“Drank too much?” Dad’s eyes open wide, then he gives a wry shrug. “They all do it. I remember you coming home once from a party in a terrible state. About her age, you were.”
“I remember that too.” I grimace. I’d had too many black velvets, as I recall. Not one of my finest moments.
“I was that worried. Sat up all night with you, dozy fool that I was.” He grins merrily. “You woke up as right as rain, ate a plateful of eggs and bacon!”
I’d forgotten Dad sat up all night with me. He must have been really stressed out. And just him; no one to share it with.
“Sorry.” I give him an impulsive hug.
“You don’t need to say sorry. What else are dads for?” He sips his beer, and as he moves, the bells jingle at his side.
“I like the Morris dancing,” I say. “It’s funny.”
“Well, it keeps them entertained, doesn’t it?” Dad flashes me another smile, but I can still see a cast of weariness in his face.
“Listen, Dad…don’t overdo it, will you? You and Biddy. You’re putting so much energy into this.”
“Paying off, though, isn’t it?” He spreads an arm toward the campfire; the contented hubbub of the glampers; the shadowy yurts. “Finally got something right, Katie, love. You got it right.”
“We all got it right,” I correct him. “I think ‘Farmer Mick’ is about fifty percent of our success.”
“Ha!” Dad gives a pleased laugh. “Keeps me young.” He sips his beer again, and for a while we’re silent. Then he adds, in slightly wary tones, “You need to be careful about overdoing it too, love.”
“Me?”
“I saw you at the computer the other day. Stressed out, you looked. They shouldn’t be working you like that. You’ve got enough on your plate here.”
He pats my shoulder and my stomach clenches so hard, I have to shut my eyes briefly. I feel a bit winded by the sudden realization that Alex is right. This situation is bad. I can’t keep lying to Dad about my job, I can’t.
“Actually…Dad…” I begin, feeling sick. How am I going to put this? Where do I start? What if he flips out?
“Yes, love?” replies Dad absently. He’s peering through the dusk at some distant approaching figure. Probably just a glamper wandering around.
“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” I swallow hard. “It’s about me…and…and my job in London….”
“Oh yes?” Dad’s face closes up slightly. He’s clearly not very keen on hearing about my job in London. If only he knew what I was about to tell him.
“Well. The thing is…” I rub my nose, feeling even sicker. “It’s…What’s happened is—”
“Dave!” Dad’s exclamation drowns me out. “Dave Yarnett! What are you doing here, you old rogue?”
Dave Yarnett? My eyes focus in disbelief on the familiar figure of Dave, in his trademark black leather jacket. His paunch is snugly clad in a knockoff Calvin Klein T-shirt, his graying beard neatly trimmed and his eyes sparkling as he approaches.
“Mick!” He slaps Dad on the back. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted you to have first look at my latest lot. You interested in rugs? Persian rugs?”
“We don’t need any rugs,” I say at once, and Dave shoots me a look of gentle reproach.
“Now, Katie, I’m offering your dad a retail opportunity here. All these glampers of yours—they’ve got houses to furnish, haven’t they? I got this job lot of rugs from a bloke in Yeovil. Proper Persian antiques. Bit of furniture too. Take a look, anyway.”
“Sorry, Katie.” Dad pats me on the shoulder again. “I’ll just have a quick look. Be back in a minute.”
I know Dad. He can never resist a poke around Dave Yarnett’s van.
“OK, no problem.” I shrug, feeling a guilty relief wash over me. I’ll tell him later, when it’s a better time. When I’ve worked out a script. And maybe had a vodka or two. “Hey, don’t buy any rugs,” I call after Dad, as he disappears off with Dave. “Not without discussing it. We’re a partnership now!”
—
I sit there awhile longer, watching the sky change tone gradually, from intense mid-blue to a softer indigo. Dave’s van disappears back down the drive and I see Dad making his way over to the campfire again. I just hope he isn’t making plans to turn us into the Ansters Farm Glamping and Rug Emporium.
I decide to head back over to the fire myself, toast a marshmallow, and get myself a sugar hit. But as I’m walking in that direction, I see a familiar car wending its way up the drive. Oh my God. Demeter.
