My heart has started to thud. It can’t be.
“…absolutely adore to find some proper West Country cuisine; you’ll have to recommend a spot…”
It can’t be. But it is. It’s Demeter.
Here.
I feel rooted to the spot, between yurts, like a paralyzed gazelle. Whoever she’s talking to isn’t answering loudly enough to be audible. So all I can hear is Demeter’s voice, crashing arrogantly through the quiet, asking typical Demeter questions.
“And is the river organic?…And is all the produce local?…Now, when you say sustainable…”
I’m still stranded on the grass. I have to move. I have to get a grip. But I can’t. My face is prickling and my breaths feel weak. What is she doing here?
“Actually, it’s Demeter,” I hear her saying now, in that smug way she has when she explains her name. “De-meeeeter. It’s Ancient Greek.”
I suddenly spot Dad coming out of the kitchen. He’s holding the master folder, which is where I put all the printouts, guest forms, everything that Dad and Biddy don’t want to read on screens.
“Dad,” I gasp, and scuttle over to him, keeping well out of sight. “Who are those people? Can I just check…” I’ve already grabbed the folder and am riffling through the paperwork, my hands so shaky that they barely work. “Here we are. The Wiltons.”
My mind is racing. I know her as Demeter Farlowe. But maybe that’s her maiden name. Is Wilton her married name? Is it?
Well, why shouldn’t it be?
“James and Rita,” I read. “Rita.”
“I know.” Dad chuckles. “Funny name for a woman that age. I thought that when I wrote it down.”
“So, you took the booking?” I need every scrap of information. I need to know how this has happened.
“She phoned up from her car.” Dad nods—then his expression changes. “Now, don’t tell me I didn’t put the payment through properly. Because I did exactly what you taught me, love—”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not that….”
My head is spinning. I’ve just seen the address on the form: Stanford Road. It’s definitely her. My chest feels so constricted, I’m not sure I can breathe.
Demeter. Here.
“Love?” Dad peers at me. “Katie?”
“She’s not called Rita, OK?” I manage. “I just heard her saying so. She’s called Demeter. De-me-ter.”
“Demeter?” Dad looks highly dubious. “That’s not a name.”
“It is a bloody name!” I feel like shaking him. If he’d only written it down right in the first place…“It’s Greek! It means ‘goddess of the harvest’!”
“Well. Takes all sorts. De-me-ter.” Dad tries the word out again, wrinkling his nose. Then he surveys me again, looking puzzled. “Love, what’s the problem? It’s just a name. No harm done.”
I stare back silently, my thoughts roaring in my head. I don’t even know where to start. No harm done?
“There’s no problem,” I say at last. “I just don’t like getting things wrong. We’ll need to change all the place names and lists and everything. And explain about the note. It doesn’t look professional.”
Dad strides off toward the shower barn, whistling a merry tune, and I swivel slowly on the spot. I can still hear a conversation going on by Demeter’s yurt. It must be Biddy who’s checking her in, and they’re still at it. Go figure. Demeter is exactly the kind of person to monopolize all the attention.
Slowly I edge my way back toward the yurt. As I get near enough to hear, I stop still and listen with all my might.
“I read about you in the Guardian piece, of course,” Demeter’s saying in her lordly way. “And I had a brochure. Someone gave it to me—I can’t remember who now. And so this is a proper, authentic farm?”
“Oh yes,” I hear Biddy reply. “The Brenner family have farmed this land for over two hundred years. I’m the newcomer!”
“How fabulous,” says Demeter. “I’m a great supporter of authentic rural practices. We can’t wait to start the activities, can we, Coco?”
Coco. That’s the daughter. She was Chloe on the form.
“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,” says Biddy. “If there’s anything you want, please come up to the farmhouse. I’m always there, or Farmer Mick, or Katie. You haven’t met her, but she’s Farmer Mick’s daughter. My stepdaughter.”
“Wonderful,” says Demeter. “Thank you so much. Oh, one last question—are the sheets organic?”
I’ve heard enough. I back away and sprint into the farmhouse. I don’t stop till I get safely into my room. Then I bang the door shut and sit on my bed, staring at the ancient peeling wallpaper, breathing hard. How am I going to survive a week of Demeter? I can’t bear it. I have to leave.
But I can’t. Dad and Biddy need me. Oh God…
I bury my head in my hands. Fucking Demeter. She has to ruin everything—
And then a terrifying thought hits me. The minute Demeter recognizes me, it’s all going to come out. Dad and Biddy will find out I got let go from my job. That the “sabbatical” was a lie. They’ll get all worried…it’ll be awful….
I’m sitting motionless on my bed, hugging a cushion, my brain working frantically. This is serious. I have to protect myself. Top priority: Demeter must not realize who I am.
She only knew me as Cat. If she associates me with anywhere, it’s Birmingham. She wouldn’t think of me as Katie the farmer’s daughter from Somerset. And she’s never been great at recognizing people. Could I fool her? Can I?
Slowly I stand up and head over to my battered old wardrobe. There’s an oval full-length mirror on it, and I survey myself critically. My curly hair is different. My clothes are different. My name’s different. My face isn’t that different—but she’s not good with faces. My accent’s different, I realize. I can play up the Somerset burr even more.
In sudden inspiration, I grab for an eye-shadow palette that Biddy gave me for Christmas a few years ago. I bypass all the neutral shades and head straight for the frosted blue and purple. I daub both colors around my eyes. Then I put on a baseball cap I got years ago from the Bath & West Show and survey myself again.
I look about as unlike Cat as it’s possible to look.
“Allo thar,” I say to my reflection. “I be Katie Brenner. Farmed this land all my life. Never been to Lunnon town.”
There’s only one way I’m going to find out whether this disguise works: Try it out.
—
As I enter the kitchen, Biddy is sitting labeling jam, and she gapes at me in surprise.
“Goodness! Katie! That makeup’s…very…”
“New look,” I say briefly, pouring out glasses of lemonade and arranging them on a tray. “Thought I might give the new family some lemonade, since they missed tea.”
As I head down over the field, toward Demeter’s yurt, I feel sick with jitters. But I force myself to keep going, head down, one foot in front of the other. As I get near, I slow down to a halt and raise my eyes.
There she is. Demeter. In the flesh. I actually feel a shiver as I see her.
She’s sitting on the deck, all alone, wearing the perfect, glossy magazine version of country clothes. Slouchy trousers in a slubby gray linen, together with a collarless shirt and some Moroccan-looking leather slippers.
“No, not Babington House this time,” she’s saying on her mobile. “Ansters Farm. Yes, it’s very new. Didn’t you see the write-up in The Guardian?”
She sounds totally smug. Well, of course she does. She’s found the Latest New Thing.