“Thank you,” I say, my voice not working properly. “That’s very…Thank you. I just have to…”
On weak legs, I walk away, into the house, through the kitchen, up to my bedroom. I don’t look left and I don’t look right. I put the business card carefully on my bed and look at it for a second. Then I scream.
“Noooooooo!”
I bang my head against my ancient wallpaper. I clutch my hair. I scream again. I punch my pillows, hard. I can’t bear it. I can’t believe it.
Finally, finally I’ve got what I always wanted. Demeter’s looked at my work. She’s praised it. She wants to give me a chance.
But what bloody good is that now?
At last, panting, I collapse in a chair and consider my options.
1. Go downstairs to Demeter and say, Guess what? It’s me, Cat! At which point she’ll probably freak out, rescind the job offer, reveal to Biddy and Dad that my “sabbatical” story is a lie, and cause all sorts of turmoil. Total nightmare.
2. Take up her job offer under the identity of “Katie” Brenner. Instantly get found out, prosecuted for fraud, and never work again. Total nightmare.
3. I’m not sure there is a three.
—
My brain circles frenziedly for half an hour. But it doesn’t find a solution; it just becomes stiffer and tireder and stupider. And Biddy will be needing help. So I rouse myself, head downstairs, and start peeling potatoes, which is nice and calming.
Or at least it is until Dad comes into the kitchen, whistling cheerily and putting on his “Farmer Mick” hat for the magic show he’s doing later. (He so can’t do magic. But luckily the kids think he’s hilarious whatever he does, and the adults are just happy that their children are being amused.)
“That Demeter likes your stuff, doesn’t she?” he greets me. “We knew you were talented!”
“What’s this?” Biddy looks up with interest from the pie crust she’s shaping.
“Demeter. She’s an expert on brochures, apparently. I told her, ‘Katie did that.’ You should have seen her face.”
“Oh, Katie!” says Biddy in delight. “That’s wonderful! Did you tell her about your job in London, love?” she adds innocently. “Maybe you two should…what’s-it-called. Network.”
I feel an almighty swell of panic.
“No!” I say shrilly. “I mean, it’s not appropriate. Not while she’s on holiday. I’ll keep her card and contact her later.”
“Later?” Biddy looks dubious. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t leave it. She may forget about you. Look, if it’s awkward for you, I’ll bring it up. What’s the name of the place you work at again? Cooper Clemmow. That’s right, isn’t it?”
I feel faint. This cannot happen. Biddy cannot start telling Demeter how I’ve got a top job at this London company called Cooper Clemmow.
“No!” I repeat in desperation. “Look, these London types are really prickly and stressy. They’ve come here to relax and get away from it all. If you talk work on holiday they hold it against you. They’ll…they’ll put it on TripAdvisor!” I add wildly, and I can see a frisson of fear running through Biddy.
TripAdvisor is terrifying. We’ve had three entries so far, and they’ve all been lovely, but we all know how it can go horribly wrong.
“I think she’s got a point, love,” says Dad to Biddy. “We don’t want to look pushy.”
“Exactly! It’s really, really important.” I try to impress this on Biddy. “Don’t mention work to Demeter. Don’t ask her where she works. And don’t…” I feel sick at the very thought. “Don’t mention Cooper Clemmow.”
I resume peeling potatoes, feeling a bit weak. That was close. It still is close. It’s precarious. Whatever I say to Biddy, she still may take it upon herself to big up my London job to Demeter. With just one wrong word, everything could come out. Oh God…I close my eyes, breathing hard. Should I come clean now? Tell Biddy and Dad everything? But they’ll be so upset, and they’ve got enough on their plates as it is….
“Katie?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump. “Darling, I think you’ve peeled that potato enough,” she says with a laugh, and I look down in a daze. I’ve been peeling the same potato, round and round, until it’s about the size of a marble.
“Right.” I muster a smile. “Not concentrating.”
“By the way,” adds Biddy, “I meant to tell you before. Guess what? We have our first B&B guest arriving tomorrow!”
“Oh, great!” I say, distracted for a moment. “That’s brilliant news!”
The B&B room has been Biddy’s project. It was her idea to have an “overspill” room in the house for people who don’t want to glamp. It’s a ground-floor room with its own entrance—it fact, it used to be a sitting room that we hardly ever used. Biddy painted it in Farrow & Ball (my advice), and Dad turned the outhouse loo into a tiny en suite shower, and it’s all 400-thread-count sheets, like in the yurts.
“Who is it?” I ask. “Are they staying long?”
“Just a night,” says Biddy. “He must want to have a look at the yurts or something. He wanted to stay in one, actually, but I told him they were full.”
“Does he want to do any activities?”
“Oh.” Biddy looks troubled. “I didn’t ask. Well, we’ll find out when he arrives. Funny name he’s got. Astalis.” She peers at her own writing. “Can that be right? Astalis?”