The Happy Glampers
Part One
You Make Me Feel Like Glamping
DAISY TATE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2019 by HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Daisy Tate 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustration © Jacqueline Bissett

Emoji(s) © Shutterstock.com

Daisy Tate asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008312961

Version: 2019-07-15

For Jorja and Grissom

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

‘Cake!’ …

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

‘Cake!’

Everyone cheered as Charlotte slid the very last cake they would ever eat as uni flatmates on to the table. She dropped a shy curtsey and stood back, watching as they plunged their forks into the huge lemon drizzle. No plates. No serviettes. No ‘you firsts’. Just pure, unadulterated, last-day-of-uni bliss.

She’d miss uni. She’d miss her friends. These last three years had been the first time in her life she’d felt as if she mattered. As if all of her silly hopes and dreams might have a splash of validity. London, she worried, could very well prove her parents right. That taking a ‘useless degree’ in art history would land her one job and one job only: cleaner.

‘Ohmigawd, Charlotte. This is ah-mazing!’ Izzy’s mid-Atlantic accent cranked west as she sang out, ‘I’m surfing my nirvana waves!’ Last week her bliss was having a booty boogie. Izzy’s happy place was a moveable feast.

‘Izz. Your bit’s at that end.’ Charlotte always made one end gooier than the other because Freya liked it fluffy, Izzy liked it gooey and Emily said she didn’t really give a monkey’s so long as it looked and tasted like cake.

Her eyes jumped from friend to friend as conversations pinged all over the shop. Everywhere but on the question of when they’d meet again. Did they care as much as she did that their ‘household’ was splitting up? It was a bit late in the day to fret about whether or not her role as ‘The Organizer’ was the only reason they adored her. She’d almost slavishly taken to the role, taking charge of any and all pragmatic concerns – finding housing, creating cleaning rotas, always ensuring there was loo roll. Three short years ago they were strangers. Today? Today they were the most mismatched gaggle of girls she’d ever had the pleasure of calling her very best friends.

‘This is cardiovascular disease on an epic level,’ Emily said through a mouthful of icing. ‘And I never want it to end.’ The future Doctor Cheung was too busy waiting for Izzy’s cackle of delight to notice how pleased Charlotte was at the backhanded compliment. If there was a way to preserve this moment in time – capture it in a jar, press it into a scrapbook, dangle it from a charm bracelet – she would do it in an instant.

‘C’mon girlie,’ Freya pointed at the empty chair beside her, her Scottish burr exaggerated by the rolling of the r. ‘Would you park your wee bum for once?’

Charlotte sat, pretending she didn’t care that they were devouring the cake like heathens, missing the fact she’d spent that little bit extra on the lemons, added a half-cup more drizzle, precious pence spent that she could barely afford on her student grant, because that’s the way her friends liked it best, but, as ever, she was unable to stop herself from beaming. She basked in the glow of their approbation. Relished that they loved it every bit as much as they had when, just a week into uni and shy as a dormouse, she’d made one for them in their very first student accommodation.

‘Nummy!’ Freya swept her wavy, pixie cut to the side and grinned at Charlotte. ‘Promise me we’ll meet up in London and eat cake?’

‘No!’ Emily put up a hand. ‘She’s mine. I refuse to let her leave. I claim you as my baking bitch for the duration of med school.’ She took a decisive bite as if the matter was settled. Emily had a way of drawing lines in the sand.

They all turned to Izzy, waiting for her to stake her claim on Charlotte. She looked up when she felt the group’s eyes on her. ‘What?’

Emily patted Izzy’s cheek. ‘Bless. What’s our little Izzy going to do out in the big wide world without all of us to look after her?’

‘Dunno.’ Izzy shrugged, that bloom of mystery surrounding her as it always did when she dodged their questions about the specifics of her life. ‘What are any of us going to do?’

Part One

Chapter 1

WhatsApp message

Charlotte Mayfield

Hello Girls! I suppose it’s Ladies now. So pleased you’ve received the invites for my fortieth. I can’t believe it’s so soon! This is a test message, really. Techy things aren’t my forte. Oh! And as a small favour, I doubt you’ll be running into anyone else who’s coming, but you girls (sorry, ladies) are the only ones invited to stay, so … secret squirrels?

Charlotte Mayfield

*taps on microphone to make sure you can hear me* LOL. Freya? Emily? Are these the correct phone numbers? Or does WhatsApp take a few days to get up and running?

