“Have my jacket,” I say in alarm, and proffer my knackered old Barbour. “You look freezing. It was a very challenging practice—maybe too challenging.”
“No thanks, I’m not cold at all.” Demeter gives the jacket a supercilious look. “And I didn’t find it too challenging.” She lifts her chin in that arrogant way she has. “I actually found it very stimulating. I have a natural aptitude for these things.”
At once, any sympathy I was feeling for her vanishes. Why does she have to be such a bloody show-off?
“Great!” I say politely. “Glad it worked for you.”
I lead Demeter back across the fields, eyeing her gooseflesh as we go. I offer her the jacket twice more, but she refuses it. Crikey, she’s stubborn.
“Now,” says Demeter bossily as I’m shutting the gate into Elm Field, “I’ve been meaning to mention something. I liked your homemade granola at breakfast, but I really think it should include chia seeds. Just a suggestion. Or goji berries.”
“It already contains goji berries,” I point out, but Demeter isn’t listening.
“Or what’s that new seed called?” She wrinkles her brow. “That new superfood seed. You probably don’t get it out here.” She gives me a kind, patronizing smile, and I find myself bristling. No, of course not. How would we get the new must-have seed out here in the countryside where we grow seeds?
“Probably not.” I force a polite smile. “Let’s move on to the next activity.”
—
On our way to the stables, I let Demeter get dressed again, and when she thinks I’m not looking, I catch her rubbing the worst of the mud off. Then she insists on stopping to check her emails on her phone.
“I work in something called ‘branding,’ ” she tells me loftily as she swipes through her messages, and I smile back politely. Branding. Yes, I remember branding.
“OK, done.” She puts away her phone and turns to me in her bossy way. “Lead on to the stables.”
“The stables” sounds grander than it is. There are four dilapidated stalls and a tiny tack room, but only one horse. We’ve had Carlo forever. He’s a great big cob, and Dad keeps threatening to get rid of him, but then he can’t quite bring himself to do it, because the truth is, we all love him too much. He’s not much trouble, old Carlo. He lives outside most of the year, and he’s a good-tempered old beast. Lazy, though. Bloody lazy.
I brought him in last night, especially for this. I also made a sign that reads EQUINE SANCTUARY and put it on the stable-yard gate.
“So!” I say, as we approach. “Now for the equine de-stress activity. Are you a horse lover, Demeter? Here, put this on.”
I hand her a riding hat, which probably isn’t a perfect fit, but it’s only for a bit of grooming. I already know Demeter can’t ride, because I heard her mention it at work once. But I’m sure she’ll come up with some bullshit or other, and, sure enough, she lifts her chin again.
“Ah. Now. Horses. I’ve never actually ridden, but I do know a lot about horses. They have a special spirit. Very healing.”
“Absolutely.” I nod. “And that’s what we’re going to tap into today. This activity is all about communion with horses and carrying on ancient traditions.”
“Wonderful,” says Demeter emphatically. “These ancient traditions are marvelous.”
“This horse is particularly mystical.” I go over to Carlo and run a hand down his flank. “He gives calmness to people. Calmness and peace.”
This is a lie. Carlo is so lazy, the emotion he brings to most people is demented frustration. But I don’t bat an eyelid as I continue:
“Carlo is what we call an Empathy horse. We categorize our horses, according to their spiritual qualities, into Energy, Empathy, and Detox.”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m sure I’ve gone too far. A detox horse? But Demeter seems to be lapping it all up.
“Amazing,” she murmurs.
Carlo gives a whicker, and I beam at Demeter.
“I think he likes you.”
“Really?” Demeter looks pink and rather pleased. “Should I get on?”
“No, no.” I give a merry laugh. “This isn’t a riding activity. It’s a bonding activity. And we’re going to use an implement that was forged in this very farm, generations ago.” I reach into my jute bag and adopt an expression of awe. “This,” I say in hushed tones, “is an authentic hoof-picker. It’s been used on Ansters Farm since medieval times.”
Another lie. Or maybe not. Who knows? It’s an old cast-iron hoof-pick, which has been knocking around the stable for as long as I can remember. So, actually, you know what? Maybe it is medieval.
