Chapter 26
Chloe
We were officially a month out from the Gwenynen Culture Festival, and I had seven million things and counting on my ever-growing to-do list. There were vendors to wrangle, schedules to perfect and communicate, and constant social promotion to pump out.
I’d even had to deal with a rider from one of the bands, a local group of teenagers who apparently fancied themselves as Oasis or some shit.
I’d had to write back explaining that no, we couldn’t provide Moet second, there were no dressing rooms, unless they counted the grimy bathroom in the corner of the barn; and third, most of the band members were under eighteen.
The response to the event had been incredible – at almost exactly one month out, we sold our last ticket.
I was actually starting to worry about capacity, fretting constantly that I’d miscalculated, both in terms of physical space and our ability to handle the crowds with our current food and beverage vendors.
On the other hand, I was getting messages at least once an hour asking if there would be more tickets, or if there would be space for walk-ins, and part of me was tempted to try to find space for more so we could bring in a bit more revenue. But the anxiety won out in the end.
Teddy seemed busy, too, though she was less involved in the spreadsheets and more focused on the farm.
She was fretting about potential mite infestations after a nearby apiary had reported problems. When I offered to help, she politely declined, and she didn’t offer any assistance with my festival preparations, either.
She was clearly keeping her distance, and I got the sense we’d drawn a line in the sand at some point that I hadn’t been aware of.
Jen, on the other hand, was incredibly involved.
She’d become my main source of content as she started the first batch of mead from the summer honey, and I was learning so much about the commercial side of production that I felt like I could do it myself.
Not that I wanted to – as much as I loved being adjacent to the mead-making, I’d learned over the last few months that the actual making wasn’t for me.
I’d happily yap about it on social media or to a customer at a festival, but you could miss me with the sludgy dead yeast and fruit sediment that had to be purged during racking.
“You should shadow me more closely when it’s time for the autumn batch,” Jen said one afternoon as we filmed her testing specific gravity levels. “If you want to, that is. It’s a really fun process, and it might make for good content.”
My heart skipped a beat. I was excited by the implication that I’d still be around in the autumn, and then I was annoyed with myself that my first thought was what that meant for Teddy.
“Jen,” I said carefully, remembering my last conversation with her about this, bolstered by how candidly she’d answered me then, “would you bring Teddy on full time? If we had enough money?”
She answered straight away. “In a heartbeat. Every day she’s not here, I’m worse off, both personally and logistically. But we just don’t have enough consistent revenue. Not yet.”
“But what about the grant? You used it to hire me, right? Did you not think about hiring her instead?”
Jen smiled softly. “Hiring Teddy with that money was never an option. It was a local grant, so it specified that all hires must be local. But that’s okay – the current arrangement works well enough for now. I know she wants to be here, but it’s just not possible yet.”
I nodded, but something about that assessment felt wrong. From what she’d told me, it didn’t seem like the current arrangement did work for Teddy. She wanted to be here, not just half the time but always. Did Jen not see that?
“And don’t undersell yourself,” Jen said, resuming her work. “Your ideas were why I hired you, and I’m glad I did. Look how well you’ve done! Our first event is a sold-out success!”
“Touch wood,” I said, stretching down to tap my knuckles against my stool. “I haven’t pulled it off yet.”
“Just think,” Jen said, ignoring my worry. “If we can create more success for the business, maybe soon I can afford to bring Teddy on, too.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t love feeling directly responsible for getting Teddy what she wanted. But Jen wasn’t wrong. If we could pull off the event and get the ball rolling, maybe get a series of events and similar revenue streams off the ground, we really could grow the farm.
“I just don’t like seeing her hurt,” I said. Jen tutted her agreement.
“She’s got a honey-glazed heart, that one. That’s what her mom always said.”
It was a funny expression, but I agreed.
And if doing my job well was what would protect her heart, then I would give it my all.
I already was; at the end of each day, when my to-do list was slightly more tamed and I could go to sleep satisfied, I’d been thinking of new ideas – new ways to bring people to Gwenynen and let them fall in love with the place that was starting to feel like home.
Retreats. More courses. Even private events like weddings.
Events would scale much better than food and beverage production, especially if we established some of the partnerships I’d been exploring.
There was so much possibility, but the stakes had never been higher.
And if I’d had that thought six months ago, after Teddy had torn me a new one at the Ren Faire and I’d spent the next few weeks spiralling, it would have had me crawling into a hole with nothing but my Switch and a takeaway carton.
But now … now I was surprised to find that I might actually be up for the challenge. Especially if it meant I had even the slightest chance to give Teddy what she wanted.
* * *
Before the big festival, Teddy and I had two more weekend events to work together: a medieval festival the week before, and before that still, a wedding in the Peak District.
Teddy had arranged a contract with a venue there, and she’d offered to personally work the bar at the first event to sweeten the deal.
Which apparently meant we had to work the bar.
As we loaded kegs into the van, I tried not to think about how difficult it was to be around Teddy.
I was both perpetually annoyed and constantly, embarrassingly horny.
I hadn’t slept with anyone since New Year’s, when Lauren and I had finally split for good.
Lauren had actually texted me again the night before, clearly looking for a booty call, but I’d resisted.
I knew myself well enough now to know I was incapable of separating sex from feelings, and the last thing I needed was to complicate my already precarious emotional state.
Not that I could stop my imagination from sprinting in that direction every chance it got.
It had gotten carried away more than once, as recently as last night, when I’d lain in bed in the shepherd’s hut picturing Teddy just metres away in the main house.
What had she worn to bed? How would she feel beneath me? On top of me? Insi—
No, I had to shut off that train of thought as quickly as I could, lest I get carried away with myself.
The drive was long but uneventful, spent mostly in companionable silence as we listened to music – her playlist this time, though it was unbelievably similar to mine.
When we checked in, it turned out we’d been allocated adjoining rooms, which felt both intimate and torturous.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle being separated from Teddy by nothing more than a thin wall. But that was a problem for later.
We arrived at the event space just as the ceremony was beginning, which was exactly when we’d been told to come.
The problem was that the ceremony and reception spaces were only separated by curtains, so we had to set up our bar quietly whilst the couple exchanged vows, nearly throwing out our backs lugging the kegs, having discovered the trolley had a squeaky wheel.
Honestly, why had Teddy been doing this at the Ren Faire all those months ago?
It was practically impossible to stay quiet enough not to disrupt the wedding, mainly because everything we overheard was absolutely insane and threatened to break us open into fits of giggles.
“I’m so lucky to be marrying the second most beautiful woman in the world,” the groom said earnestly in his vows, “after Margot Robbie, of course.”
“Fucking men,” Teddy muttered under her breath, even as the guests laughed politely.
“Fucking straight people,” I added, and we both held back laughter as the wedding coordinator shot us murderous looks.
It only got worse from there. Teddy correctly predicted they’d use the reading from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, and I nearly lost it when the song for signing the register turned out to be “Cherry Wine” by Hozier.
“Interesting choice for an aspirational love song,” I whispered to Teddy. “Do you think they have any idea what it’s about?”
“Maybe they just like the melody,” she whispered back. “They don’t seem to be the types to look much past the pretty noises.”