Chapter 7
Chloe
Theodora Nicole Cooper. That was the name of the woman who had spurred my third-life crisis – Fatima had assured me it was unrealistic to think I was having a quarter-life crisis at age thirty.
She was the niece of Jennifer Maxwell, owner of Gwenynen Hollow (duh), which had officially started operating about fourteen years ago.
We were even able to piece together some of the lore – Jen had once been married to a Welshman, who now seemed to be an electrician living near Swansea, and she was now a member of multiple Facebook groups for LGBTQ+ farmers and artisans.
Teddy’s profiles were all locked down, but we found some tagged photos that evidenced at least two ex-girlfriends serious enough to post online.
One was now married to a man with five whole children – big yikes – and the other was a graphic designer in Santa Barbara.
There was a picture of the latter sat on the roof of a converted camper van, nestled between Teddy’s legs, Teddy’s arms draped over her hips casually.
The photo had a posed quality to it that was hard to ignore, but still, I couldn’t imagine Teddy being that warm and open with anyone, based on my limited experience.
I hadn’t planned on telling my friends that Teddy and I had met before, but Amy recognised her from that brief glimpse at the Ren Faire. The others squealed loud enough to be heard from space when they found out my Ren Faire nemesis and my work nemesis were one and the same.
“This is absolutely fate,” Amy said, clapping her hands together. “Like, if I’d done a reading and said this would happen, you would never have believed me.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “And I still don’t. It doesn’t matter. She’s just an obstacle to overcome now.”
“I mean, she’s really hot,” Amy said, tilting her head as she stared down at her phone.
“Why, thank you,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder and leaning back on the sofa to pose. Then I sat forward and frowned at them both. “Wait, you mean Teddy?!”
“Well, yeah,” Amy said with a shrug. “Not my thing obviously, but she’s objectively good-looking.”
Morgan’s dog Pablo came trotting over and licked Amy’s hand, as if in agreement.
“There’s no way you disagree with us.” Morgan eyed me. “She’s totally your type.”
I scoffed. “She is not.”
“Excuse me,” Amy said, “Morgan may have only been here for the Lauren days, but I remember every girl you’ve dated, and Teddy absolutely fits the mould.”
I tipped my head back against the sofa and groaned, covering my face with a cushion.
They had me pegged, and not in a fun way.
Of course Teddy was hot. If she hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have clammed up around her when she’d had a go at me in America.
Only hot, sapphic women could shut me up, and she’d done it spectacularly.
My relationship with Lauren hadn’t exactly been a workplace romance – she worked at the actual rescue with the animals, whilst I worked in the central office – but even then, it was awkward enough when we weren’t speaking.
I’d had to stop walking dogs with Morgan on our lunch breaks, because I would either get distracted talking to her or be completely unable to walk through the door, depending on our situationship status at the time.
So, no, I couldn’t let myself be attracted to Teddy, no matter how mean she was to me. And unfortunately, yes, that was a bit of a turn-on.
“You should invite her to play D&D with us,” Fatima said. “I’ve got a character in mind that she can play. Do you know if she games?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “and I don’t think she’d accept, even if she did. She really seems to hate me.”
“Aw, diddums,” Amy said in a baby voice, stroking my hair. “Someone doesn’t like the universally adored Chloe?”
“Honestly, it’s a mystery,” I said, even though it sort of wasn’t.
Based on how we’d been introduced, I wouldn’t be particularly fond of me, either.
And, if she really thought I was stealing her job – I had no idea how much truth there was to it, but she clearly believed it – then there was no way she’d agree to spend any amount of extra time with me, even if I let her play my enemy.
“I’d love to see that play out in-game,” Fatima said, a mischievous grin tugging at her mouth.
“I bet you would,” I said, sticking my tongue out at her. She held up her fingers in a heart shape in response.
* * *
“Time for a tour,” Teddy said as she speedwalked ahead of me. I hadn’t even been able to put my bag down. My raincoat squeaked where it rubbed together as I pumped my arms to keep up with her.