I increase my pace to a run and arrive in the farmyard as she’s getting out. She looks white and exhausted. Her eyebrows are drawn in a frown and there’s a piece of paper in her hand, which she keeps glancing at.
I’m about to greet her when another voice gets in first: “Hello, Demeter.”
It’s Alex, stepping out of the kitchen door. He’s holding his phone and staring grimly at Demeter. Like an assassin.
“I’d like to see you for a meeting,” he says. “Biddy says we can use the sitting room.”
I feel a dart of shock. That’s what he’s been doing. Setting up the execution chamber.
“Now?” Demeter seems a little stunned. “Alex, I’ve only just got back. I need some time, I need a chance…”
“You’ve had plenty of time. Plenty of chances.” His voice is strained, and I can tell he’s been psyching himself up to do this. “Things have been getting worse for months. Now they’ve tipped over the edge. Demeter, you know that. Things are a shambles. And that’s why we need to talk.”
“I need to work some things out first.” Demeter closes her car door, then comes toward him on trembling legs, her eyes like shadows in her pale face. “Please, Alex. Give me till tomorrow.”
“Demeter.” He steps toward her, his face tight, avoiding her eye. “I don’t want to be doing this, you know I don’t, but I have to. Things have got out of hand and they can’t carry on. We’ll put together a story for the press; you’ll get a good package—” He stops. “We should go to the meeting room.”
“I’m not going to any meeting room.” Demeter shakes her head adamantly. “Alex, there’s another side to this. There’s stuff that doesn’t make sense. I need to show it to you.”
But Alex isn’t listening.
“All we think is, you took on a big job,” he presses on doggedly, as though reading lines. “It was too much, but it’s not your fault—”
“Stop the spiel, Alex!” Demeter yells. “Just listen to what I have to say! OK, so I went home today. I looked through some old emails, trying to…I don’t know. Work out what the hell has been going on.” She gestures to a massive bin bag I hadn’t noticed before, stuffed full of email printouts.
“What the hell?” says Alex incredulously, as some of the printouts start to flutter on the evening breeze.
“They were in my attic. I print out a lot of emails,” says Demeter defensively. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but…Anyway, so I found this.” She holds out the paper and Alex glances at it without interest.
“It’s an email.”
“Look at it!” Demeter exclaims, shaking it at him. “Actually look at it!”
Alex puts both fists to his face. “You will kill me,” he says in a muffled voice. He looks up. “OK, what?” He takes the paper, reads it, then raises his head again blankly. “It’s an email from Lindsay at Allersons. Forwarded to you from Sarah, two weeks ago. So what?”
“Read it aloud.”
For a moment, Alex looks as though he might spontaneously combust. But he starts to read: “Dear Demeter, thanks for that, and I must say, we appreciate your ongoing patience—”
“Stop there.” Demeter lifts a hand. “My ongoing patience. Do you see? My ongoing patience.”
Alex frowns blankly. “What about it?”
“Why would Allersons ‘appreciate my ongoing patience’? They say they were waiting for us to get a move on. So why would I have needed to be patient?”
“Who knows?” Alex brushes it off. “It’s a turn of phrase.”
“It’s not! It’s crucial! This email fits with my version of things, where they told me to halt on everything until further notice. I remember reading it. I replied to it! Do you realize I thought I was going mad?” She jabs at the paper. “Well, I’m not!”
“Jesus, Demeter.” Alex sounds exasperated. “We’ve been through this. Sarah’s shown us the email correspondence; none of it accords with what you’re saying—”
“Well, that’s my point!” She cuts him off, trembling.
“What? What’s your point?”
“I don’t know exactly. At least…” She sounds suddenly hesitant and less Demeter-ish. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but maybe someone hacked into my computer and…I don’t know. Messed with my emails.”
“Oh Jesus.” Alex looks as though this is all he needs.
“Alex, I know I received an email from Lindsay, telling me that Allersons wanted to pause. It said they were waiting for some research to come in.” Demeter’s voice shoots up in agitation. “I read it! I saw it!”
“OK, so show me now. Is it on your laptop?”