Charlotte Mayfield

Emily! So sorry to have used your work mobile. No wonder you ignored me! I hate to think I might’ve interfered with one of your surgeries. Sounds like the NHS is running you ragged. Has this message come through? Do say if I’m becoming a pest. Freya? Are you out there or have I got the wrong number? x Charlotte

Freya Burns-West

Sorry, Charlotte! Monty put my phone in the wash last week, the numpty! Am using Stone Age tablet until I can wrestle phone off one of the children. Was it the first bank holiday or the second? We’re a definite Yesx4 xoxoxxF

Charlotte:

Oh, wonderful! Not about the phone, obviously. Oli’s just upgraded us all. Would my old iPhone be of any use? I think it’s last year’s. It’s the SECOND May bank holiday. I’m so pleased you can make it. Bank holidays seem to get booked up so quickly! As you know, families and plus ones welcome. I’ll get one of the children to help me forward a map and the rest of the details for Sittingstone. Any more questions just throw them my way. x Charlotte

Emily Cheungenstein

Sorry for erratic communiqué. Story of my life. Like my new scary doctor name? The patients love it. Lotte (still okay if we call you Lotte now you’re a married mother of two?), I just googled Sittingstone. It appears to be out of doors. Or are we staying in the castle?

Freya

Emms, you eejit! Didn’t u read the INVITE? IT’S GLAMPING (SOZ FOR THE SHOUTING … CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW TO TURN OFF ON THIS GERIATRIC BEASTIE!) CHARLOTTE? *WINCES* WLD U MIND IF I TOOK U UP ON THAT OFFER? CAN COLLECT ON UR BDAY IF TO-DO LIST ISN’T EPICALLY LONG. XOXOXOXF

Charlotte:

Oh, dear. Glamping’s not a problem is it, Emms? You’ve not got hay fever have you? I have been assured all of the yurts are done up to the highest level.

Emily:

Like, indoors, highest level? Or still outside but pretending to be inside? #chinesepeopledon’tcamp

Freya:

EMMS! SHOW SOME GRATITUDE. WE EXPECT NOTHING LESS THAN FULL SOPHISTICATion from you Charlotte. (Hey! Lower case!) x F

Emily:

Plus ça change.

Freya:

What’s with the Francais?

Emily:

Rien. Charlotte! I’ve been in touch with Izzy. Can she come too? She’s going to be here. (Praying you say yes as I already told her and she’s really excited.)

Charlotte:

Izzy!!!!!!!!! I haven’t seen her in years! Gosh. A proper Bristol Uni girls reunion. Absolutely. All welcome. xx Charlotte

Freya

Wait. What? Izzy’s here? *faints in disbelief* xF

Charlotte

There’s a bell tent that will be just perfect for her. Does anyone know if she’s eating meat again? Is there a plus one I should know about?

Emily

You know Izz. Expect the unexpected.

Chapter 2

Bunting.

Charlotte could’ve kicked herself. How could she have forgotten the bunting? It definitely wasn’t in the car. She’d checked three times on the way to Sittingstone. The same three times she’d pulled into lay-bys to ‘check directions’. Her children hadn’t commented that the Land Rover’s sat-nav was in the front of the car rather than the boot. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice the slight edge of pink round her eyes. Yes, it was all there bar the bunting. The cool boxes, the wellies, the cake. The same placid smile, the same pale pink lipstick and, of course, the same sensible, ash-blonde mum do she’d had three hours earlier when Oliver had ripped her world in two.

A real stalwart, her hairstyle. Not so much the husband.

At least he’d offered to drive to West Sussex separately to give her some space to absorb his news. Not over-generous given the move was tactical. What better way to avoid seeing her normally composed exterior crack into fractals of disbelief? Absence worked a treat when Oliver wanted to prevent a scene.

As if she’d ever cause a scene.

He really should know her better by now. He should know a lot of things. As, she supposed, should she.

So she started the car, followed the signs, and sped along the motorway as if she could outdrive the fact her marriage might not last the day.

