You Make Me Feel Like Glamping

Chapter 3

‘Monty! Stop laughing. What does Charlotte want?’ Freya caught her husband’s giggles so badly she had to pull into a lay-by. The children, of course, were in a world of their own in the back seat. Ah, to be a Gen Z tween.

Monty put his fingers up in air quotes. ‘Last-minute bunting.’

Freya snorted. Bless her wee cotton socks. Only Charlotte Mayfield would answer an ‘anything we can pick up?’ text with a request for last-minute bunting.

‘C’mon then, woman,’ Monty commanded in his best imitation of her accent which always came out Braveheart-y. ‘It’s her party … If she wants bunting, she gets bunting.’

Still giggling, she pulled back onto the country lane winding towards Sittingstone lightly asking the question that always made both of their smiles freeze in place. ‘Have you got any dosh?’

Monty shot Freya a look. One that read, I thought you were the one bringing cash. Bloody great. Why was the overdraft always looming up at them?

She actually knew why. Sort of. Bringing home the bacon was her job. Allocating it was Monty’s. Lately, there hadn’t been quite so much bacon. You’d think with their backgrounds (working class) and their lifestyle (modestly aspirational), they’d be fine. From the expression on Monty’s face, they definitely weren’t.

‘I’ve got a bit in my bag,’ she rummaged around in her purse as they drove into the picture-postcard village. ‘I’ve got some cash, I was supposed to bank it after I shut the shop, but most of the actual banks are shut in Camden now, so—’

Her admission sucked another lungful of oxygen from the car. Money was neither of their favourite topics.

‘Well, I’m sure Charlotte will be eternally grateful,’ Monty deftly smoothed over what could have easily become a fight. ‘She’s always liked things just so, hasn’t she?’

Though she was loath to admit it – girlfriend loyalty – Monty did have a point. On their handful of weekends with the Mayfields, back when the children were actual children, Freya often felt as if they were participating in a tableau. Picnics on the lawn complete with china. Pony rides for the children when the apple blossom was at its fullest. Sunday lunch with Oli triumphantly entering their large dining room carrying a vast rib of beef, talking up Charlotte’s Yorkshire puddings as she hung up her polka-dotted pinafore and joined them. Beautiful visions to be sure, but … Freya had never been entirely convinced that Oli brought out the best in Charlotte. Gone were the dreams of running a café/gallery for up-and-coming artists that Charlotte had envisioned when they’d first moved to the country. In their place was a cardboard-cutout corporate wife and mother … och. She was being mean. Dreams changed. She should know.

At least Charlotte had her picture-perfect family. Even if it was with Oli. And tomorrow there’d be enough free, swish booze to make idle chitchat with the corporate-first, fox-hunting, Brexiteer, Telegraph-reading social set of theirs a bit easier to stomach. Not that she tarred everyone with the same brush, but …

‘There’s a spot, love.’ Monty pointed to a free space. His voice and body language were back to normal now.

Awww. Monty might not be Jeff Bezos, but his heart was always in the right place, and money wasn’t everything, right?

‘Right everyone!’ Freya pulled the car alongside the village green and prayed the double-yellow lines didn’t come with a lurking traffic warden. ‘Ten minutes to find bunting!’ They spread out – one child per adult – and scoured the village for bunting. There was an artisanal butcher’s, a baker’s, two charity shops with some rather sparkly frocks in the windows, about nineteen tearooms and a pub. No bunting. If Freya had her sewing machine she could make some, but … alas!

Just as they were about to pile back into the car, Monty spotted Oliver standing outside the picturesque pub, his phone to his ear in what appeared to be an agitated conversation. He looked up briefly and caught sight of them when Monty waved exaggeratedly at him. Freya didn’t think Charlotte’s husband looked very pleased to see them, but Oli briskly ended the call and headed over to them, his furtive look transformed into a broad, if not entirely sincere, smile.

‘Hallo, chaps! You’ve caught me bang to rights!’ Oli flicked his thumb towards The Golden Goose. ‘Told the wife I’d do a little recce. Wouldn’t be a trip to the countryside without an excursion to the pub, now would it! Lovely to see you both.’ Oliver gave Freya a kiss on both cheeks and clapped Monty in one of those bear hugs that ex-Sandhurst types like him were fond of giving.

‘Charlotte will be thrilled you’re here, Freya, and the … ah … children …’

Freya helped him out. ‘Felix and Regan.’ Monty’s hand slipped on to her shoulder and gave her one of those ‘here we go’ rubs.

‘Of course, how could I forget! Look, why don’t you pop in for a quick pint with me, Monty. Let the wives and sprogs get reacquainted, eh?’ Oli dropped Monty a conspiratorial wink.

‘Splendid idea!’ Monty beamed, as Freya popped on her own false smile. How lovely to nip back to the 1950s in the blink of an eye.

