“Hi, Dad.” I sit down beside him.
“Hi, love.” He turns to look at me, his eyes crinkling in affection. “Where did you go rushing off to just now?”
“Coco.” I roll my eyes. “Drank too much. I had to sort her out.”
“Drank too much?” Dad’s eyes open wide, then he gives a wry shrug. “They all do it. I remember you coming home once from a party in a terrible state. About her age, you were.”
“I remember that too.” I grimace. I’d had too many black velvets, as I recall. Not one of my finest moments.
“I was that worried. Sat up all night with you, dozy fool that I was.” He grins merrily. “You woke up as right as rain, ate a plateful of eggs and bacon!”
I’d forgotten Dad sat up all night with me. He must have been really stressed out. And just him; no one to share it with.
“Sorry.” I give him an impulsive hug.
“You don’t need to say sorry. What else are dads for?” He sips his beer, and as he moves, the bells jingle at his side.
“I like the Morris dancing,” I say. “It’s funny.”
“Well, it keeps them entertained, doesn’t it?” Dad flashes me another smile, but I can still see a cast of weariness in his face.
“Listen, Dad…don’t overdo it, will you? You and Biddy. You’re putting so much energy into this.”
“Paying off, though, isn’t it?” He spreads an arm toward the campfire; the contented hubbub of the glampers; the shadowy yurts. “Finally got something right, Katie, love. You got it right.”
“We all got it right,” I correct him. “I think ‘Farmer Mick’ is about fifty percent of our success.”
“Ha!” Dad gives a pleased laugh. “Keeps me young.” He sips his beer again, and for a while we’re silent. Then he adds, in slightly wary tones, “You need to be careful about overdoing it too, love.”
“Me?”
“I saw you at the computer the other day. Stressed out, you looked. They shouldn’t be working you like that. You’ve got enough on your plate here.”
He pats my shoulder and my stomach clenches so hard, I have to shut my eyes briefly. I feel a bit winded by the sudden realization that Alex is right. This situation is bad. I can’t keep lying to Dad about my job, I can’t.
“Actually…Dad…” I begin, feeling sick. How am I going to put this? Where do I start? What if he flips out?
“Yes, love?” replies Dad absently. He’s peering through the dusk at some distant approaching figure. Probably just a glamper wandering around.
“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” I swallow hard. “It’s about me…and…and my job in London….”
“Oh yes?” Dad’s face closes up slightly. He’s clearly not very keen on hearing about my job in London. If only he knew what I was about to tell him.
“Well. The thing is…” I rub my nose, feeling even sicker. “It’s…What’s happened is—”
“Dave!” Dad’s exclamation drowns me out. “Dave Yarnett! What are you doing here, you old rogue?”
Dave Yarnett? My eyes focus in disbelief on the familiar figure of Dave, in his trademark black leather jacket. His paunch is snugly clad in a knockoff Calvin Klein T-shirt, his graying beard neatly trimmed and his eyes sparkling as he approaches.
“Mick!” He slaps Dad on the back. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted you to have first look at my latest lot. You interested in rugs? Persian rugs?”
“We don’t need any rugs,” I say at once, and Dave shoots me a look of gentle reproach.
“Now, Katie, I’m offering your dad a retail opportunity here. All these glampers of yours—they’ve got houses to furnish, haven’t they? I got this job lot of rugs from a bloke in Yeovil. Proper Persian antiques. Bit of furniture too. Take a look, anyway.”
“Sorry, Katie.” Dad pats me on the shoulder again. “I’ll just have a quick look. Be back in a minute.”
I know Dad. He can never resist a poke around Dave Yarnett’s van.
“OK, no problem.” I shrug, feeling a guilty relief wash over me. I’ll tell him later, when it’s a better time. When I’ve worked out a script. And maybe had a vodka or two. “Hey, don’t buy any rugs,” I call after Dad, as he disappears off with Dave. “Not without discussing it. We’re a partnership now!”
—
I sit there awhile longer, watching the sky change tone gradually, from intense mid-blue to a softer indigo. Dave’s van disappears back down the drive and I see Dad making his way over to the campfire again. I just hope he isn’t making plans to turn us into the Ansters Farm Glamping and Rug Emporium.
I decide to head back over to the fire myself, toast a marshmallow, and get myself a sugar hit. But as I’m walking in that direction, I see a familiar car wending its way up the drive. Oh my God. Demeter.
I increase my pace to a run and arrive in the farmyard as she’s getting out. She looks white and exhausted. Her eyebrows are drawn in a frown and there’s a piece of paper in her hand, which she keeps glancing at.
I’m about to greet her when another voice gets in first: “Hello, Demeter.”
It’s Alex, stepping out of the kitchen door. He’s holding his phone and staring grimly at Demeter. Like an assassin.
“I’d like to see you for a meeting,” he says. “Biddy says we can use the sitting room.”