My Not So Perfect Life by Sophie Kinsella
“I wouldn’t!” Dad replied defensively.
“Yes, you would. And be especially nice to the children,” I added as a parting shot.
Dad was very quiet for the rest of the day. At the time, I worried I’d offended him. But now I realize: He was thinking. He was creating a role for himself. And just as Biddy has blown me away with her ideas, Dad’s blown me away with basically turning into a completely different human being.
“Farmer Mick! More tricks!”
Dad appears round the corner of the shower barn, accompanied by the three-year-old triplets who have been staying this week. There are two boys and a girl, and they’re super-sweet, all dressed in little Scandinavian stripy tops.
Dad, meanwhile, is in his “Farmer Mick” outfit. He’s taken to wearing a bright checked shirt with a straw hat, and he practically says “Oo-aarh” every other sentence. He’s walking along, juggling three beanbags very badly, but the children don’t care.
“Who wants to ride in the pickup?” he asks, and the children all shout excitedly, “Me! Me!”
“Who wants to see Agnes the cow?”
“Me!”
It’s not Agnes the cow, it’s Agnes the bantam hen, but I’m not going to correct him. I mean, whatever.
“Who’s having the best holiday of their life?” He winks at me.
“Meeee!” The children’s shouts are deafening.
“Let’s sing our song now!” Dad launches into a lusty tune. “Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, best place to be…Ansters Farm, Ansters Farm, never want to leave…Who wants a Somerset toffee?”
“Meeeee!”
Honestly, he’s like some sort of children’s party entertainer. And he’s not stupid: Every other minute he tells the children they’re having the best holiday of their lives. It’s basically brainwashing. All the little ones leave the place actually weeping because they’re going to miss Farmer Mick, and we’ve had a load of re-bookings already.
What with him amusing the children, and Biddy making pots of jam the whole time, plus all the grown-up pursuits too, I do worry they’re going to burn out. But every time I say that to Dad or Biddy, they just laugh and come up with some new idea, like offering hay-baling lessons. During the week we’ve got a whole activity program called Somerset Skills. There’s willow-weaving, woodcraft, foraging—and the guests love it.
So, basically, the glamping site has started off as a roaring success. But whether they can make an actual profit…
Sometimes, just the thought of how much money Biddy’s thrown into this venture gives me a gnawing feeling inside. She won’t tell me exactly how much she’s invested—but it’s a lot. And that’s money that could have been put aside for her old age.
Anyway. There’s no point fretting about it. All I can do is help them turn this place into a profitable business. Which means, for starters, that “Farmer Mick” has to stop doling out free Somerset toffees, because: 1. He goes through boxes a day. 2. He eats half of them himself. 3. One of the parents has already complained about her child being given evil sugary treats.
The parents of the triplets appear from their yurt, followed by Steve Logan, who’s carrying their luggage for them. Steve helps us out on Saturdays, which are our turnaround days. And although he’s incredibly annoying, he’s also annoyingly useful. His hands are so huge, he can shift about three holdalls at once, and he always puts on this ridiculous deferential air, in the hope of tips.
“You mind how you go, sir,” he’s saying now, as he loads their SUV. “You look after yourselves now, sir. You have a safe trip, now. Lovely family. You should be very proud. We’ll miss you.”
“We’ll miss you!” exclaims the mum, who is in a stripy top, just like her children, and clutching the lavender cushion she made yesterday. “We’ll miss all of you! Farmer Mick, and Biddy, and Katie, you’re an angel….” She seizes me in a sudden hug, and I hug her back, because they are a lovely family, and I know she means it.
I’m Katie here, to everyone. Of course I am. I’d never even try to be Cat. Not only am I Katie, but I’m a version of Katie even I don’t quite recognize sometimes. My London accent has gone. No point trying to sound urban here. It was always a bit of a strain, and the glampers don’t want to hear London; they want to hear Somerset. Thick, creamy Zummerzet, the way I was brought up.