‘Frey, could you make sure when you unpack the car you’re extra careful with my camera equipment?’

Freya shrugged Monty’s hand off her shoulder. Traitor.

He dropped his voice as Oli tried to engage the children in an awkward ‘what have you been up to for the past five years’ conversation.

‘I should probably pop in for a swift one, shouldn’t I? Keep the old boy company.’

Old boy? Who kidnapped her husband and turned him into Boris Johnson?

‘Yes. Or …’ Even she could hear the passive-aggression as she continued, ‘You could come with your family to the glampsite where our hostess awaits and help unpack the car.’

‘Yes. Or …’ Cue Monty’s ‘I know it’s not ideal, but I’m with the kids all week and even though it’s Oli, it’d be nice to talk with a grown man once in a while’ voice. ‘You could see this as a thank-you for putting up the shelves in the shed and remembering to pack your onesie even though you forgot to put it on the list.’

She forced herself to acknowledge it wasn’t a dig. Monty was, after all, the son of a builder and home all day so he was the person to put up the shelves. And, yes. She’d promised to help with packing but she’d been late getting back from the shop. As usual.

He pulled her left hand into his and began to trace round her wedding ring, an antique emerald and diamond number they’d spotted on a rain-soaked walk during a weekend in Gloucestershire that ended up being more romantic than miserable. It was the night the twins had been conceived. Three years later, they managed to officially put the ring on her finger.

‘Just one quick pint.’ Monty said sincerely, then, ‘It’ll give you and Charlotte a chance to catch up properly.’ Puppy-dog eyes. Puppy-dog eyes pointedly dipping down to her handbag.

He always got her at moments like this. She wanted to be cross. She was cross! But … it wasn’t like he made habit of it, and they were on holiday … oh, hell. She dug one of the three twenties she’d earmarked for petrol out of her purse and gave it to him. ‘Go on then.’ Monty pulled her in for an untidy kiss, but was heading towards the pub with his back to her as she shouted after him.

‘Just the one! And don’t come back half-cut. We’ve got things to do!’ she said a bit too starchily. Particularly for someone who never got a telling off for coming home from work smelling just the tiniest bit of cheap pinot grigio.

She watched as he and Oliver clapped one another on the back as if they were actually long-lost friends, ducking one after the other beneath the rose-framed doorway of The Golden Goose. Humph. She believed they’d be back after one pint as much as she believed in the Tooth Fairy.

Right. Onwards and upwards.

After driving past the village, turning at the glampsite sign, and ogling the castle – a huge pile all but screaming ‘I’m impossible to heat!’ – Freya slowed the car to a crawl and scanned the fenceless fields. Longhorn cattle off in the distance. A red-tailed kite circling lazily in the sky. A smattering of Exmoor ponies looking up at them from alongside the slow-running river as if they’d been cued by David Attenborough himself.

It was perfect.

Of course it was. Charlotte had organized it.

As she drove on past a small herd of free-roaming, curly-horned sheep, Freya spotted Charlotte’s immaculate Land Rover. It was parked a few metres away from what looked like an open-sided circus tent. A very fancy circus tent. She did a quick scan for elephants.

Numpty. There aren’t going to be elephants.

This was glamping, not elephant polo in the days of the Raj. She flicked her eyes at the rear-view mirror.

‘All right, you lot. Phones in pockets. We’re here!’

The twins knew better than to grumble. They’d already been the recipients of a sharp earful last night when Freya had overheard them whinging to Monty that Charlotte’s children were prime candidates for Made in Chelsea. She’d put a quick stop to that. Even if there was a drop of truth to it. Principles and a moral core were worth more than a private education and a trust fund.

She caught herself smug-smiling as she steered the car into a spot marked by an old croquet mallet. When she looked beyond the car park and saw just how invitingly expensive the glampsite looked, her self-righteousness wilted.

Who was she kidding? She didn’t need to be minted, but a bit more money would help. Help to pay with the PGL trip that was coming up for Felix, in his last year at primary school. It would mean so much to him, but two hundred quid was a lot of money right now. Help fix the downstairs loo that never played ball despite (or because of) Monty’s efforts. Help them edge away from the relentless stream of bills that had them constantly teetering on the financial edge these days … and just like that she was choking against a fresh swarm of feelings bottlenecking in her throat.

Och away, darlin’. It’s no’ life and death, is it?

Her mother’s voice had a way of appearing at times like these. When things threatened to overwhelm her. Freya was having a bad year, was all. If her mum were still alive, she’d be the first to remind Freya that money wasn’t everything. That people don’t time their deaths. That fortieth birthday parties didn’t have to be all bells and whistles. Having her mum’s wake on the same day hadn’t been all bad. They’d plumped for St Andrews in the end as her mum had always joked that the wakes ‘up the road’ had much better sandwiches than the ones scrabbled together at the church hall, so … There’d be other birthdays. Other moments. This one, for instance. Freya shook her head, picturing as she did all of the negative thoughts physically leaving her head just as the grief counsellor had advised. Out of sight, out of mind.

