God, I’m losing it now. I’m just tired, I tell myself firmly. Just tired…
My phone suddenly rings and I jump, startled, nearly spilling my stew. And for a split second I think, A job, a job, a job?
But it’s Biddy. Of course it is.
I haven’t told Biddy—or Dad—about my job. Not yet. I mean, obviously I will tell them. I just don’t know when.
OK, full disclosure: I’m hoping desperately that I won’t ever have to tell them, ever. I’m hoping that I’ll somehow be able to sort things out quietly for myself, get a new job, and tell them after the event in a light and easy way: Yes, I’ve changed jobs; it’s no big deal, it was time to move on. Let them think it was my choice, a natural progression. Save them all that distress and worry. Save me all that distress and worry.
Because if I tell Dad I’ve been let go from my job at Cooper Clemmow…Oh God. Just the thought makes me wince. I won’t only be dealing with my own distress, I’ll be dealing with his righteous anger too. He’ll rail and fume and ask me what went wrong….And right now I don’t feel strong enough for that.
Biddy’s different, more reasonable. But now isn’t the moment to burden her. She’s got enough on her plate with the glamping venture—I can already tell she’s been overwhelmed. It’s been more money and work than she expected, and it’s consuming all her energy. I can’t make her load heavier with my problems.
Nor can I risk her offering me money, which I know she’d do like a shot. That’s her inheritance, and it’s going on the business, not on me. Honestly, I’d rather give up my flat in London than have Biddy subsidizing it.
And I may get a new job tomorrow. I may.
“Hi, Biddy!” I wipe my sleeve across my face. “How are you?”
Biddy’s been phoning me a lot, ever since Christmas. It’s actually been a real upside to this whole glamping thing—I’m talking to her so much more. I’ve helped her order furniture for the yurts, and we’ve discussed where to put every fire pit and bench. She’s also had a lot of queries for Alan about the website, and, to be fair to him, he’s been super-patient. In fact, between us, Alan and I are the total architects of this project.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I, darling? You’re not eating? We’ve just been trying out a new lamb tagine recipe, actually. If we do offer dinners, I think it’ll be…quite good.”
Quite good. In the language of Biddy-understatement, that means utterly delicious. I have a sudden image of her doling out some fragrant marinated local lamb, sprinkled with herbs from the garden, while Dad pours some of his Cash & Carry red wine.
“Great!” I say. “Well done! So, did you want to talk about menus?”
“No. No, sorry, that wasn’t it. Katie, the thing is—” Biddy breaks off. She sounds nervous, I suddenly realize.
“Is everything OK?”
“Yes! Fine! Oh, love…” Biddy seems tongue-tied.
“What?” I demand. “Biddy, what?”
“Oh, Katie.” She gulps. “People have started booking.”
“What?”
“I know!” She sounds dumbfounded. “They’re using the website. It’s all working. I’ve taken five inquiries today alone. We’ve got three families booked in over the Easter weekend and four the week after. Four families, Katie!”
“Oh my God.”
Even I feel quite shocked. I mean, I knew people would come, in principle. But four families? All at once?
“Well, that’s amazing! Biddy, you’ve done it!”
“But we haven’t!” she wails. “That’s the point! Oh, darling, I’m petrified. We’re going to have real customers, and I don’t know how we’re going to manage them, or entertain them, or…what if something goes wrong? And your dad’s no help—I mean, he’s a good man, but…”
She trails off, and I gape at the phone. I’ve never heard Biddy sound so rattled.
“You’ll be great!” I say reassuringly. “I mean, you’ve got your lovely breakfasts and all the activities….”
“But how do we organize it all? I’ve asked Denise from the village to help out, but all she does is ask me questions I can’t answer.”
“Well, put her on to me. Or do you want me to come down at the weekend?”
Even as I say the words, I feel a sickening wrench. A return ticket to Somerset costs a fortune. How on earth can I afford that? But I’ve offered now.
“Oh, Katie.” Biddy seems to dissolve. “Would you? We rely on you so much, you know. When you’re around, everything seems to fall into place. We’ll pay your ticket, of course. And I know you’re busy with your wonderful job in London, and we’re ever so proud of you, but there was another thing….” She hesitates as though she can’t bring herself to continue.
“What?”
There’s silence down the line and I wrinkle my brow in puzzlement. Just what can’t Biddy bring herself to say?
“Biddy? Biddy, are you still there?”
“Katie, you wouldn’t have any holiday, would you?” says Biddy in a rush. “You wouldn’t be able to help us out, just at the start? Stay a week or two, maybe? Or as long as you can.”
“Biddy…” I begin automatically, then break off. I don’t know what I want to say. I didn’t see this coming.
“I know, I know.” Biddy instantly backtracks. “I shouldn’t ask. It’s not fair. You’re making your way in the world, and if you can’t do it, we absolutely understand. You’ve got your career, your life, your flat—how’s the redecoration going, by the way?”
“Oh. Yes, it’s fine…it’s…argh! Oh God! Aaaargh!”
With no warning, the world has turned black. For a terrifying instant I think I’m being attacked. Something’s hitting me, banging me, surrounding me….I flail with my arms, panting, panicking…then suddenly realize what’s happened.
My bloody hammock’s collapsed.
I fight my way out of a black jersey skirt which has enveloped my head and survey my bed in dismay. The hammock is hanging dismally from one corner. All my crap is everywhere—clothes, hair products, books, magazines. It’ll take forever to sort all this out again. The only plus is that my bowl of stew was on the floor and didn’t get knocked over.
Actually, that’s not a plus.
“Katie?” Biddy’s anxious voice is coming out of the phone. “Katie, what’s happened?”
I grab the phone. “I’m fine. Sorry. Just knocked something over. I’m fine. Um…” I try to get my thoughts in order. “What were we saying?”
“I realized I never said, darling, we’ll pay you!”
“What?” I say blankly.
“If you could come and help out, we’d pay you, of course. You know we’ve been wanting to pay you for everything you’ve done already, love, and now it looks like we’ll have a budget….”
“You’d…” I rub my face. “You’d pay me.”
It’s a job offer. I’ve had a job offer. I almost want to laugh hysterically—but I don’t. I stir my stew, fighting my own thoughts.
An idea has crept into my head, an idea I can barely contemplate. Because it feels like an idea of failure. Of giving up. Of everything collapsing into dust.
I had so many dreams. I used to lie on my bed and study the tube map and imagine becoming one of those fast, confident people I’d seen on day trips to the capital. People in a hurry, with goals, aims, broad horizons. I’d imagined getting on a career ladder that could take me anywhere if I worked hard enough. Working on global brands; meeting fascinating people; living life to the max.