For a frozen moment no one moves. Then, in an odd, strangled voice, Denise says, “Of course.”
She retrieves the Rampant Rabbit and hands it over. I can’t look at Barbara. I can’t look anywhere.
“Well…er…enjoy!” I say.
Somehow we all keep it together as Barbara gets back into her SUV and zooms off. Then Biddy catches my eye and starts giggling, and that starts me off. And Denise just shakes her head and says, “Them glampers.”
We’re all pretty much in hysterics as Dad appears round the corner of the farm and says, “Wake up, you lot! There’s a car coming up the drive. The first family’s here.”
—
The next few hours are a blur. It’s always the same on a Saturday—a crowd of new faces and names and questions, all to be met with a charming smile. This is Archie…this is Poppy…this is Hamish, he’s allergic to dairy; didn’t we write that on the form? Oh, so sorry…
The families all seem nice enough, and I’m especially keen on Gerald and Nina, who are soon sitting out on their deck, mixing gin and tonics and offering them to all the other families. Poppy is already scampering around with her dad, looking at all the animals, while Hamish, Harrison, and Harley are glued to their iPads—but I’m not their parents, what do I care? All that concerns me is that everyone is checked in, greeted, and sorted. Which they all are, except the Wiltons.
I’m walking among the yurts, checking that everything seems OK, when I notice that Gus the dog has already got into a field of sheep.
“Oh, hi!” I say, heading over to his owners’ yurt. “Knock knock? Gus is such a gorgeous dog. Only I wonder if you’d mind keeping him this side of the fence? The sheep get a bit freaked.”
“Oh, of course,” says the dad, who I’ve remembered is called Giles and comes from Hampstead. He’s tall and gangling and is holding a copy of a book called The Campfire Gourmet. As he comes out to retrieve Gus, he adds, “We’re so looking forward to the willow-weaving workshop tomorrow.”
“It should be fun! And if you’d like full English breakfast, just sign up…unless you’re going to make your own?”
“We’re making our own,” says Giles resolutely, as he whistles for Gus. “On the fire.”
“Good for you!” I say, ruffling Gus’s head. “Well, I’ll catch you later.”
As I head back toward the farmhouse, I feel…if not ecstatic exactly, then content. Another turnaround nearly completed. We’re getting better at it every week. Denise is catching on to some of our special touches, and Biddy is brimming with ideas, and—
“So authentic. Absolutely wonderful.”
A voice stops me in my tracks. It’s a ringing, imperious voice. And it sounds just like—
No.
“Marvelous view. Look, Coco. Look at this view. And is everything organic?”
My heart has started to thud. It can’t be.
“…absolutely adore to find some proper West Country cuisine; you’ll have to recommend a spot…”
It can’t be. But it is. It’s Demeter.
Here.
I feel rooted to the spot, between yurts, like a paralyzed gazelle. Whoever she’s talking to isn’t answering loudly enough to be audible. So all I can hear is Demeter’s voice, crashing arrogantly through the quiet, asking typical Demeter questions.
“And is the river organic?…And is all the produce local?…Now, when you say sustainable…”
I’m still stranded on the grass. I have to move. I have to get a grip. But I can’t. My face is prickling and my breaths feel weak. What is she doing here?
“Actually, it’s Demeter,” I hear her saying now, in that smug way she has when she explains her name. “De-meeeeter. It’s Ancient Greek.”
I suddenly spot Dad coming out of the kitchen. He’s holding the master folder, which is where I put all the printouts, guest forms, everything that Dad and Biddy don’t want to read on screens.
“Dad,” I gasp, and scuttle over to him, keeping well out of sight. “Who are those people? Can I just check…” I’ve already grabbed the folder and am riffling through the paperwork, my hands so shaky that they barely work. “Here we are. The Wiltons.”
My mind is racing. I know her as Demeter Farlowe. But maybe that’s her maiden name. Is Wilton her married name? Is it?
Well, why shouldn’t it be?
“James and Rita,” I read. “Rita.”
“I know.” Dad chuckles. “Funny name for a woman that age. I thought that when I wrote it down.”
“So, you took the booking?” I need every scrap of information. I need to know how this has happened.
“She phoned up from her car.” Dad nods—then his expression changes. “Now, don’t tell me I didn’t put the payment through properly. Because I did exactly what you taught me, love—”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not that….”
My head is spinning. I’ve just seen the address on the form: Stanford Road. It’s definitely her. My chest feels so constricted, I’m not sure I can breathe.
Demeter. Here.
“Love?” Dad peers at me. “Katie?”
“She’s not called Rita, OK?” I manage. “I just heard her saying so. She’s called Demeter. De-me-ter.”
“Demeter?” Dad looks highly dubious. “That’s not a name.”
“It is a bloody name!” I feel like shaking him. If he’d only written it down right in the first place…“It’s Greek! It means ‘goddess of the harvest’!”