My bangs have gone too. The hairstyle was so bloody needy, and it never felt like me. It’s not even feasible now that I’m not straightening my hair every day. I’m giving it a rest from heat treatments, which means the sleek chignon is gone and I’m back to my trademark Katie Brenner natural curls, tumbling down my back, tousled by the breeze. Nor am I bothering with flicky liquid eyeliner and three coats of mascara these days. And I’ve put my “city” glasses away in a drawer. You couldn’t exactly say I have a “look” anymore, but I’m so busy, I don’t care. My face is fuller too—all those delicious dinners—and tanned from the sun. A dusting of freckles has even appeared on my nose. I don’t look like me.
Well, maybe I look like a different me.
“What a beautiful family,” intones Steve, as the triplets climb into the SUV. “Family of little angels, they are. Little angels from heaven.”
I shoot a furious glare at Steve. He’s totally overdoing it and if he’s not careful, they’ll think he’s mocking them.
But the mum’s eyes glow even more, and the dad feels in his pocket.
“Ah. Now…here you are. Many thanks.” He hands Steve a note and I roll my eyes. It’ll only encourage him. Steve practically bows as the doors clunk shut, and we all wave as the car heads off down the drive.
That’s the last family of the week. All the yurts are now vacated.
There’s a short silence between us all, as though we’re contemplating this momentous fact. Then Biddy turns to me, claps her hands together in a businesslike way, and says, “Right.”
And it begins.
The thing about turnaround day is, it’s fine, as long as you don’t stop even for a moment. Biddy and I grab our cleaning things from the pantry and tackle the first two yurts. After half an hour, Denise from the village arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m never totally sure that Denise is going to turn up.
While Denise takes over the cleaning, Biddy and I move on to preparing and styling the yurts. Fresh flowers in vases. Fresh supplies in the hamper. Fresh soap, fresh lavender sprigs, fresh WELCOME TO ANSTERS FARM card on the bed, each one handwritten:
To Nick, Susie, Ivo, and Archie.
To James and Rita.
To Chloe and Henry.
Chloe and Henry are James and Rita’s children, but they’re teenagers, so they’re in their own yurt. We don’t often get teens, and I hope there’s enough for them to do.
To Giles, Cleo, Harrison, Harley, and Hamish, plus Gus the dog!
This week is half term. In fact, last week was half term too—the schools seem to be picking different weeks this year because there’s an extra bank holiday this Friday. Which is great for us: double the bookings. So we’re crammed full of families, with cots and trundle beds everywhere. As I’m laying out blankets, I quickly check on my phone: Harley’s a girl. Right. Some of these trendy names, you really can’t be sure.
To Dominic and Poppy.
Divorced dad with his daughter. He mentioned that twice while he was booking over the phone. He said he wanted quality time with his little girl, and his ex keeps her too cooped up, in his opinion, and she needed more outdoor play, and he didn’t agree with a lot of his ex’s decisions….You could hear his pain. It was sad.
The glampers often do phone up, even though you can do it all online. They’ll say it was to check some detail, but I think they want to be sure that the place really does exist and we don’t sound like ax murderers, before they put down a deposit. Which, you know. Fair enough.
To Gerald and Nina.
Gerald and Nina are the grandparents of one of the families. I love it when multigenerational families come to stay.
&nb
Our kitchen really isn’t up to much—the cupboards are crummy MDF and the counters are Formica. It’s not like the “rustic” kitchens you find in London, with their Agas and larders and thickly hewn oak surfaces from Plain English. But we do have original flagstones, and we spread a linen cloth on the table and hang bunting everywhere and…Well. It does.
I’m walking back to the kitchen when Dad falls into step beside me.
“All set?” he says.
“Yes, it’s looking good,” I grin at him and touch the scarf round his neck. “Nice bandanna, Farmer Mick. Oh, and I meant to tell you, the showers got a special mention in one of the feedback forms. It said, Very good, for a glamping venue.”