An hour later, as the Discovery crackled over the gravel at the entrance to the Sittingstone Estate, Charlotte’s heart lifted. The castle was every bit as wonderful as it looked on the internet. The stone structure soared up into the bright blue sky with full Tudor Gothic grandeur. The remains of the first castle – a fortress, really – was a stunning tumble of stone over by the lake, whilst this one – the family seat – dominated a small hill. A truly resplendent calendar house. One pane of glass for each day of the year, fifty-two rooms, seven entrances and four, very grand, storeys. There were sprawling lawns, a blooming rose garden and lashings of wisteria shifting in the light breeze like … bunting.

With a home like this, thought Charlotte, the lord and lady of the manor must know their way around a bell tent.

Her wedding ring caught the light as she turned the car down the long, shaded avenue signposted for the glampsite. Ridiculous, oversized thing. Had she been so blinded by its beauty all those years ago that she’d been unable to see what her future held? Worse perhaps. She hadn’t wanted to see it. If she’d just opened her eyes she would have noticed the horrid predictability of it all spooling out in front of her. Too many golfing weekends. A pied à terre in London. A keenness to slog it out over yet another client contract. An affair with a junior partner. It was all so obvious it was almost gauche. How could he? And to find out on this weekend. The one solitary weekend she’d hoped to show off her life to her dearest friends. Another fissure of humiliation cracked open as she thumbed the solitaire palmside.

She glanced into the rear-view mirror to the back seat where her children remained blissfully unaware of any discord. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed with Oli when he’d decided, for the pair of them, that bothering the children with the ‘whole silly mess’ would be the wrong thing to do. Fair enough for the weekend, but they weren’t innocent babes in arms. They were young adults. Young adults who knew having an affair was the wrong thing to do.

She looked into the mirror again. Two bent heads. Two sets of noise-cancelling headsets. Hardly a word passed between them the entire journey. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps, like Oli, they too had tired of her. Bundling them into the car today, you’d’ve thought she was slinging them into Guantanamo rather than putting them up in a five-star yurt. She was doubly horrified to catch Oli slipping them fifty quid each to play along. Perhaps falling completely to bits would add an element of surprise to their predictable parent–child relationship.

Not that she’d know how. The one thing she could confidently pride herself on was her control. And her ability to tidy up. So. Two things, really. Two things she liked about herself.

She glanced at her children again, completely oblivious to the estate’s glorious setting.

One weekend with her friend’s children rather than their mates, she silently groused. Was that so big an ask? To talk with someone for a change? Play a board game instead of devoting all of their attention to their phones?

She pulled into the empty car park, remembering the Easter holidays when she’d caught Poppy Snapchatting with a friend at the dinner table rather than actually speaking to one another. She’d applied the ‘no phones at dinner’ line but Oli had thought it hilarious, instantly undermining what little authority she clung to on that front. Yet another layer of parental failure to heap on all the others.

Before climbing down from the car, she guiltily closed the search engine on her own phone. Googling her husband’s not-so-new fancy woman in lay-bys probably hadn’t been the best way to salve her wounds.

After one more scan in the boot for the bunting, Charlotte’s eyes fell on the shiny new shoebox. A ridiculous pair of cream-coloured canvas Diors that Oli had given her for ‘being so reasonable.’ She hadn’t been able to bring herself to put them on. In all honesty, she didn’t want a pair of completely impractical shoes, even if it was her fortieth. Technically, she’d tick that box tomorrow, but he’d suggested she treat the entire weekend as her birthday, seeing as he’d cast a shadow on things.

Shadow? More like an apocalypse, obliterating sixteen years of her very nearly perfect life. Other than that? He was right. A jolly birthday weekend was exactly what she needed. What else could crush the urge to lash out at him with his pointless shoes and ask him over and over again, Why? Why, when I’ve been so true to you?

She left the shoes untouched. The Charlotte Mayfield she’d taught herself to be kept the peace, put on a brave face, and didn’t – wouldn’t – spoil it for anyone else. Later, quietly and privately, she’d sift through the wreckage and see what was left. Then, perhaps, she’d wear the Diors through a particularly fetid puddle.

She tapped on the side door and gestured for her son, Jack, to open the window.

‘Darlings. How ’bout you pop out and give me a hand unpacking the boot?’

Charlotte’s blonde, blue-eyed son – a picture of his father if ever there was one – looked at her with a stony expression. ‘Mum. I’m knackered. I’ve been at school. All. Week.’ He abruptly changed tack (another Oli trick). ‘You do it best anyway. We’d only get it wrong.’ She looked across to where her daughter Poppy sat staring out of the opposite window, avoiding her gaze and looking glum. Nothing.

