But at last she rouses herself. She pulls out her phone and starts to text. As she’s doing so, the light comes back into her eyes. There’s even a little half smile at her lips.
Well, thank God. Because I was getting a bit worried about her there.
She finishes her text, puts down her phone, and leans back in her chair—then notices me.
“Oh, Katie,” she says, in her old, imperious manner. “I wanted to check with you—we will be doing another bespoke activity tomorrow? Because obviously I won’t be doing the mushroom-foraging.”
I stare back dumbly, not knowing how to respond. I don’t even know how to see her anymore.
All I could see before was the nightmare boss with a perfect, glossy life. But now what do I see? Just a person. A person with hang-ups and problems and flaws like the rest of us. Who’s basically trying to do her best, even if it comes out badly. I have a sudden memory of her lying on the muddy grass in her Vedari sack and bite my lip. Maybe that was a bit harsh. Maybe it’s all been a bit harsh.
“OK,” I say. “You’re on, Demeter. We’ll do a bespoke activity.”
A nice activity, I decide. Something fun. We’ll spend the morning together, doing something genuinely enjoyable. I’m kind of—almost—looking forward to it.
—
A taxi arrives in the yard for James at three o’clock, and from the kitchen window I watch him get into it. Demeter kisses him goodbye, then wanders slowly back. She’s scrolling down her emails again, and I hear her exclaim, “No!” incredulously, as though yet again the world makes no sense.
Still engrossed, she heads toward the bench and table where her kids are sitting.
“Mum.” Coco glares at her. “You forgot to pack my Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie.”
“What?” Demeter seems confused. “Hoodie? You’re wearing a hoodie.”
“My other hoodie. This one’s all frayed.”
“But you packed yourself, darling.”
“You said you’d double-check!”
“Coco…” Demeter puts a hand to her head. “I can’t take care of your packing as well as everything else. Anyway, you’ve got a hoodie. It’s fine.”
“Oh, great. So I have to do it all myself, even though I’ve got to study. Which you keep telling me is important.” Coco practically snarls at her mum. “Mrs. Invisible rules again.”
“Don’t call me that, please.” I can tell Demeter’s finding it hard to keep calm. “You have a hoodie.”
“I didn’t want this hoodie.” Coco plucks disparagingly at her hoodie, which is from Jack Wills and probably cost, like, sixty quid.
I’m listening in utter disbelief. Who does this girl think she is? And what the hell has happened to Demeter? Where’s the strong, powerful über-woman I know from work? She seems to fade away as soon as she’s with her children, leaving only this anxious, craven person I don’t recognize. It’s weird. It’s wrong.
As I’m watching, Demeter’s phone rings and she answers it immediately.
“Hi, Adrian,” she says, sounding defensive. “Yes, I am aware of what’s going on. But I just don’t understand. There must be some mixed message here. Have you actually spoken to Lindsay at Allersons?” She listens again, and her face becomes agitated. “No, that can’t be right,” she says. “It can’t! This is insane!”
She stands up and heads off to talk in private. The two children are still lolling at the picnic table, staring down at their phones as though they’re possessed, and something about their attitude makes me boil irrationally.
I know it’s none of my business. But bloody hell. If I thought Demeter was entitled, she has nothing on her children. On impulse, I open the kitchen door and head out.
“Hi!” I say cheerfully, approaching the table. “How are you two doing? Enjoying the holiday?”
“Yes, thank you,” says Coco, without bothering to look up.
“And what have you done to thank your mum?” I say conversationally.
“What?” she says with utter incomprehension. Hal doesn’t reply, but he looks equally perplexed.
“Well, you know,” I say as though it’s obvious. “She works really hard to pay for you to go on holiday and buy designer clothes….” I gesture at the Jack Wills hoodie. “So you say thank you.”
Both children look dumbfounded at this idea.
“She enjoys working,” Coco says at last, with a dismissive roll of her eyes.
“Well, Biddy enjoys baking,” I say with a shrug. “But you still say thank you nicely when she gives you a scone.”
“It’s not the same,” says Coco, sounding cross. “She’s our mum.”
“You don’t say thank you for holidays,” puts in Hal, as though this is some article from the Geneva Convention which he refuses to deviate from, out of principle.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I say pleasantly. “Because when I was your age, we could never afford holidays. I’d have been really envious of you guys, on holiday all the time.”
“We don’t go on that many holidays,” says Coco, looking sulky, and I feel an urge to slap her. I’ve seen photos of her in Demeter’s office. Skiing. Standing on a white-sand beach. Laughing on a speedboat in some tropical clime.
“I didn’t ever go abroad till I was seventeen,” I say pleasantly. “And now I can’t afford to go abroad either. And I could never afford a Jack Wills hoodie. You’re a lucky girl, Coco. I mean, Jack Wills!”