“They’re very good for any venue,” retorts Dad, in a mock-grumbly voice, but I can tell he’s pleased. “That reminds me,” he adds lightly. “I saw something might interest you. Howells Mill, down in Little Blandon. It’s been converted into flats.”
I stare at him, puzzled. This seems a total non sequitur.
“Nice bathrooms,” clarifies Dad, seeing that I look blank. “Power showers.”
OK, I’m still not with him. What do power showers in Little Blandon have to do with me?
“Just in case you were looking,” Dad continues. “We could help you with a deposit, maybe. The prices aren’t bad.”
And then suddenly I get it. He’s suggesting I buy a property in Somerset?
“Dad…” I barely know how to answer. How can I even begin? “Dad, you know I’m heading back to London….”
“Well, I know that’s your plan. But plans change, don’t they?” He shoots me a sidelong, slightly shifty glance. “Worthwhile knowing what your options are, at least, isn’t it?”
“But, Dad…” I come to a standstill, the breeze lifting my hair. I don’t know how many times I can say, “I want to live in London.” I feel like I’m bashing my head against a wall.
There’s quiet, except for the distant sound of cows. The sky is light and blue above us, but I feel weighed down with guilt.
“Katie, love…” Dad’s face crumples with concern. “I feel like we’ve been getting you back these last months. You’re not so thin. Not so anxious. That girl up there…that’s not you.”
I know he means well. But right now his words are pressing all my sore spots. I’ve been trying to bolster my confidence so desperately all these weeks, telling myself this job loss is only a blip. But maybe Dad’s hit the nail on the head: Maybe that girl’s not me. Maybe I can’t cut it in London. Maybe I should leave it for other people.
A little voice inside me is already protesting: Don’t give up! It’s only been three months; you can still do it! But it’s hard. When every recruitment officer and headhunter seems to have the opposite opinion.
“I’d better get on,” I say at last. Somehow I manage a half smile—then I turn and head toward the farmhouse.
—
I’m just double-checking what activities we have lined up for tomorrow, when Denise appears at the kitchen door, holding a large plastic crate. It’s what she uses for picking up what she calls “them glampers’ crap.”
“All done,” she says. “Been round the site. All spotless.”
“Great; thanks, Denise,” I say. “You’re a star.”
And she is. In a way. She doesn’t always turn up—but when she does, she’s very thorough. She’s ten years older than me and has three daughters and you can see them being marched to school in the mornings, with the tightest plaits I’ve ever seen.
“The things them people leave behind.” She nods at the crate.
“Did they leave a real mess?” I say sympathetically.
It’s always a surprise to me, how nice families in tasteful outfits from Boden can be so messy. And inconsiderate. One lot wouldn’t stop feeding Colin the alpaca all kinds of dumb stuff, however much we told them not to.
“You’ll never guess.” Denise’s eyes are flashing with a kind of dark triumph. “Look at this!” She pulls a Rampant Rabbit out of her crate and I gasp.
“No! No!”
“What’s that?” Biddy looks round from the cooker. “Is it a toy?”
Damn Denise. I do not want to have to explain to my stepmother what a Rampant Rabbit is.
“It’s…a thing,” I say hurriedly. “Denise, put it away. Which yurt was it in?”
“Dunno,” she says with an unconcerned shrug.
“Denise!” I clasp my head. “We’ve been over this. You have to label the lost property. Then we can send it on to the guests.”
“You sending that through the post?” Denise gives a short laugh.
“Well…” I hesitate. “Dunno. Maybe not.”
“Or this?” She brandishes a tube of cream labeled FOR PERSISTENT GENITAL WARTS.
“Oh God.” I make a face. “Really?”
“Nice top, though.” She plucks a purple T-shirt from the crate and holds it up against herself. “Can I have this?”
“No! Let’s have a look.” I peer into the crate, and, she’s right, it’s full. There’s a water pistol, a pair of children’s wellies, a bundle of papers, a baseball cap….“God, they’ve been messy this time.” My phone rings and I answer, “Ansters Farm, how may I help?”
