Demeter’s voice is in my head yet again as I type:

Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Local. Nature. Values. Family. Haven. Space. Simple. Slowdown. Laughter. Freedom. Mud.

No, scrap mud. No mud, no silage, no slaughterhouses, no sheep with gross diseases of the foot. No reality.

Earth. Craft. Ancient. Wagon. Campfire. Slow-cooked. Handmade. Pure. Fresh air. Fresh milk. Fresh, authentic, traditional, organic, local, hand-kneaded, homemade bread. (Gluten-free available.)

By Boxing Day I’ve finalized the brochure, and though I say it myself, it’s mouthwatering. It’s fabulous. I want to come and stay at Ansters Farm.

“What do you think?” I hand over my printed-out draft layouts and wait for Dad and Biddy to comment.

“Goodness!” Biddy peers at the picture of the farmhouse. “Is that us?”

“I Photoshopped it a tiny bit.” I shrug. “It’s what you do.”

“What’s this, www.anstersfarm.com?” queries Dad.

“It’s the website I’m going to make for you,” I say. “It’ll take a bit longer to set up, but it’ll have the same vibe.”

Both Dad and Biddy are reading the copy, looking a bit perplexed.

“Organic hammocks,” reads Biddy. “Luxe yurts. Freedom for couples, families, lovers. Be who you want to be.”

“With grass underfoot and the wide sky above, children can be children,” reads Dad. “Well, what else would they be?”

“We mix traditional values with modern comforts in a haven from modern life,” reads Biddy. “Oh, Katie, that does sound good.”

“Forget your stresses as you enjoy our program of rural activities. Corn-dolly-making, tractor rides, stick-whittling…” Dad looks up. “Stick-whittling? For Pete’s sake, love. People don’t come on holiday to whittle sticks.”

“They do! They think whittling sticks is back to nature!”

“I could bake cakes,” volunteers Biddy. “With the children, I mean.”

“As long as it’s a local, authentic Somerset recipe,” I say sternly. “No additives. No chocolate buttons.”

“Weekly stargazing barbecues,” reads Dad, and looks up again. “Who’s doing those?”

“You are,” I tell him. “And you’re doing tractor rides and cow-milking.”

“All about Esme.” Biddy has turned to the back page and is reading aloud.

“Who’s Esme?” demands Dad.

“One of the chickens. You’ll have to name all the animals,” I instruct him. “Every chicken, every cow, every sheep.”

“Katie, love.” Dad looks as though I’ve gone out of my mind. “I think you’re going too far here.”

“You have to!” I insist. “The chicken’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”

“Esme and her family are part of farm life,” reads Biddy. “Visit their henhouse and collect your very own warm eggs. Then scramble them on the fire pit with our locally sourced hemp oil and wild mushrooms.” She looks up anxiously. “Locally sourced hemp oil?”

“I’ve already found a supplier,” I tell her with satisfaction. “It’s totally the new olive oil.”

“Enjoy with our homemade organic bread and range of award-winning jams.” Biddy flinches. “Award-winning?”

“You’ve won loads of prizes at fairs,” I remind her. “Those are awards, aren’t they?”

“Well.” Biddy turns the printouts over and over, as though digesting them. “It does look wonderful, I must say.”

“We can upload fresher pictures on the website,” I say. “Once you’ve got the yurts and everything. But this is like a sneak preview.”

“But none of it’s true!”

“It is! I mean…it will be. It can be. I’m going to get this printed up on special paper,” I add.

I already know the paper I want to use. It’s a recycled, unfinished paper that we used once at Cooper Clemmow for a cereal brand. I remember Demeter giving the office one of her spontaneous lectures on why this paper was the ideal choice, and, I have to admit, I lapped up every word. It’ll look perfect.

I could probably spend all day discussing the design, but after a while Dad says he has to check on some sick cow, and he heads out.

“Ansters Farm Country Retreat.” Biddy is looking lovingly at the front of the leaflet again. “Doesn’t it look beautiful? I don’t know how you can leave, darling. Don’t you ever think about moving back?” There’s a wistful cast to her expression, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt. I think Biddy picks up on it, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know your life is very exciting in London….”

I let her words hang in the air without contradicting them but without nodding either. It’s quiet and cozy, sitting here with Biddy, and I almost feel like drawing closer and confiding in her. Asking her about Dad, how hurt he really is. Whether he’ll ever get over the fact that I’ve chosen London over him.

