16

Saturday evening, we got a taxi to a smart hotel with a cosy bar and a fancy cocktail menu in order to spend Becky’s wages. I dug through the mishmash of clothes that I’d brought from my previous life, settling on a pair of jeans and a grey cashmere jumper that cost close to an overnight stay at Damson Farm. Alice had donned a floaty, embroidered dress that showed off her curves, and Becky had worn her usual leggings and a fleece.

‘Oh no! You look really nice!’ she groaned, once we’d shrugged off our coats and prepared to settle on a pair of sofas near the fireplace. ‘Ugh. I knew I’d get it wrong. It was this or a starchy suit that needs tights. And when I handed in my notice I swore I’d never wear tights or court shoes again, unless I was in actual court.’

‘You look…’ I couldn’t say she looked fine. She looked a scruffy mess. Alice grinned, waiting to see what I came up with. ‘Comfortable. Which is surely the most important thing.’

‘Where do you get all these amazing clothes from, anyway?’ Becky asked, once we’d ordered our drinks.

‘I needed them for my last job,’ I mumbled, concentrating on taking a slurp of my Bellini. ‘So, have you all recovered from the retreat fiasco? I still can’t believe they went along with musical statues!’

‘And what was that?’ Alice asked, leaning across the low table.

‘What was what?’ I replied, all breezy as I inspected the menu. ‘Ooh, these nachos look good. Anyone up for a sharing platter?’

‘What was your last job?’ She leaned even further forwards. ‘Where did you live? How did you end up here?’

I looked at my two new friends, at their open, lovely faces, and I could feel the truth clawing at my throat to get out.

But then I imagined how those faces would drop – with disgust, disappointment, dislike. How they’d pretend to understand, nod their heads and smile politely, but they’d realise the kind of person I really was, which was not their kind of person, no matter what side she came from.

And I was so damn lonely. I needed these two.

‘Um, I was a freelance writer. I had a blog, did some features for newspapers. A bit of ghostwriting.’ Strictly all true.

‘Sounds like the kind of job you can do in pyjamas, not cashmere sweaters,’ Becky asked, pushing her glasses up her nose.

‘I had to meet clients. For the ghostwriting. I needed to present a successful image. And, you know, rich celebrities, they’d pass on their cast-offs. I hardly ever had to pay for anything.’

‘Sounds cushy!’ Alice said. ‘Why’d you ditch it and come here?’

‘Oh, you know.’

No, they didn’t know why anyone would give up the seemingly glamorous job of writing and move to a falling down farmhouse.

‘I grew tired of it. Pretending my words were someone else’s. I grew up in the Lakes, and big city life was starting to get to me. A bit like Stephe and co, just because something sounds like living the dream, doesn’t make it your dream.’ I wasn’t sure they were convinced.