Mimi and her husband, Ralph, have left social climbing, pushy parenting, and their marital problems behind them in London in favor of perfect, bucolic tranquility. Or so they thought. What should be rural heaven turns out to be just as tricky to navigate as Notting Hill, even with Mimi's new best friend Rose -- Dorset's answer to Martha Stewart -- by her side.
While Honeyborne is thankfully free of prestigious preschools with waiting lists that begin in utero, it has its own fierce brand of competition. Without a helipad for trophy guests, an organic farm shop, and a bottom that looks good in jodhpurs, Mimi is at a distinct disadvantage. And that's just the start of her problems. Mimi also has a secret. Can she keep it?
With a gimlet eye for telling details and human foibles, Rachel Johnson has crafted a novel that is fresh, hilarious, and irresistibly funny -- a brilliant slice of social satire with surprising depth and heart.
MimiI'm sitting in the kitchen, the only warm place in the house. I have a pint of coffee in my Thermos (bought from the Wild Bean Café at service station, price of latte redeemed against price of cup) to my right, and am reading the paper. Calypso is lying pressed against my feet, which are -- I'm ashamed to report -- inserted into my exciting new fake-fur electric foot warmer with dual-setting massager which I ordered off the Argos Web site during one of my more recent online shopping jags. (I easily justify the regular delivery of squishy parcels addressed to me by telling myself there are no normal shops -- i.e., ones selling Swarovski-crystal-encrusted designer jeans, organic hemp baby clothes, Elle MacPherson Intimates -- within a hundred-mile radius of Home Farm. Works for me.)
The radio is on, and I am half listening to a report on shea butter made by a women's collective in northern Ghana onWoman's Hour.
Inside the foot warmer, I am wearing my favorite cashmere socks from Brora, sadly tiger-striped from having been dried and scorched on the Aga.
I am also "working" some long johns, last year's "boyfriend" jeans (skinny jeans are so over, according to Mirabel, which is a relief), an M&S merino thermal vest, an army surplus jersey, a scarf, and a quilted padded waistcoat in army green with brass popper buttons of the type that used to be seen, in the days, on Lady Diana before she became Princess of Wales.
Yes, I am wearing a Husky.
Like tapestry-patternedhand-knittedcardigans with toggles,crewelwork, English teeth, women in rugby shirts tuckedinto fractionally too tight high-waistedjeans, the ConservativeParty, and Grow the Longest Carrot contests, Huskys havenever gone out of fashion outside built-upareas.
I am taking full advantage of this reassuring fact.
The telephone.
"Hello?" I say, powering up my laptop so I can multitaskwhile taking the call.
"Mimi?" comes a tweeting voice I know well. "It's Fenella!" she announces with excitement, as if she has produced her own grandchild.
"Hiiiii!" I cry.
Fenella Prigeon is the beauty editor ofResults*magazine. We used to work together on theTelegraph, a million years ago. Last glimpsed by me at a tea party in Burlington Arcade forTatlertypes and their posh pets (I was returning a pair of Vilebrequin swimming trunks that I'd bought for Ralph as a lovely present, which he had spurned without a second glance, reminding me that his old pair, minus elastic, were absolutely fine, and would be for many years, thank you very much).
"So, howareyou?" I cry, as if I really, really want to know, automatically slipping back into insincere mode. I have never mastered the trick of simply being the same with everyone. With Fenella, therefore, I go all glossy and gushy.
"Oh," comes a faint sigh, an exhalation, as if I simply can't imagine the suffering. "I don't honestly think I've ever been so exhausted. It's been completely utterly frantic. Really manic."
I log o
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