve created. There’s even a children’s page where you run your mouse over pictures of the farm animals and find out what their names are. (I’ve given all the cows names, like Florence and Mabel and Dulcie. I’ll just have to coach Dad.) Alan knows how to bump our site up on search engines too. He’s been rather a star.
My brochures are all printed. The final versions arrived yesterday and they’re perfect. The paper is just rustic enough, the font is evocative, the pictures are amazing…the whole thing works. I’m so proud of it. Not only of the farm—but of the brochure. I’m proud of my work.
And as I sit here at my desk, proofreading some endless report on the new brand architecture of Associated Soap, what I keep thinking is: Could I get my brochure to Demeter? Could I get her to look at it properly, really see it?
If I leave a brochure on her desk, she won’t look at it. If I give it to her at the wrong moment, she won’t look at it. Alex’s voice keeps running through my head, which makes me cringe, but I have to admit his advice was good. Pitch her exactly the right idea, exactly when she needs it. After all, he knows how Demeter works.
(Actually, that’s a thought I could do without. Move on.)
I need to make it count. Because I think if she truly focuses on it, she’ll love it. I’ve learned so much from Demeter. I finished that book of hers, Our Vision, and at the back I found some old sketches she’d done. Just studying those taught me something. At my most positive, optimistic moments, I even think: Could I become her protégée? If she sees my work and likes it, might she give me a chance? All I have to do is find a moment when she’s available and receptive….
But that won’t be easy. Demeter has never been less receptive or available. In fact, to be honest, the atmosphere at work has never been weirder.
A lot’s gone wrong since Christmas. No one’s happy; everyone’s tense. And even I, the lowliest of the low, am aware that Demeter’s at the eye of the storm. Flora gets the inside track from Rosa, and she’s told me all about it. First of all there was The Email. It was sent by Demeter—by mistake—and it insulted one of our clients. He’s head of marketing at the Forest Food restaurant chain, and apparently after some stormy meeting Demeter called him suburban with no handle on style in a draft email to Rosa. And then sent it to him by mistake. Ouch.
So that was a whole big incident, and Demeter walked around for a while with a pale, panicky face. Then, last week, things got worse. Rosa’s been working with Mark and some others on a new brief for Sensiquo—one of our beauty clients—and it’s been a shambles, with deadlines coming and being missed. Apparently it’s not their fault—Demeter’s been sitting on everything they send to her and not getting back to them. The final straw came last week when Demeter finally set up a meeting with Sensiquo, then had to cancel it. Apparently she didn’t seem to know what stage the project was at and it was quite embarrassing.