On the other side of the fire there seems to be a bit of jostling and dispute going on.

“Stop it!” exclaims Susie suddenly, and I realize a full-scale row is breaking out. “No one else can get a look in!” she’s saying heatedly to Cleo. “Your children have pinched all the best places, all the toasting irons….”

“For heaven’s sake,” says Cleo in her drawling way. “It’s a campfire. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when my children can toast marshmallows as well as yours—”

“Here we go! Here we go now!” Dad’s cheerful voice penetrates the atmosphere, and we all look up to see him skipping into view with a jingle-jingle sound. He’s wearing white trousers, a waistcoat, jingle bells attached to his legs, and sticks in his hands. Accordion music is playing from a CD player plonked on the grass. “La-la-la…” He starts singing some random line or other. “La-la-la…And-a-one-and-a-two…”

“Farmer Mick!” shriek the children as though he’s a celebrity. “Farmer Mick!”

I clap a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh. Dad’s been talking about Morris dancing, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I mean, what the hell does he know about Morris dancing?

He’s still humming an indistinct tune and skipping about, and every so often he bangs his sticks. You couldn’t call it dancing. More…capering. The grown-ups are watching as if they’re not sure if it’s a joke or not, but the children are all whooping and cheering.

“Who’s going to be my assistant?” Dad whips a bell-covered stick from his waistcoat and proffers it at the children. “Who wants to join the dance?”

“Me!” they all shout, grabbing for the bell stick. “Meeeeee!”

I can see Poppy standing up eagerly. She’s the little girl who’s here with her single dad, and she seems really sweet. But Cleo at once pushes Harley forward.

“Harley, you dance, darling. Harley does ballet and jazz dance and Stagecoach every Saturday—”

“For God’s sake, give it a rest!” Susie explodes. “Poppy, why don’t you dance, sweetheart?”

“Give what a rest?” demands Cleo, sounding offended. “I’m simply pointing out that my child is a trained dancer….”

I catch Dad’s eye and he gets my drift at once.

“Everybody dance!” he bellows. “All the kiddies up! And-a-one-and-a-two-and-a—”

“Katie.” A voice in my ear makes me turn, and I see Demeter’s son, Hal, at my side.

“Hi, Hal!” I greet him. “Have you toasted a marshmallow yet?” Then I look more closely at him. He’s pale and blinking hard. “Hal,” I say urgently. “What’s happened? What’s up?”

“It’s Coco.” He looks a bit desperate. “She’s…she’s drunk.”

—

Thankfully she made it out of the yurt in time. I find her retching into a nearby patch of grass and put a comforting arm around her whilst simultaneously averting my eyes and thinking, Urgh. Gross. Hurry up.

When she seems a bit better, I lead her over to the outdoor shower. I’m not going to drench her—even though it’s tempting—but instead I dampen a sponge and clean her up a bit, then get her back to the yurt.

I mean, it could be worse. She could be comatose. As it is, she’s able to walk and talk, and there’s already a bit of color returning to her cheeks. She’ll live.

“Sorry,” she keeps saying in a mumbly voice. “I’m so sorry.”

As we get into the yurt, I flinch at the sight. So this is what happens when two teenagers are left to their own devices for a day. There are plates and crumbs everywhere—they must have been raiding Biddy’s larder—plus sweet wrappers, phones, an iPad, magazines, makeup…and, sitting in the middle of it all, a half-empty bottle of vodka. Nice.

I put Coco into bed, prop her up against a mound of pillows, then sit on the bed. I gesture at the vodka bottle and sigh. “Why?”

“Dunno,” says Coco, with a defensive, sulky shrug. “I was bored.”

Bored. I look at the magazines and the iPad. I think about the campfire and the marshmallows and Dad capering like a mad thing, just to entertain everyone. I think about Demeter, working her socks off to pay for Jack Wills hoodies.

I should have taken bloody Coco to muck out the stable, that’s what I should have done.

“Where did you get it?”

“Brought it. Are you going to tell Mum?” Coco’s voice quickens with worry.

“I don’t know.” I give her a stern look. “You know, your mum really loves you. She works super-hard to pay for all your cool stuff. And you’re not that nice to her.”

“We said thank you for the holiday,” says Coco in a defensive way.

