I pick up my phone and take a deep breath.
“Biddy…there is a kind of…er…possibility,” I say into the phone. “It’s hard to explain…kind of complicated….Anyway, the point is, I can help you. I’ll come down tomorrow.”
“You’ll come down?” Biddy sounds stunned. “Oh, Katie, love! How long can you stay for?”
“Not sure yet,” I say vaguely. “I need to talk to some people…make some arrangements…probably a couple of weeks. Or a few weeks. Something like that.”
“So, is it a sabbatical you’re taking?” Biddy hazards. “Like that nice lady a couple of years ago who wanted to learn jam-making, remember? On sabbatical from her job in the city. Six months, she had. Do you think you’ll get that long?” I can hear the hope in Biddy’s voice. To be honest, I’m not sure what to answer.
Six months. I have to find a job in six months, surely.
“I’ll stay as long as I can,” I say at last, dodging the question. “It’ll be lovely to see you! I can’t wait!”
“Oh, Katie, nor can I!” Biddy’s joy bursts down the line in a torrent. “To have you at home again for a bit! Your dad will be thrilled; everyone will be thrilled; oh, love, I really think we can make this glamping into something with your help….”
She talks on and on, and I lean back on my littered, lumpy bed, staring up at my stained ceiling. Her loving, enthusiastic voice is like balm on sore skin. Someone wants me. I’m already looking forward to home-cooked food, a room with an actual wardrobe, the view of the hills.
But at the same time, my resolve is hardening like lacquer. I’m taking time out, but I’m not giving up. I mean, I’m only in my twenties; am I going to let one setback crush my ambition? No. I’m still going to work in branding one day. I’m still going to stride over Waterloo Bridge and think, This is my city. It’s going to happen.
Three months later
“Right,” I say into the phone. “I understand. Thank you.”
I put the phone away and stare blankly ahead. Another headhunter with no joy. Another little lecture on how “tricky” the market is at the moment.
“Still that pharmaceutical brand?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump, and I swivel round, flustered. I should have learned by now: Never take calls from headhunters in the kitchen. “They do work you hard, love!” Biddy adds, dumping a bunch of beets on the counter. “I thought it was supposed to be your sabbatical.”
Guilt is crawling through me and I turn away, avoiding her gaze. You start with one well-intentioned fib. Next thing, you’ve built up a whole fictitious life.
It all began a week after I’d got home. A headhunter called me back, right in front of Dad and Biddy. I had to think quickly on my feet, and the only story I could come up with was that Cooper Clemmow were consulting me on a project. Now it’s become my all-purpose excuse for taking calls and leaving the room. Whenever a headhunter calls me back, it’s “Cooper Clemmow.” And Dad and Biddy believe me implicitly. Why wouldn’t they? They trust me.
I should never have gone along with Biddy’s version of events. But it was so easy. Too easy. By the time I arrived in Somerset, she’d told Dad I was “on sabbatical,” and they both seemed to take it for granted. The thought of unpicking the story was just beyond me.
So I didn’t. Everyone believes I’ve taken a sabbatical, even Fi, because I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and it ending up in some Facebook post which Biddy might stumble on. All Fi said was, Wow, UK employers are so generous. Then she went straight into some story about going to the Hamptons and drinking pink margaritas and it was so much fun and I have to come out. I didn’t even know how to reply. Right now, my life could not be further from pink margaritas. Or macchiatos. Or cool pavement cafés in happening areas. When I go on Instagram these days, it’s only to promote Ansters Farm.
I told Fi about the glamping, and she asked a few mildly interested questions—but then she wanted to know, So when will you be back in London? and Don’t you MISS it? Which touched a sore spot. Of course I do. Then she started telling me about all the celebrities she’d spotted in some hotel bar that weekend.
And I know she’s still Fi, my mate Fi, down-to-earth Fi…but it’s getting harder to reconcile this glamorous New York Fi with the friend I could tell anything to. There’s less and less about our lives that overlaps. Maybe I should go out to New York, forge our friendship again. But how can I afford to do that?
Anyway, it’s hardly my most pressing problem. There are jobs to be done. I’m about to help Biddy with the beets when my phone buzzes in my pocket with an email. It’s from McWhirter Tonge, the company I’ve just interviewed for. Oh God…
Casually, I open the kitchen door and step outside. The late May sun is warming the fields stretching ahead of me. A spire of smoke is rising from one of the campfires in the yurt village, and I can hear the distant chacking of jackdaws coming from a copse of ash trees in North Field. Not that I’m really listening or admiring the scenery. I only care about this email. Because you never know…please…
As I jab at the screen, I feel sick with hope. I interviewed for them last week. (I told Dad and Biddy I was seeing friends.) It’s the only interview I’ve had, the only crumb of hope I’ve been given, the only application I’ve made that’s got anywhere. The offices were in Islington, and they were tiny, but the people were cool, and the work seemed really interesting, and—