As I jab at the screen, I feel sick with hope. I interviewed for them last week. (I told Dad and Biddy I was seeing friends.) It’s the only interview I’ve had, the only crumb of hope I’ve been given, the only application I’ve made that’s got anywhere. The offices were in Islington, and they were tiny, but the people were cool, and the work seemed really interesting, and—
Dear Cat:
Thanks so much for taking the time to visit us last week. It was good to chat and we enjoyed meeting you, but unfortunately…
Just for a moment everything seems to go dark. Unfortunately.
I let my phone fall down, blinking away the tears that have started to my eyes. C’mon, Katie. Pull it together. I take a few deep breaths and pace a little on the spot. It’s one job. One rejection. So what?
But a cold feeling is creeping over me. This was the only chance I had. No one else has even offered me an interview.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. When I started out, I had lots of emails offering me positions with stacks of potential or opportunities for development or valuable industry experience. It only took me about three phone calls to work out what those phrases mean: “No money.” “No money.” “No money.”
I can’t work for no money. However much experience it gives me. I’m past that stage.
“All right, Katie?” Biddy’s voice hails me and I whip round guiltily. She’s depositing some peelings on the compost heap and eyes me with curiosity. “What’s up, love?”
“Nothing!” I say quickly. “Just…you know. Work stuff.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” Biddy shakes her head. “What with everything you do here, and all these emails you’re always sending…”
“Well, you know.” I give a weird-sounding laugh. “Keeps me busy.”
Biddy and Dad think that when I’m spending hours at the computer, I’m conversing with my London colleagues. Bouncing around ideas. Not desperately sending out application after application.
I force myself to skim the rest of the email from McWhirter Tonge:
…incredibly strong field…candidate with significantly more experience…keep your name on file…interest you in our intern scheme?
The intern scheme. That’s all they think I’m fit for.
And I know the job market is competitive, and I know everyone finds it hard, but I can’t help thinking: What did I do wrong? Was I crap at the interview? Am I crap, full stop? And if so…what am I going to do? A big black chasm is opening up in my mind. A scary dark hole. What if I can’t find any paying job, ever?
No. Stop. I mustn’t think like that. I’ll send off some more applications tonight, widen the net—
“Oh, Katie, love.” Biddy comes over. “I meant to ask you, I had an inquiry earlier, and the lady asked about sustainability. What is it we say again?”
“We talk about our solar panels,” I say, glad of the distraction. “And the outdoor shower. And the organic vegetables. And we don’t mention Dad’s Jacuzzi. I’ll write you out a crib sheet, if you like.”
“You’re a star, Katie.” Biddy pats my arm, then directs a reproving glance at my phone. “Now, don’t let those London bosses get to you, darling. You’re on your sabbatical, remember!”
“That’s right.” I smile wanly as she heads back into the kitchen, then sink onto the grass. I feel like I’m two people right now. I’m Cat, trying to make it in London, and I’m Katie, helping to run a glamping site, and it’s fairly exhausting being both.
On the plus side, the farm does look spectacular today. I’ll go around later, take some photos and social-media them. My eye is caught by the glinting solar panels on the shower barn, and I feel a twinge of pride. It was my idea to put in the solar panels. We’re not totally green at Ansters Farm—we use a supplementary boiler and we do have proper loos—but we’re not totally un-green either. After only a few weeks of the season, I soon realized that some glampers are all about: Are you sustainable? Because that’s really important to us. Whereas others are all about: Are there proper hot showers or am I going to die of cold? Because I was never that sure about glamping in the first place; it was Gavin’s idea. So it’s great to be able to reassure both camps.
Everyone loves the shower barn, with its reclaimed school lockers and pegs, but they love our open-air roll-top bath even more. It’s painted in rainbow stripes—inspired by a Paul Smith design—and has its own mini wicker-fence enclosure, open to the sky, and it’s just brilliant. I sent a photo of it to Alan, to upload onto the website. It showed the rainbow bath, with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a cow looking over the wicker fence, and Alan sent back an emaiclass="underline" Wow. V cool. I mean, if even Alan appreciates it, it has to be good.
The roll-top bath is so popular, we’ve had to instigate a rota. In fact, everything here is popular. I always thought Dad and Biddy would be able to make a go of this. What I didn’t realize was how far they’d throw themselves into it or how much effort they’d make.
As for the yurts, they’re beautiful. There are six of them, in pairs. They’re close enough that a couple could put their children in an adjoining one, but far enough away for privacy too. Each one sits on its own little deck and has its own fire pit. Dad knows a guy called Tim who works with wood and owed him a favor. So Tim put together six beds out of local reclaimed timber, and they’re spectacular. They’re on huge, exaggerated legs, and the headboards have ANSTERS FARM carved into them, and you can even separate them into two single beds, for children. We have extra trundle beds too, because we’ve found that lots of families like their children in with them, if they’re young, and the yurts are plenty big enough. The sheets are 400 thread count—we found a trade supplier—and the cushions are all vintage prints, plus each yurt has a sheepskin on the floor.
Each family gets a little hamper of milk, tea, bread…plus homemade organic Ansters Farm soap. Biddy looked around at local organic-soap suppliers and then decided that she could easily do it herself. She makes it in tiny guest-size cakes and scents it with rosemary and stamps AF on the front. And then, if guests want to, they can buy a big bar to take home. Which, usually, they do. She also offers personalized soap with any initials on, which people can order as presents. That was all Biddy’s idea. She’s incredible.
We’ve also invested in good Wi-Fi. Not just good-for-the-country, really good. It gets beamed straight to us from a mast twenty miles away. It costs a bit and Dad was against it, but I know London people. They say they want to get away from it all, but when you tell them there’s a Wi-Fi code they nearly collapse in relief. And luckily we have phone signal at the house—although not in the fields or the woods. If they want to call the office from the middle of a hike, too bad.
Meanwhile, Dad’s created a bike trail through the fields, and a mini adventure playground, and a gypsy caravan where children can go and play if it rains. At night we light lanterns along the paths of the yurt village, and it honestly looks like fairyland.
“Farmer Mick!” I can hear excited shrieks coming from the path up to the woods. “Farmer Mick!”
This is the biggest revelation of alclass="underline" Dad.
I thought Dad was going to be the problem. I thought he wasn’t going to take it seriously. So I sat him down the week before the first guests arrived, and I said: “Listen, Dad, you have to be nice to the glampers. This is serious. It’s Biddy’s money. It’s your future. Everything depends on your being charming and helping the glampers and making life easy for them. OK? If they want to climb trees, help them climb trees. If they want to milk the cows, let them. And don’t call them townies.”