“We’re going to be cleaning out Carlo’s hooves, following the traditional, authentic Somerset method.”
“Right.” Demeter nods intelligently. “So, are there different methods in different counties, then?”
“This is an exercise in trust,” I continue, ignoring her question, which was actually quite sensible. “And empathy. And rapport. Grasp Carlo’s front leg and lift it up. Like this.”
I lean against Carlo, move my hands reassuringly down his leg, grab his hoof, and lift it up. Then I replace it.
“Your turn.” I beam at Demeter. “You’ll feel the power of the horse channeling through your hands.”
Looking apprehensive, Demeter takes up the same position, runs her hands down Carlo’s leg, and tries to lift up his hoof. Which, of course, he won’t let her do. She’s far too tentative, and he can be an obstinate old bugger, Carlo.
“Try speaking to him,” I suggest. “Try reaching out to his soul. Introduce yourself.”
“Right.” Demeter clears her throat. “Um. Hi, Carlo. I’m Demeter, and I’m here to clean out your hoof.”
She’s hauling on his hoof, but she’s not getting anywhere. Once Carlo’s hoof is planted down, it’s as if it’s welded to the floor.
“I can’t do it,” she says.
“Try again,” I suggest. “Run your hands gently down his leg. Praise him.”
“Carlo.” Demeter tries again. “You’re a wonderful horse. I feel very connected to you right now.”
She yanks desperately, her mud-splattered face puce, but I can tell she’s never going to manage it.
“Here, let me,” I say, and get Carlo’s hoof up. “Now. Grasp the pick, and clear out the mud. Like this.” I remove a minuscule amount of mud, then hand the pick back to Demeter.
I feel an inward giggle as I see her aghast expression. I mean, I don’t blame her. It’s an absolute sod of a job. Carlo’s hooves are huge, and the mud has impacted in them like concrete.
Ha.
“Right. Here goes.” Demeter starts scraping at the mud. “Wow,” she says after a bit. “It’s quite…difficult.”
“It’s authentic,” I say kindly. “Some things are best done ‘old school,’ don’t you think?”
Like those bloody handwritten surveys, I’m thinking. They were “old school” too.
By the time Demeter’s done all four hooves, she’s breathing hard and sweating.
“Very nice.” I smile at her. “Don’t you feel a wonderful rapport with Carlo now?”
“Yes.” Demeter can hardly talk. “I…I think so.”
“Good! Now it’s time for our mindful cleansing activity.”
I lead Carlo out and tie him up. Then I hand Demeter an old bristle broom and say seriously: “This broom has been used by generations. You can feel the honest labor in its handle. As you sweep away the manure in the stable, so you sweep away the manure in your own life.” I hand her a fork. “This might help. Put all the dirty straw in the wheelbarrow.”
“I’m sorry. Wait.” Demeter has got the swivelly-eyed look I remember from the office. “I don’t understand.” She jabs at the broom. “Is this…metaphorical?”
“Metaphorical and real.” I nod. “That’s very astute of you, Demeter.”
“What is?” Demeter looks more confused.
“In order to sweep away metaphorical rubbish
, you must sweep actual rubbish. Then the activity becomes mindful and you benefit all the more. Please. Don’t wait. Begin.” I nod at the manure-strewn straw.
Demeter is motionless for a moment, looking dumbstruck. Then, like some obedient slave, she begins sweeping, so diligently that I feel another tweak of admiration for her.
I mean, good on her. She hasn’t complained or bailed out or squealed at the mess, like those children the other week who claimed they wanted to learn “pony skills” and then said it was too smelly and ran off, leaving me to clean up.
“Well done!” I say encouragingly. “Very nice action.”
I head out into the sunshine and pull from my bag the flask of coffee I made earlier. I’m just pouring myself a cup when Steve Logan saunters by. Damn. I didn’t necessarily want anyone witnessing any of my “bespoke” activities.
“Why’s he here?” he says, seeing Carlo tied up. Then he glimpses Demeter in the stable. “What the hell—”
“Shhh!” I grab him quickly and pull him out of earshot. “Don’t say anything.”