‘You’re right. It’ll be easier on my own,’ she chirped, too brightly. ‘You two can have a wander around the site, how about that?’ Jack rolled his eyes and Poppy continued to ignore her. Charlotte pushed down the knot of anxiety in her stomach. She’d absolutely adored being a mother when they were little. The only time she’d felt pure, unconditional love. She’d thought she’d felt it when she and Oli were first married, but she’d been wrong. It was being a mum that had felt right. A chance to give her children the childhood she’d only dreamt of having. Teens, it turned out, were harder to please. Yes, better and quicker to do this bit herself. Her family had never really understood her systems. Her family, she was beginning to fear, had never really understood her at all.

Charlotte felt the knot surge up into her throat where it threatened to erupt into a sob. She took a deep breath, easing it back down into place. There was a party to organize. Something she was very good at, despite the lack of bunting.

So! She began loading up her arms. Anytime now her friends would be arriving and she’d be taking her first stab at behaving as if everything was perfectly perfect. Friends she’d admittedly lost touch with over the years but, if she was being really honest, Freya, Emily and Izzy were the closest friends she’d ever had. And they were her friends rather than the guests who came with Oli’s stamp of approval. That was a bridge she wasn’t quite ready to cross.

Cake tins up to her chin, she headed towards the ‘Starlight Tucker Tent’. The vast open-sided kitchen and lounge area didn’t, as advertised, have a view of the sky, but she supposed landed gentry could call their idyllic glampsite features whatever they fancied. The plus side, she supposed, of being born to ‘shoulder the burden of their forebears’.

Burden or not, the Sittingstone Glampsite was everything she’d hoped it would be. Three yurts, a pair of bell tents, and the tree house. The air smelt of warm meadow grass. The sky was a pure, deep blue. She couldn’t have asked for a better bank holiday weekend. Apart from the whole adulterous-husband thing.

Relishing the unexpected cool under the canvas-roofed structure, she unloaded her tins onto the butcher’s block made out of an old cable spool. If they’d been alive, or invited, her parents would’ve howled with derision. Cast-offs from the sparky? Get off!

Charlotte gave her head a little shake. Her parents had been masters of mocking the haves on behalf of the have-nots. Though they’d been gone some five years now – her father from a heart attack, her mother not long after when pneumonia forced her to pick between alcohol and antibiotics – she could still hear their commentary about her own life choices, the thick Sheffield accent piercing right through to the quick of things. Serves you bloody right for thinking you were better than everyone else. Which, of course, stopped her from pulling out her iPhone and triple-checking the status on her Ocado delivery.

Instead she marched purposefully back to the Land Rover after commandeering a rather fetching lavender-coloured wheelbarrow called ‘Felicity’ and continued to unload the car.

A while later, Jack sloped into the kitchen and waved his phone at her. ‘Muuuum. Dad’s texted.’

‘Oh?’ She’d thought he might back out entirely. Leave her to save face on her own.

‘He’s checking out the pub up in the village. “Taste-testing the local brew”.’

‘Oh! Right. Well.’ That was something. She popped the sausages she’d picked up from her favourite farm shop in the pristine, empty refrigerator.

‘Muuuum. There’s nothing to do here.’

‘Of course there is, Jack.’ She reached out to give him a hug, but he’d already walked away to examine some board games tucked up on a high shelf. He’d outgrow his father in a year or so.

He dropped the boxes onto a table with a despondent groan. Monopoly and the like had clearly outgrown their lustre. Goodness. If Charlotte had been brought to a place like this for a bank holiday weekend at their age she would’ve thought she’d died and gone to heaven! Her children were behaving as if they’d been asked to weekend in the bowels of purgatory.

‘How about going down to the river?’

‘Pffft.’ The ‘no clue what fifteen-year-old boys liked to do’ variety. ‘I wish this place had clay shooting. Or quad bikes. Why didn’t you pick the Alps or something interesting for your birthday? Did you know Jago’s mum and dad booked, like, a whole island in the Caribbean for their wedding anniversary?’

‘How lovely.’ Perhaps Jago’s mum and dad were happily married and not bothered about silly messes like mistresses who may or may not be pregnant. That little gem had slipped out in the end. When Oli was telling her just how little the affair had meant and how much he’d like for them to find a way to make their marriage work despite the pregnancy.

Despite the pregnancy!