“No.” Demeter looks beleaguered. “It…it disappeared. I went up to London to find the printout, and I couldn’t, but I found this one instead. This email isn’t on my computer either. I know, I know it sounds crazy…but look. This is proof. Look!” She thrusts the paper at him and he reluctantly takes it. “If you give me time to go through all my old printouts…I’m sure I’ve been hacked, or something….”
“Stop saying that!” Alex looks properly upset. “Demeter, I’m an old friend and I’m telling you: Don’t go around saying things like that. You sound—” He breaks off. “Who would do it, anyway? And why?”
“I don’t know.” Demeter sounds desperate. “But it doesn’t make sense, nothing makes sense—”
“Hey,” I chip in. I’ve been gazing at the email over Alex’s shoulder and something’s caught my attention. “Look at the email address. It should be Demeter-dot-Farlowe at Cooper Clemmow-dot-com. But this has been sent to Demeter-underscore-Farlowe at Cooper Clemmow-dot-com. It’s a totally different email account.”
Even Alex is silenced. He peers closely at the email address, his brow furrowed.
“Oh my God.” Demeter grabs the paper from him. “I never even noticed that.”
“There are lots of possible explanations,” begins Alex. “It could be…I don’t know. An IT-department experiment. Or maybe you started a new email account yourself and forgot—”
“Me, start an email account?” retorts Demeter derisively. “Are you joking? I wouldn’t know where to start! Sarah does all that stuff. She organizes my emails, she forwards things, she’s the only one who ever—” Demeter breaks off and we meet eyes. And I feel a huge lurch.
Sarah.
It’s like a curtain has fallen down. I can suddenly see. Sarah. Oh my God.
Demeter’s face has turned ashen. I can see her mind is turning over this idea as quickly as I am. Sarah. Sarah.
It all makes sense. Emails changing…messages disappearing…Sarah and her hostile, exaggerated patience…Demeter standing in the office, peering at her phone as though she thinks she’s going mad…
“Sarah?” I say at last.
“Sarah,” echoes Demeter, looking a bit ill. “Oh God.”
“What?” Alex is looking from Demeter to me and back again. “Who’s Sarah?”
Demeter seems speechless. So I draw breath, trying to organize my racing thoughts.
“She’s Demeter’s PA. You know, with the ponytail? She basically runs Demeter’s life. She writes emails in Demeter’s voice; she is Demeter, often. And she’s always forwarding Demeter’s emails back to her when they get deleted. So she could easily…well…” I breathe out. “Fake one.”
“Why?” Alex looks bewildered. “Why would anyone do that?”
Again, Demeter and I exchange looks. It’s hard to convey an office atmosphere to someone who hasn’t lived in it forty hours a week.
“To screw with me,” says Demeter, her voice bleak. “At least, I would imagine.”
“Again—why?”
“My relationship with her hasn’t been…perfect.” Demeter is wringing her thin hands.
“She’s never forgiven you for making her boyfriend redundant,” I venture. “She wrote me this whole letter about it. She sounded pretty bitter. And if she’s been holding that against you all this time, if she wanted to get revenge—”
“OK, let’s stop right here.” Alex interrupts, looking alarmed. “These are very serious accusations—”
“Think about it, Demeter,” I continue, ignoring Alex. “She ran your in-box. She could enable different accounts. Control which emails you saw and didn’t see, write replies in your name, send things and delete them—I mean, she could conduct an entire fake correspondence if she wanted to.”
I’m recalling how Sarah would boast about how many emails she used to send out in Demeter’s voice. “I’ve been Demeter all afternoon,” she used to say, in that long-suffering way. And who checked them? I bet Demeter never did.
“Enough!” snaps Alex. “There’s no evidence for this.”
“This is evidence!” Demeter shakes the page at him. “This is! It doesn’t make any sense! And there were other emails like this; I saw them.”
“But you say you replied to them too,” objects Alex.
“Yes.” Demeter’s face falls. “I did.” She puts her fingers to her brow, looking desperate. “Oh God, nothing makes sense—”
“Did you ever check the email address you were replying to?” I ask. “Lindsay’s address?”
