“She…er…doesn’t seem to be here,” I say, looking around the kitchen inanely. Which, to be fair, isn’t a lie.
“Why not give Alex a tour of the farm?” suggests Biddy. “You might run into Demeter on the way. Have you been to Somerset before, Alex?”
“Never,” says Alex firmly. “I know nothing about the country. It’s all a mystery to me. Don’t even own a pair of wellies.”
“We’ll have to put that right!” Biddy pushes open the kitchen door and ushers Alex out. “Breathe in that air,” she instructs. “That’ll clear out those city lungs of yours.”
A flash of amusement passes across Alex’s face and, obediently, he begins breathing in. He’s peering around at the view of the hills and fields, as though something has interested him, and suddenly he strides forward, squinting harder.
“I know nothing about the country,” he repeats, “and this is just an idea. But if you cut down that bunch of bushes there…wouldn’t you make more of the view?”
He’s gesturing at a thicket way over to the east. I guess it is a bit of an eyesore, only we’ve got used to it.
“Oh,” says Dad, sounding taken aback. “Maybe you’re right. Yes. I think you’re right.” He glances at Biddy. “What do you think?”
“I never saw it like that before, but yes.” Biddy sounds flummoxed. “My goodness, all these discussions we’ve had about how to improve the view…”
“And he saw it straightaway,” chimes in Dad. Both he and Biddy are eyeing Alex in slight awe.
“As I say,” says Alex politely, “it’s just an idea. The countryside is a mystery to me.” He looks at me. “So, are we doing this tour?”
—
There isn’t an official “tour” of Ansters Farm, so I just lead Alex toward the yard. Anything to get him away from Dad and Biddy.
“So, Sabbatical Girl,” says Alex as soon as we’re out of earshot.
“Stop it.” I don’t look up or stop walking.
“Why?”
“Because…lots of reasons. Well, one mostly. Dad.”
“Would he give you a hard time about losing your job?” Alex looks surprised. “He seems like the supportive type.”
“He is! It’s not that he would give me a hard time. It’s…”
I screw up my face, trying to separate my mass of feelings into ones I can articulate. I’ve never spoken about Dad to anyone before. I feel out of my comfort zone.
“I can’t bear to let him down,” I say at last. “And I can’t deal with him being disappointed for me. He’s almost too supportive, you know? He doesn’t cope well when things don’t go well for me. He hates London; he hates that I’ve chosen to be there….If I tell him about my job, it’ll be more confirmation to him that London’s a terrible place. And the point is, maybe I don’t need to tell him.” I force myself to sound more upbeat. “Maybe I’ll get another job in time and I can fudge the truth. He’ll never need to know.”
Even as I’m saying the words, they sound hopelessly optimistic. But I’ve got to hope, haven’t I? There must be thousands of jobs in London. I only need one of them.
“Isn’t this a job?” Alex spreads his arms around. “Running this place?”
“Not the job I want.” I bite my lip. “I know it would be a dream come true for a lot of people, but I loved the world of branding. I loved the teamwork and the creativity and the…I don’t know. The spark. It’s fun.”
“Sometimes it is.” Alex meets my eye with a glint, and I suddenly remember the pair of us on the roof of Cooper Clemmow. That was fun. I can still remember the exhilaration of the biting winter air on my cheeks. Or was it the exhilaration of being with Alex? Even now my skin is prickling as we walk along together, just the two of us.
I wonder if his skin is prickling too. Probably not. I would glance over at him, to gauge his mood, but everything feels a bit loaded all of a sudden.
“So what are you going to do if the ‘sabbatical’ ends and you haven’t found a job?” Alex breaks the silence. “What will you tell your dad?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t got that far.” I pick up my pace slightly. I don’t want to confront that thought. “So, do you want to look at…” I pluck something random out of the air. “Sheep? We keep sheep, cows—”
“Wait a minute. What’s that?” We’ve reached the yard, and Alex seems to be peering into the biggest barn, where Dad’s stuffed all his crap. “Is that a brewing kit? Can I have a look?”
“Er…sure,” I say, distracted by the sight of Denise coming out of the farmhouse. “Hey, Denise,” I call. “Can I have a quick word? You know Susie’s not feeling well today? I wondered if you could pop in and offer her clean bedding if she’d like it, make sure she’s OK?”
“Not feeling well?” retorts Denise, with that tight-lipped look of hers. “Have you seen the empty bottles outside her yurt? I’ll tell you why she’s not feeling well—”
“Anyway…” I cut Denise off pleasantly. “I’d be very grateful if you could do that for me. Thanks, Denise.”
“Prosecco.” Denise utters the word with disfavor. “All five bottles. Prosecco.”
I’ve heard Denise’s views on prosecco many times before. Not to mention Parma ham.