“Is that a glamper?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s shoveling shit.”
“I know.” I think quickly. “She…um…wanted to.”
“She wanted to?” says Steve in astonishment. “Who wants to shovel shit on their holiday? Is she nuts?”
He looks so fascinated, I feel a spike of alarm. He’ll start quizzing Demeter if I’m not careful. Abruptly, I decide to take him into my confidence.
“Look, Steve, actually there’s more to it than that. But if I tell you…” I drop my voice. “It’s a secret, OK?”
“Sure.” Steve nods significantly.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.” Steve lowers his voice to a sepulchral whisper. “What is uttered in the stable yard stays in the stable yard.”
That is so not a thing that I want to roll my eyes at him, but I’m in mid-flow, so I don’t bother. Instead, I beckon him farther away, into the tack room, out of sight of Demeter.
“I know this woman,” I say in a low voice. “From before. From London. And she’s…” I think how to put it. “She did me a wrong. So I’m getting even.”
I take several sips of coffee while this sinks into Steve’s brain.
“Right,” he says at last. “I get it. Shoveling shit. Nice.” Then he frowns as though he’s suddenly realized the flaw in the plan. “But why did she agree to shovel shit?”
“Because I told her it was mindful, I suppose.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Steve looks so perplexed, I can’t help giggling. He helps himself to some coffee and pensively sips it, then says, “I’ll tell you a secret now. So we’re square.”
“Oh,” I say warily. “No. Steve, I really don’t want to—”
“Kayla doesn’t do it for me in bed.”
“What?” I stare at him, aghast.
“Not anymore,” he elaborates. “Used to, but—”
“Steve!” I clap my hand to my head. “Don’t tell me things like that.”
“Well, it’s true,” he says with lugubrious triumph. “So. Now you know.” He gives me a sidelong look. “Might change things.”
“What?” I peer at him. “Change what?”
“Just putting it out there.” He regards me with his bulgy eyes. “New information. You can do what you like with it.”
Oh God. Does he mean…No. I don’t want to know what he means.
“I’m not going to do anything with it,” I say firmly.
“Think on it, then.” He taps his head. “Just think on it.”
“No! I won’t think on it! Steve, I have to go. See you later.”
I hurry out of the tack room, then stop dead in surprise. Demeter isn’t sweeping anymore—nor is she on her phone or striding impatiently around. She’s standing next to Carlo, her arm over his withers, and he’s brought his head round to give her a hug.
I blink in astonishment. It’s a trick I taught Carlo years ago, and he hardly ever does it spontaneously. But there he is, hugging Demeter in his kind old horsey way. I made up “Empathy horse” as a joke…but now I realize it’s kind of true. Demeter’s eyes are closed and her shoulders are slumped. She looks off guard and exhausted, as though she’s been putting on quite an act, even on holiday.
The thing about Demeter, I think as I watch her, is that she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t switch off. Even when she’s “relaxing,” she’s still ultra-competitive and obsessing over chia seeds. Maybe she should just watch telly and eat Corn Flakes for a weekend and chill.
I gesture to Steve to leave the stable yard quietly; then I sit down on an upturned bucket. Demeter’s shoulders are shaking slightly and I peer in fresh shock. Is she crying? I mean, I’ve cried into my ponies’ manes often enough over the years, but I never would have thought that Demeter in a million years—
Oh my God. Has my totally fake equine de-stress activity actually worked? Have I de-stressed my ex-boss?
That was totally not the intention of this morning. But as I sit and watch her and Carlo in their little twosome, I can’t help feeling a kind of warmth inside. Like you do when you see a child asleep or a lamb frisking or even a marathon runner gulping water. You think, They needed that, and you feel a kind of satisfaction on their behalf, whoever they are.
And the only thing that puzzles me now is—why? Demeter has the perfect life. Why is she sobbing into Carlo’s mane, for crying out loud?
After a little while she looks up, sees me, and gives a startled jump. At once she grabs in her pocket for a tissue and starts patting her face.