“What?” Demeter stares at me. “Of course not. It just popped up in my email contacts.”
“Well, then.” I shrug. “I’m guessing your replies never made it to Lindsay. And we can prove it,” I add in sudden inspiration. “Ask Lindsay if she ever sent Demeter this email.” I gesture at the paper. “And if she says she didn’t—”
“Contact Allersons?” echoes Alex incredulously. “Allersons never want to speak to any of us again!”
“Then commandeer Sarah’s computer. They can trace all this stuff….”
“Are you mad?” He glares at me. “Do you know what a state our staff morale is in right now? You think I’m going to go blundering in with these fantasyland tales? Demeter, you’re an old friend and I respect you very deeply, but this is over. Over.”
“You’re not still getting rid of Demeter?” I say in disbelief. “Not after this?”
“There is no ‘this’!” he explodes. “Demeter, when you said ‘evidence,’ I thought you meant evidence. Something solid. Not one email and a far-fetched theory. I’m sorry. You’ve had your chance, but now it’s the end of the line.”
And the way he says it, my heart starts to thud.
“Alex, leave it till tomorrow,” says Demeter, sounding desperate. “Sleep on it.”
“I have people on my back. I need to get this done.” He rubs his face, looking thoroughly miserable. “So if you’re really refusing to come to the meeting room, refusing to do this properly—”
“Stop!” My voice rockets up in panic. “Stop! Don’t fire!”
“You’re fired.” Alex’s voice is like a bullet. “End of.”
“You can’t do that!” I cry, outraged. “Un-fire her!”
But Alex is already stalking out of the yard, back toward the yurt village. The fire is still in full blaze, and some of the glampers are singing along to a guitar. Steve Logan has joined the throng, and I can see him swaying along to “Brown Eyed Girl.”
“You can’t do that!” I shout again as I leg it after Alex. “That wasn’t even a proper firing! It was against EU regulations!”
I have no idea if that’s true, but it probably is.
“Please, Alex,” says Demeter, hurrying beside me. “This email is proof that something weird’s been going on. And if you can’t even—”
She
stops abruptly as Dad looms out of the darkness, jingling his Morris-dancing bells at her.
“La-la-la…and-a-one-and-a-two…” He bangs his sticks together cheerily at Demeter and she flinches, dropping the email printout.
“Shit!” I shout, as the paper gusts away on the breeze.
“Get the email!” shouts Demeter, chasing it desperately. “Get it!”
We’re both running frantically after the floating paper, toward the fire, stumbling over children’s feet in the darkness, causing a trail of shrieks and “ow”s but not caring. We have to get that email.
“Excuse me…let me through…” I edge past Cleo and Giles, who are lying full length in front of the campfire as Nick strums his guitar.
“Well, really,” says Cleo, affronted. “There’s room for everyone, you know….”
“Oh God,” gasps Demeter, swiping for the paper but missing.
“Get it!”
“I’m trying to—”
“No!” I scream in sudden dread as I see Giles reaching for another firelighter to throw on the flames. “No, don’t, don’t—”
But it’s too late; he’s thrown it. The fire flares up with a fresh burst of energy and catches the paper midair. Within twenty seconds it’s burned away to nothing except a few specks of ash.
It’s gone.
I’m so stunned, I can’t move for about thirty seconds. Then I turn to Demeter and she looks like a ghost.
“Demeter, it’ll be OK,” I say desperately. “I believe you; something strange has definitely been going on—shit!” I gasp as I see a spark coming from her trousers. “Your leg! Fire! FIRE!”
To my horror, Demeter’s slouchy linen trousers have started to smolder at the edges. She must have caught a flame when she was trying to get the email.
“No,” she says, as though this is the last straw, and starts stamping her foot, trying to quench the flames.
“Buckets!” cries Dad, dropping his jingle-bell stick and running. “Fire! Get the buckets!”
“Coming through, coming through, coming through, everyone—” Steve’s strident, intoning voice cuts through the hubbub. The next thing I know, there are screams and cries of surprise, Demeter is drenched in freezing water, head to foot, and Steve is standing there with an empty bucket and a look of grim satisfaction.
My Not So Perfect Life Page 29