But I haven’t got the guts to speak. I guess I’m too scared of what I might hear. The prickliness between me and Dad isn’t great, but it’s tolerable. Whereas to have my worst fears confirmed would just…Even the thought makes me flinch. No. Don’t go there.

Biddy would never volunteer anything without being asked; she’s scrupulous like that. She’s positioned herself in our family with the utmost tact, and there are places she just doesn’t go. So even though I feel as if the subject is dancing around us in the ether, demanding to be discussed, neither of us says a word about it. We sip our tea and it slowly ebbs away again, like these things always do.

After a while, I pull the leaflet toward me. The truth is, I do feel a little tug in my heart as I survey the farm, looking as picturesque as any glossy magazine spread. It gives me such a feeling of…what, exactly? Pride? Love? Longing?

“Evening, all.” A familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. A familiar, droning, totally unwelcome voice. I look up, trying to mask my dismay—but there he is, Steve Logan, striding into the room with his long, long legs. He’s six foot five, Steve. Always has been.

Well, not always, clearly. But since he was about twelve, and everyone at school used to dare him to go into the off-license and buy a can of beer. (Because obviously a super-tall twelve-year-old boy looks exactly like an adult.)

“Hi, Steve,” I say, trying to sound friendly. “Happy Christmas. How are you?”

Steve works for Dad on the farm, so it makes sense that he’s popped in. But I was really hoping he wouldn’t.

OK, full disclosure: Steve is the first guy I ever slept with. Although, in my defense, there was not a lot of choice.

“Cup of tea, Steve?” says Biddy, and when he nods, she disappears to the kitchen. Steve and I are alone. Great. The thing about Steve and me is, we were together for about five minutes, and I regretted it as soon as we began, and I can’t now imagine what I saw in him apart from: 1. He was a boy. 2. He was available. And 3. I was the only one of my friends not to have a boyfriend.

But Steve has behaved ever since as though we’re some long-standing divorced couple. He and his mum still refer to me as his “ex.” (Hello? We barely dated and we were at school.) He makes in-jokes about the time we spent together and shoots me “significant” glances, which I deliberately misunderstand or ignore. Basically, my way of coping with Steve has been: Avoid him.

But things should be different now, after what Biddy has told me.

“So, congratulations!” I say brightly. “I heard you got engaged to Kayla. Fantastic news!”

“That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right. Asked her in November. It was her birthday.” Steve has this low, intense, monotonous way of talking which is almost mesmerizing. “Put the proposal on Instagram,” he adds. “Want to see?”

“Oh. Er…of course!”

Steve gets out his phone and hands it to me. Dutifully, I start scrolling through photos of him and Kayla in some plushy restaurant with purple wallpaper.

“Took her out for dinner at Shaw Manor. Three courses…everything.” He looks up a bit belligerently. “I know how to spoil her.”

“Wow,” I say politely. “Lovely photos. Gorgeous…forks.”

There are pictures of every detail of the restaurant. The forks, the napkins, the chairs…When the hell did he propose if he was taking all these photos?

“Then I gave her the presents. But the proposal, that was hidden in the last present. In a poem.”

“Amazing!” I search for words. “That’s just…Wow.” I’m still scrolling through pictures of place settings, trying to keep my face set to “interested.”

“I mean, if it had been you, I’d have done it different.” Steve shoots me a look from beneath his brows. “But of course it wasn’t you.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it had been me’?” I feel a stab of alarm.

“I’m just saying. Everyone’s different. You’d like different things out of a proposal. You and Kayla, you’re different.”

OK, this conversation has gone awry. I do not want to be talking to Steve Logan about what I might or might not like out of a proposal.

“So, what else is new?” I ask brightly, handing his phone back to him. “Give me the gossip.”

“New outlet store’s opened in West Warreton,” he informs me. “It does Ted Baker, Calvin Klein….”

“Great!”

“I know you have Ted Baker in London, but we’ve got it here now. I’m just saying.” Steve gives me one of his passive–aggressive looks. “You know. Just saying.”

“Right—”

“I mean, I know you think you’ve got everything in London, but—”

“I don’t think I’ve got everything in London,” I cut him off. Steve has always been chippy about London, and the trick is not to talk to him about it.

“We’ve got Ted Baker.” He eyes me as though he’s proved some massive point. “Discount.”