“Just…taking a moment,” she says briskly. “I’ve finished sweeping. What’s next?”
“Nothing,” I say, coming forward. “We’ve finished for the morning. We’ll head to the farmhouse now and you can wash your face, have a shower, whatever you’d like, before lunch.” I pat Carlo fondly, then turn to Demeter again. “So, did you enjoy the activity?”
“Oh, it was very good,” says Demeter. “Very de-stressing. You should offer this to all the guests. This should be on the brochure. In fact, you should have a separate brochure outlining all the activities.”
Her old bossy demeanor is beginning to reassert itself, but I’m more interested in the Demeter I saw just now. The vulnerable, tearful Demeter.
“Demeter,” I say hesitantly as we move out of the stable yard. “Are you…all right?”
“Of course I’m all right!” she says, without looking me in the eye. “Just a bit tired, that’s all. I’m so sorry I lost control. Very embarrassing. It’s not like me at all.”
She’s right. It’s not—at least not the Demeter I know. But maybe there’s a different Demeter that I don’t know about? And all the way back to the farmhouse, I’m thoughtful.
—
Lunch is served in the barn and is a chance for everyone to chatter about what they got up to that morning. All the adults who did willow-weaving are already there as we approach, and there’s a happy hubbub. I glance at Demeter, wondering if she’s feeling a bit wrung out, if she’ll take a backseat for once.
But oh no.
Already her chin has lifted and her pace has quickened. I can see her eyes flashing with the old Demeter determination.
“Hi!” She interrupts a conversation between Susie and Nick with her usual energy. “How was the willow-weaving?”
“It was great,” says Susie. “How was your morning?”
“Oh, it was marvelous,” says Demeter. “Absolutely wonderful. You know I did a bespoke-activity morning?” she adds airily to Susie. “A special mind-body-spirit program. I can thoroughly recommend it. I mean, it was challenging but absolutely worth it. I feel empowered now. I feel radiant. Oh, is that vegetarian lasagna? Is it wheat-free?”
As the meal progresses, I listen as Demeter regales every single adult with how brilliant her morning was: much better and more authentic than theirs. “This ancient practice Vedari…Oh, haven’t you heard of it? Yes, v
ery niche…I really sensed the aura….Well, I am rather a yoga expert….”
Everyone is chattering about their mornings, but Demeter’s voice rings out above the hubbub, a constant, show-offy, clarion sound.
“Absolutely empowering experience…Gwyneth Paltrow, apparently…I could feel the natural heat emanating from the stones….”
No, she bloody couldn’t! I saw her with my own eyes. She was freezing! But now she’s talking as though she’s just met the Dalai Lama and he said, Well done, Demeter, you’re the best.
She hasn’t once mentioned Carlo, interestingly. Let alone the fact that he hugged her and she wept. It’s as if she’s squashed the only real, truthful bit of the morning away where no one can see it.
Then a growing sound of shrieks and laughter heralds the approach of the children. As they all come piling into the barn, hot and excited from their obstacle course, Demeter rises from her seat.
“Coco! Hal! There you are. And James. Were you watching the children? Come over here, I’ve saved you seats.”
As Demeter’s family slide into their chairs, I edge closer in fascination. So here they are: the perfect family in their perfect outfits, having the perfect holiday. I expect they’ll make intelligent conversation about the environment now. Or that new hip indie band they saw at the weekend, all of them together, because they’re such a close family.
But in fact none of them starts talking at all. They all get out their phones, including James.
“I thought we said no phones at mealtimes,” says Demeter in a strange, jokey voice I haven’t ever heard her use before. “Hey, guys. Guys?” She waves a hand to get the attention of her children, but they totally ignore her.
I’m slightly goggling. I’ve never seen anyone ignore Demeter before.
“So, how was the obstacle course?” Demeter puts a hand over Hal’s phone screen and he glowers at her.
“It was all right,” says Coco briefly. “This phone is crap. I need a new one.”
“You’ve got a birthday coming up,” says Demeter. “Perfect. Let’s go and choose one together.”
My Not So Perfect Life Page 19