“OK, so what exactly are you going to do?” I gesture around the land. “Take me through the whole plan.”
“Buy some tents,” says Dad promptly. “Dave Yarnett’s got a good line in them. Gave me the idea in the first place. He’ll throw in sleeping bags too.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “Not tents. Yurts.”
“You what?” Dad looks baffled.
“Yurts. Yurts. Have you never heard of yurts?”
“Sounds like an illness of the you-know-wheres,” says Dad, twinkling. “Doctor, Doctor, I’ve got the yurts.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke, and Biddy shoots him a reproving glance.
“I’ve heard of them,” she says. “It’s Moroccan tents, isn’t it?”
“I think they’re Mongolian. Anyway, that’s what everyone glamps in. Yurts, or retro caravans, or shepherd’s huts…something different.”
“Well, how much are they?” Dad looks unenthusiastic. “Because Dave’s doing me a very good deal—”
“Dad!” I cry, exasperated. “No one will come and glamp in cut-price tents from Dave Yarnett! Whereas if you bought some yurts, made them look nice, put up some bunting, cleared up the yard…”
I survey the landscape with a new eye. I mean, the view is spectacular. The land stretches away from us, green and lush, the grass rippling in the breeze. I can see, in the distance, the sun glinting on our little lake. It’s called Fisher’s Lake, and we used to row on it. We could buy a new rowing boat. Kids would love it. Maybe a rope swing. We could have fire pits…barbecues…an outdoor pizza oven, maybe….
I can see the potential. I can actually see the potential.
“Well, I’ve already told Dave I’m ordering ten tents,” says Dad, and I feel a spike of frustration, which somehow I squash down.
“Fine.” I down my drink and force a smile. “Do it your way.”
—
It’s not till later that afternoon that the subject comes up again. Biddy’s preparing potatoes for tomorrow and I’m icing the gingerbread men she made this morning. We’ll put them on the Christmas tree later. I’m utterly engrossed, piping tiny smiles and bow ties and buttons, while Christmas hits play through the stereo. The table is Formica-topped, and the chairs are dark green painted wood with dated oak-leaf cushions. Above us is hanging the blue glittery decoration that we’ve hung up every year since I was ten and saw it for sale in a garage. It couldn’t be less Livingetc, but I don’t care. I feel warm and snug and homey.
“Katie,” says Biddy suddenly, in a low voice, and I look up in surprise. “Please, love. You know what your dad’s like. He’ll buy these wretched tents and open up and it’ll be a disaster….” She puts her potato peeler down. “But I want this to work. I think it can work. We’ve got the money to invest; now’s the time….”
Her cheeks are faintly pink and she has a determined look about her that I don’t often see.
“I agree.” I put down my icing bag. “It’s an amazing site, and there’s definitely demand. But you need to do it right. And maybe I don’t have time to be a partner, but I still want to help….” I shake my head. “But I really don’t want to see you throw money away on cheap tents.”
“I know!” Biddy looks anguished. “I know! We don’t know what’s right, and your dad can be so obstinate….”
I meet eyes with her sympathetically. This is an understatement. My dad fixes onto a viewpoint—whether it’s the tube is full of terrorists or alpacas will make our fortune—and it’s practically impossible to budge him.
Then, to my surprise, I suddenly hear Demeter’s voice in my head: You need a bit of tenacity.
She’s right. What’s the point of being the only member of the family with experience in marketing and not speaking out? If I don’t at least try to talk Dad round, then I’m being feeble.
“OK,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Who are you going to talk to?” Dad comes in, holding the Radio Times, looking merry.
“You,” I say briskly. “Dad, you have to listen to me. If you’re going to open a glamping business, it has to be cool. It has to be…” I search for the right word. “Hip. Authentic. Not crappy tents from Dave Yarnett.”
“I’ve told Dave I’m buying them now.” Dad looks sulky.
“Well, un-tell him! Dad, if you buy those tents, you’re just throwing away money. You need to have the right image, or no one will come. I work with successful businesses, OK? I know how they operate.”
“You need to listen to Katie!” Biddy cries. “I knew we were getting it wrong! We’re buying yurts, Mick, and that’s the end of it. Tell us what else we need, Katie.”
She pulls out a notebook from the kitchen table drawer, and I see Glamping written on it in Biro.
“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.”