Quite good. In the language of Biddy-understatement, that means utterly delicious. I have a sudden image of her doling out some fragrant marinated local lamb, sprinkled with herbs from the garden, while Dad pours some of his Cash & Carry red wine.

“Great!” I say. “Well done! So, did you want to talk about menus?”

“No. No, sorry, that wasn’t it. Katie, the thing is—” Biddy breaks off. She sounds nervous, I suddenly realize.

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes! Fine! Oh, love…” Biddy seems tongue-tied.

“What?” I demand. “Biddy, what?”

“Oh, Katie.” She gulps. “People have started booking.”

“What?”

“I know!” She sounds dumbfounded. “They’re using the website. It’s all working. I’ve taken five inquiries today alone. We’ve got three families booked in over the Easter weekend and four the week after. Four families, Katie!”

“Oh my God.”

Even I feel quite shocked. I mean, I knew people would come, in principle. But four families? All at once?

“Well, that’s amazing! Biddy, you’ve done it!”

“But we haven’t!” she wails. “That’s the point! Oh, darling, I’m petrified. We’re going to have real customers, and I don’t know how we’re going to manage them, or entertain them, or…what if something goes wrong? And your dad’s no help—I mean, he’s a good man, but…”

She trails off, and I gape at the phone. I’ve never heard Biddy sound so rattled.

“You’ll be great!” I say reassuringly. “I mean, you’ve got your lovely breakfasts and all the activities….”

“But how do we organize it all? I’ve asked Denise from the village to help out, but all she does is ask me questions I can’t answer.”

“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