My Not So Perfect Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “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.

  And, yes, I knew it would be hard. But maybe not this hard.

  “Katie?”

  “Sorry. Just…thinking.”

  It wouldn’t be giving up, I tell myself sternly. It would just be…what? Regrouping. Because I can crack this. But maybe I need some time out first.

  “Biddy, hold on,” I say abruptly. “There’s something I need to check.”

  I put down the phone, hurry out of my room, and knock on Irena’s door. There’s no response, but I push my way in, anyway, telling myself that this is urgent and Irena’s god will understand.

  The room is a sea of bowed, silent heads. Shit. Obviously this is a moment of prayer or something and now I’ve disturbed it. But I’m not backing away. I have to know.

  I tiptoe through the cross-legged figures until I reach Irena, who’s sitting on the bed, her blond hair shining, her eyes closed, and her rosy face rapt. Alan’s right, I find myself thinking; she is very hot.

  “Irena?” I whisper in her ear. “Irena, sorry to disturb, but is it true you want to sublet a room?”

  Irena’s eyes pop open and she turns to look at me.

  “Yes,” she whispers back. “It’s for my friend Sonia.”

  She gestures at Sonia, who is even more blond and hot than Irena. Bloody hell. Alan’s going to think he’s gone to heaven.

  “Well, you can have mine.”

  “Great!” Irena’s eyes widen. “When?”

  “As soon as we can fix it up. Come and see me when you’ve finished.”

  I tiptoe away again, thinking frantically. How exactly am I going to finesse this? I can’t come clean to Biddy. She’s in such a state right now. If she gets hassled by me and my problems too, then that won’t help anybody.

  So…OK. Here’s what I’m going to do: 1. Help Biddy and Dad. 2. Not alarm them. 3. Quietly sort out my life. 4. Tell them the details on a need-to-know basis, preferably when everything is safely back on track again.

  (5. Even when things are back on track, they will never need to know every painful detail of my life. 6. Especially how Demeter couldn’t even remember if she’d fired me or not. 7. Or how I got mistaken for a homeless person.)

  The only teeny problem is: What do I actually say? Right here and now? What do I say?

  I pick up my phone and take a deep breath.

  “Biddy…there is a kind of…er…possibility,” I say into the phone. “It’s hard to explain…kind of complicated….Anyway, the point is, I can help you. I’ll come down tomorrow.”

  “You’ll come down?” Biddy sounds stunned. “Oh, Katie, love! How long can you stay for?”

  “Not sure yet,” I say vaguely. “I need to talk to some people…make some arrangements…probably a couple of weeks. Or a few weeks. Something like that.”

  “So, is it a sabbatical you’re taking?” Biddy hazards. “Like that nice lady a couple of years ago who wanted to learn jam-making, remember? On sabbatical from her job in the city. Six months, she had. Do you think you’ll get that long?” I can hear the hope in Biddy’s voice. To be honest, I’m not sure what to answer.

  Six months. I have to find a job in six months, surely.

  “I’ll stay as long as I can,” I say at last, dodging the question. “It’ll be lovely to see you! I can’t wait!”

  “Oh, Katie, nor can I!” Biddy’s joy bursts down the line in a torrent. “To have you at home again for a bit! Your dad will be thrilled; everyone will be thrilled; oh, love, I really think we can make this glamping into something with your help….”

  She talks on and on, and I lean back on my littered, lumpy bed, staring up at my stained ceiling. Her loving, enthusiastic voice is like balm on sore skin. Someone wants me. I’m already looking forward to home-cooked food, a room with an actual wardrobe, the view of the hills.

  But at the same time, my resolve is hardening like lacquer. I’m taking time out, but I’m not giving up. I mean, I’m only in my twenties; am I going to let one setback crush my ambition? No. I’m still going to work in branding one day. I’m still going to stride over Waterloo Bridge and think, This is my city. It’s going to happen.

  Three months later

  “Right,” I say into the phone. “I understand. Thank you.”

  I put the phone away and stare blankly ahead. Another headhunter with no joy. Another little lecture on how “tricky” the market is at the moment.

  “Still that pharmaceutical brand?” Biddy’s voice makes me jump, and I swivel round, flustered. I should have learned by now: Never take calls from headhunters in the kitchen. “They do work you hard, love!” Biddy adds, dumping a bunch of beets on the count
er. “I thought it was supposed to be your sabbatical.”

  Guilt is crawling through me and I turn away, avoiding her gaze. You start with one well-intentioned fib. Next thing, you’ve built up a whole fictitious life.

  It all began a week after I’d got home. A headhunter called me back, right in front of Dad and Biddy. I had to think quickly on my feet, and the only story I could come up with was that Cooper Clemmow were consulting me on a project. Now it’s become my all-purpose excuse for taking calls and leaving the room. Whenever a headhunter calls me back, it’s “Cooper Clemmow.” And Dad and Biddy believe me implicitly. Why wouldn’t they? They trust me.

  I should never have gone along with Biddy’s version of events. But it was so easy. Too easy. By the time I arrived in Somerset, she’d told Dad I was “on sabbatical,” and they both seemed to take it for granted. The thought of unpicking the story was just beyond me.

  So I didn’t. Everyone believes I’ve taken a sabbatical, even Fi, because I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and it ending up in some Facebook post which Biddy might stumble on. All Fi said was, Wow, UK employers are so generous. Then she went straight into some story about going to the Hamptons and drinking pink margaritas and it was so much fun and I have to come out. I didn’t even know how to reply. Right now, my life could not be further from pink margaritas. Or macchiatos. Or cool pavement cafés in happening areas. When I go on Instagram these days, it’s only to promote Ansters Farm.

  I told Fi about the glamping, and she asked a few mildly interested questions—but then she wanted to know, So when will you be back in London? and Don’t you MISS it? Which touched a sore spot. Of course I do. Then she started telling me about all the celebrities she’d spotted in some hotel bar that weekend.

  And I know she’s still Fi, my mate Fi, down-to-earth Fi…but it’s getting harder to reconcile this glamorous New York Fi with the friend I could tell anything to. There’s less and less about our lives that overlaps. Maybe I should go out to New York, forge our friendship again. But how can I afford to do that?

  Anyway, it’s hardly my most pressing problem. There are jobs to be done. I’m about to help Biddy with the beets when my phone buzzes in my pocket with an email. It’s from McWhirter Tonge, the company I’ve just interviewed for. Oh God…

  Casually, I open the kitchen door and step outside. The late May sun is warming the fields stretching ahead of me. A spire of smoke is rising from one of the campfires in the yurt village, and I can hear the distant chacking of jackdaws coming from a copse of ash trees in North Field. Not that I’m really listening or admiring the scenery. I only care about this email. Because you never know…please…

  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 email: 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 all: 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.”