“Oh, hello!” It’s the voluble voice of the mum in the stripy top. “Katie, is that you?”
“Yes! Is this…?”
Shit. What’s her name? I’ve forgotten already.
“Barbara! We’re on our way back. About twenty minutes away. We left behind…”
Her voice descends into crackles. The signal is so bad on the local roads, I’m amazed she got through at all.
“Barbara?” I raise my voice. “Hello, Barbara, can you hear me?”
“…very sensitive…” Her voice suddenly comes down the line again in a buzz of static. “I’m sure you found it…you can imagine how I feel…”
Oh my God. Did Barbara leave behind the Rampant Rabbit? I clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh. Barbara with her clean, makeup-free face and her wholesome triplets?
“Um…”
“…absolutely mortified…had to come and get it in person…see you soon…” Her voice disappears. I gape at the silent phone, then look up.
“OK, I think we have the owner coming back.”
“Did she fess up?” Denise gives a short laugh. “I’d lie.”
“Not exactly. She said it was very sensitive and she was really embarrassed—”
“Could be this.” Denise holds up the tube of cream.
“Oh shit.” The realization hits me. “Yes. It totally could.”
I look from the Rampant Rabbit to the genital-warts cream. What a choice.
“You’re more likely to come back for a cream, maybe?” offers Denise. “If it’s on prescription or whatever?”
“But you could get that replaced.”
“The Rampant Rabbit’s worth more….”
I catch Denise’s eye and a wave of sudden hysteria comes over me.
“This is hideous.” My voice is shaking. “Which one are we going to offer her?”
“Offer her both.”
“We can’t say, Here’s a vibrator and some genital-warts cream; take your pick.” I clutch my stomach, unable to stop laughing.
“Find out which one it is,” says Biddy from the stove. “Get her into conversation about it, then when you’re sure which it is, go and get the item.”
“Conversation?” I double up. “What kind of conversation?”
“I’ll do it,” says Biddy. “Honestly, you girls! And put it in a bag,” she adds firmly. “Your dad doesn’t want to see that kind of thing lying around. And, yes, I do know what it is,” she adds, catching my eye with a little spark. “They’ve changed the designs, that’s all.”
Wow. This is the thin
It’s only about ten minutes later that the SUV roars back up the drive. They must have been flooring it. We’ve decided that Biddy will get Barbara into conversation outside, while Denise and I lurk in the kitchen. And the minute we’ve worked out what the lost property is, we’ll come out with it, discreetly wrapped.
“Barbara!” Biddy steps out of the kitchen door. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to delay your journey.”
“Oh, it’s my own stupid fault,” says Barbara, who has leapt out of the SUV and looks very pink about the cheeks. “But I couldn’t relax till I’d retrieved it. A lot of things, you wouldn’t bother about. But that…”
I look at Denise and reach for the Rampant Rabbit with raised eyebrows. It’s sounding like the sex toy….
“Of course not, dear,” says Biddy in that cozy way she has. “Not when it’s such a very personal item.”
“Oh, it’s not mine, strictly speaking,” says Barbara. “It’s my husband’s.”
What? Denise and I stare at each other with wide eyes, then I take my hand off the Rampant Rabbit and put it on the genital-warts cream. It has to be that. Surely.
“Although he’d say I get more enjoyment out of it than he does,” Barbara says with a friendly smile.
Beside me, Denise explodes.
“Stoppit!” I whisper, and reach for the Rampant Rabbit again. I pick up the bag and prepare to head outside, though how I’m going to look Barbara in the eye, I have no idea.
“Well, Katie’s just fetching it for you,” says Biddy. “She’ll be out with it any moment.”
“That’s right.” My voice trembles with suppressed hysteria as I appear on the doorstep. “Here it is. Um…safe and sound.”
I’ve wrapped the Rampant Rabbit in brown paper and put it in a carrier bag, just so no one gets an untoward glimpse.
“Oh, I’m so relieved,” says Barbara as she takes the bag from me. “I expect I left it in the bed or somewhere, did I?”