“Jen already gave me a tour when I did the course. I was really just hoping to get started with some content.” The telescopic tripod in my bag banged against my side as I hurried after her, just like it had on my long walk from the bus stop.
At least I’d worn boots instead of loafers this time, even if they were Morgan’s and half a size too small.
Teddy shook her head. “That was the visitors’ tour. This is the ‘behind the curtain’ version.”
I caught slightly on her phrasing – “don’t you worry your pretty little head about what’s going on behind the curtain” echoed through my mind. I shook it off.
She led me around from building to building, stopping at every garden bed along the way, telling me, like Jen had, what happened in each place.
It was efficient and sparse on detail, but every once in a while, she’d get going on something – how the greenhouse was warm enough to sprout tomatoes in June, or the way some bees would cluster together in a “beard” outside the hive to regulate the temperature inside – and a different version of her would peek out.
I snapped candid photos and recorded artfully framed videos of everything she showed me, determined not to lose any time to this wholly unnecessary diversion.
The plan was to document as much as possible for the social media pages – process footage, staged product shots, and as much natural-looking interaction as I could manage.
Teddy mostly ignored my phone, except for when I asked her to re-explain her philosophy on mite treatment and prevention so I could record her.
She rolled her eyes and told me she was doing the tour for me, not for the internet, and I made a note on my phone to try to replicate it later, maybe with Jen.
The rain was still held at bay by the wind funnelling over the ridge, so we stopped at the edge of the veg garden behind the house, where a low stone wall separated neat rows of raised beds from the rest of the farm.
Teddy leaned over it next to me, her hair caught by the wind as she looked over the plot.
Without even thinking, I pulled my phone up and framed her in the shot, the darkened sky the perfect backdrop to her wild, wind-whipped look.
I took the picture and then switched to video – it wasn’t the most relevant for the farm socials, but I couldn’t not capture it.
It was clear that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. In her natural habitat, some would say.
She caught me and, for a split second, almost smiled. “You get paid by the gigabyte, or what?”
“Content is king,” I replied, my cheeks pinking slightly at having been caught admiring her, if only for content’s sake. “Or queen. Or … monarch?”
She rolled her eyes, then pivoted towards a small wooden shed at the corner of the garden. I followed behind her as she stepped inside and pulled a cord overhead, filling the space with dim light.
Inside, the shed was dingy and crowded. A long wooden workbench ran the length of one wall, crammed with tools, labelled jars, and two braids of garlic hanging from rusted nails.
I took a video sweep of the room, then tried to stage a few propagation jars in a neat, photogenic triangle, trying to level up the vibe from “mad scientist” to something a bit more intentional.
But before I could get the shot, Teddy’s hand came down hard on the bench, making me jump.
“Don’t touch those. They’re in an order for a reason.”
I reeled back, the embarrassment instant and total. “Sorry. I just wanted a good angle—”
“Maybe let it look like it actually is instead of trying to make it something it’s not,” she said, not looking at me. “People think farming is all cute jars and wildflowers, then get pissed when they step in sheep shit. If you think this is a fun, aesthetic summer job, think again.”
I wanted to argue, or to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat. Instead, I watched as she tidied the jars back to their original spots, her grip and her movements softening as she got things back in order.
When she turned around, her eyes were softer, if not exactly apologetic. “Look, just … watch for a while. Let it sink in. Get a feel for what this place really is, not what you think it should present as to the online world.”
I nodded. The silence stretched between us, and I resisted the urge to fill it – to explain my strategy. Based on what she’d said on Monday, there was a lot more to her hostility than a knowledge gap.
After a minute, I asked what I hoped would change her mood: “Can I see inside the hives?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you seen them? I thought you’d had the tour?”
I lifted my phone shyly, and she nodded in understanding.
“You ever been stung?”
I shook my head.
“Then not until you’ve learned to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I do need some shots for our socials eventually. People love a beekeeper, especially one who’s not quite beekeeping age.” I didn’t remind her that I’d handled the bees before.
She led me back outside, around the house, and across the car park. The rain had left the grass in the meadow slick and blindingly green. The wind whipped my own hair into my eyes, but I was too busy trying to keep up with Teddy to tame it into place properly.