“What, so that’s it, you say ‘thank you’ once and you’re quits? And what’s this ‘Mrs. Invisible’ crap I keep hearing? If there’s one thing your mum’s not, it’s invisible. And you know what? It’s hurtful. Really hurtful.”

I can see Coco and Hal exchanging guilty looks. I think they’re actually quite nice kids; they’ve just got into a bad habit of being down on their mum. And their dad hasn’t been helping. But he’s not here right now.

And then a new thought hits me. If Demeter’s managed to hide all her best qualities from her own staff, she’s probably done the same with her kids too.

“Listen,” I say. “Do you even know what your mum does at work?”

“Branding,” says Coco, so tonelessly that I know it’s just a word to her.

“OK. And do you know how awesome she is at it? Do you know how clever and bright and brilliant she is?”

Both Coco and Hal look vacant. Clearly this thought has never passed through their brains.

“How do you know about my mum’s work?” queries Hal.

“I used to work in the same area. And, believe me, your mum is a legend. A legend.”

I pat the bed, and after a moment Hal comes to sit down. I feel like I’m telling the pair of them a bedtime story. Once upon a time there was a scary monster called Demeter, only she wasn’t really scary after all. Or a monster.

“Your mum’s full of ideas,” I tell them. “She’s bursting with them. She sees a packaging design and she instantly knows what’s wrong or right with it.”

“Yeah,” says Coco, rolling her eyes. “We know. You go round the supermarket and she’s got an opinion on, like, every single box.”

“Right. So, did you know she’s won a stack of awards for those opinions? Did you know that she can inspire big teams of people to do amazing work? She can take a whole bunch of ideas and distill them into a concept, and as soon as she says it you think, Yes.”

I glance up, and they’re both listening intently.

“Your mum can bring a room to life,” I continue. “She makes people think. You can’t be lazy when she’s around. She’s original, she’s inspiring…she’s inspired me. I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”

I said that more for effect than anything else—but as the words hit the air, I realize I mean them. If it weren’t for Demeter, I wouldn’t have learned everything that I have. I wouldn’t have created the Ansters Farm brochure and website in the same way. We might not have taken off.

“You’re very lucky to have her as your mum,” I conclude. “And I know, because I don’t have a mum.”

“Isn’t Biddy your mum?” Coco looks puzzled.

“She’s my stepmum. And she wasn’t around when I was younger. I grew up with no mum, so I was especially observant. I looked at everyone else’s mums. And yours is one of the best. She’s having a really tough time at work right now, did you know that?” I add.

Coco and Hal look at me dumbly. Of course they didn’t know. Another trouble with Demeter, I’m realizing, is her instinct to protect others. Protect Rosa from knowing she was rejected. Protect her kids from knowing she’s stressed. Keep up the charmed, life-is-perfect myth.

Well, enough. These kids aren’t toddlers; they can bloody well support her.

“Maybe she hasn’t told you.” I shrug. “But take it from me, things are difficult. And the way you can help is to be charming and appreciative and keep this yurt tidy and not ask for stuff or complain or get pissed on vodka.”

I eye Coco, and she looks away.

“I won’t,” she mumbles, so indistinctly I can barely hear her.

“I’ll tidy up the yurt,” volunteers Hal, who seems eager to make amends.

“Great.” I stand up to leave. “And, Hal, keep an eye on Coco. Do not leave her. Any problems, you come and get me or the nearest grown-up. I’ll be back in half an hour to check on you. OK?”

Hal nods vigorously. “OK.”

“Are you going to tell Mum?” Coco’s plaintive voice comes from the bed. “Please?”

Her face is pale and she’s lost that annoying, sulky chin-jut she often has. She actually looks about ten years old. But I’m not letting her off the hook that easily.

“Depends,” I say, and push my way out of the yurt.

—

As I’m walking across the field, I come upon Dad, sitting alone on a bench, sipping a can of beer. His Farmer Mick hat is off, his bells are lying silent by his side, and he looks exhausted.

“Hi, Dad.” I sit down beside him.

“Hi, love.” He turns to look at me, his eyes crinkling in affection. “Where did you go rushing off to just now?”

“Coco.” I roll my eyes. “Drank too much. I had to sort her out.”

“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.