This weekend was about Charlotte and friendship. Friendship she was certain Charlotte needed. As charmed as it looked on the outside, there was something off about her connection with Oli. Something off about Oli.

Freya thought back to his furtive behaviour outside the pub. Yep, definitely up to something. Maybe Monty would wheedle it out of him.

Anyway, a swish, catered reunion with her besties from the carefree days of uni was exactly what she needed. Cake and a campfire. What more could a girl ask for?

A husband who would dust off his law degree and do something with it.

Some actual free time to make art that mattered.

Children whose parents could afford school trips.

She thunked her head against the steering wheel.

It didn’t feel very progressive of her to make art no one would buy or for Monty to put on that old suit of his to go out and make some proper dosh at a city law firm knowing it would suck the very lifeblood out of him. She’d taken on the role of household earner long ago – by choice. The fact she was maybe, possibly, failing at it, wasn’t any fun to be around any more and was missing the bulk of her children’s actual childhood was … bleurgh. Maybe there was something to be said for the 1950s.

‘Mum? Are you okay?’

Regan, her little worrier, stuck her head between the two front seats. Felix was still engrossed in one of those doorstop fantasy books of his.

‘Yes, darlin’. Just got a little something in my eye.’ She made a show of trying to extract an invisible speck before rubbing her hands together and singing out, ‘Right, my beloved offspring! Let’s get glamping!’

She breathed in a huge lungful of sun-saturated wildflower meadow and cow poo, ignoring the little twist in her heart that the scent always brought.

The wafty, pungent aroma of home.

She pictured her brother Rocco getting ‘the girls’ in for the afternoon milking session. Her dad still helped, but at seventy-something and just a wee bit more absent-minded than he’d been since Mum had died, Rocco had started filling in the gaps until, over the Easter hols, it had become very clear he was running the farm on his own. The fact that their small farm had yet to be eaten by some big nameless, faceless conglomerate or turned into so-called affordable housing, well … thank god for big brothers.

She gave her head another short, sharp shake, watched the negativity drift away like dandelion fluff, and went around to the back of the car. A hybrid they’d leased through the business because she’d thought they should practise what they preached. Sustainability. Ah, sweet illusion.

Delusion, more like.

She waved her foot in front of the rear sensor and watched the hatch open like some sort of Star Wars portal. Charlotte’s quirkily wrapped present sat atop a jumble of duffel bags, Monty’s camera bag and last-minute panic packing.

She carefully set the camera gear to the side, praying Monty’s latest craze, Instagram ‘portraiture’ would finally bring some cash in. More than likely, the equipment would end up in the loft with the rest of his ‘sure things’ when yet another inspiration hit. Sure. He was busy with the kids, juggling the household finances and being the family chauffeur, but surely he could see it was time to start eBaying some (all) of his rejects. She’d have to find a more delicate way to suggest as much. Last December, after squeezing past the home-brewing kits, the cheese-making equipment, and the empty beehive in a vain attempt to find the Christmas tree decorations, she’d told Monty that the loft should be renamed The Attic of Unfulfilled Potential. He’d not spoken to her for the rest of the week. He was a sensitive little bear, her Monty.

She scanned the area for Charlotte. It was doubtful Emily had arrived yet. Not with her workload. Freya was still a bit shell-shocked Izzy was coming. And nervous. It had been ten years since she’d seen her last. At her and Monty’s wedding. She wished they hadn’t bickered, but who ran off with the bride’s toddlers to drop Pooh sticks in the river without telling anyone?

Okay. Fine. There was a part of her that would always be a bit funny about the fact Monty dated Izzy before her. Clarification. Monty and Izzy had hit all of the bases. Done it. Had actual sex. Hopefully enough time had passed that it would no longer be weird that one of the most beautiful women in the world had seen her husband’s penis. Sure. It had been actual years prior to Freya’s access to said penis, but still. Yup. Feeling extra grown-up now. She’d definitely moved on. That’s right. Moved on from the fact that her blue-eyed, Poldark-esque husband and one of her best mates had had sex. With each other. In the nude.

Her curls shifted from cheek to cheek as she shook the negative thoughts towards the meadow.

As she turned, something caught her attention. Was that …?

It looked like a drunken hedgehog.

They were nocturnal, so what was it doing out here in broad daylight? Surely, it wasn’t … was it?

Yes. It was definitely lurching around. Dehydrated? Starving?

Freya grabbed Monty’s Pearl Jam hoody from the pile of clothes he’d stuffed into the back of the car and scooped it up into the thick cotton.

She gave it a little examination, grateful for her father’s indulgence during her ‘I’m going to be a veterinarian’ phase. She was a female. There were a few ticks on her. Poor thing.