He’d back-pedalled. Said he wasn’t sure, really. Or was it that Xanthe didn’t know if she was going to keep it? The roar of blood in her brain had made it difficult to hear.

Xanthe.

The name tasted of bile. And inexplicably gave her the giggles.

‘Mum! I’m starving.’

Charlotte’s daughter Poppy, the definition of a blossoming English rose, dramatically collapsed onto one of the benches at the far end of the tent, clutching her stomach. ‘This place is like, a total wilderness! Can you make me a toastie?’ Her eyes lit on the tins. ‘Is that cake?’

‘Cake’s for tomorrow, duck—’ she tripped over the Yorkshire-ism and landed on a rather garbled ‘darling’. ‘How about a biscuit?’ She opened up a tin of homemade custard creams. Poppy made a vomit face.

Always nice to know her efforts were appreciated.

She checked her watch. Nearly three o’clock and still no Ocado delivery. ‘Here.’ She rustled in one of the cool boxes. ‘Why don’t you have an apple?’

Jack made a face. ‘There’s a tuck shop or something by the car park. They’ll have something good.’

Charlotte protested as Poppy dived into her handbag. Hadn’t their father just given them bribe money? When her daughter unearthed a twenty and clapped her hands she looked away. At least she had the money to spare. But would she always?

What if she and Oli couldn’t iron everything out and carry on as normal? What if he chose this possibly pregnant lover over the family he claimed to adore? It was common enough. Trading in an old model for a new one. Regretting it when it was far too late to make amends. She had tacked on that last bit. It was nothing Oli had actually said, as such.

After the children reluctantly agreed to check out their bell tent, she scanned the kitchen area – artfully battered pans, flame-licked Le Creuset casseroles, towers of mismatched china – then pictured all of the washing up that fifty-odd people (forty of whom Oliver had invited ‘to make it feel like a real party’) would create. Perhaps having the caterers was a good idea. The hog roast, though. Wasn’t everybody a vegan now? Charlotte hadn’t been sure, but Oli had insisted, and with him footing the bill she hadn’t felt able to protest.

Tomorrow, of course, was the big ‘do’, but tonight was her night. Simple, straightforward, outdoor fare with the small handful of friends she had invited. She looked out to where a handful of picnic tables were dotted round a huge fire pit.

How could she have forgotten the bunting?

She’d laid it out in the mud room along with … what had she laid it out with? The children’s wellies, Oliver’s linen jacket (the one without the red wine stain, yes, she’d double-checked). The same one in which she’d found the receipt for a lingerie set from Coco de Mer in a size ten (she was a twelve to fourteen), the pile of picnic rugs (with waterproofing because you never really could rely on the weather), Oli’s iPad. His new one, which had pinged with a message just as she’d set it down. Hello darling, just wondering if you’d managed to escape the horrid …

Another tendril of Charlotte’s confidence drifted off in the breeze.

Would she be able to play happy families all weekend?

She decanted some strawberries into a rather lovely china bowl. An antique from the looks of things. With a chip. Oli would hate it.

Anyway. The strawberries were perfect. And that counted for something.

‘How do I look?’

Emily did an awkward twirl in front of Callum. From the look on his face, he didn’t need to say a word. The khaki skort and plaid shirt combo exemplified the precise aesthetic she’d fastidiously avoided for some two decades, now. Earthy lesbian. Thank you very much outdoor wear.

Her normal attire was easy. Scrubs, or something black: Uniqlo and Superdry had made a small fortune out of her. Cath Kidston courtesy of her mother. The latter, which came as pointed gifts, along with a list of social events where Emily might consider wearing them, lived on a high shelf just out of reach.

She grimaced at her reflection in the wall mirror. She owned a skort?

Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.

He glanced at the tag she’d unceremoniously ripped off. ‘Glad to see you’ve gone for fabric with a high breathability factor.’

‘Why?’ She sniffed. ‘Do I stink?’

‘You smell like a spring meadow.’

Somehow, she doubted that.

‘You do, however, look like someone who’d rather do anything other than camping.’

If she were being really honest, it was little short of a miracle that Charlotte had managed to cleave her from the hospital. Not that she made a habit of being dishonest, she simply wasn’t big into girlie weekends. There was always so much talking. And feelings. Definitely not her thing.

But! These women were about as close to a crew as she had. Not that they’d been in each other’s pockets since uni. Apart from Izzy, she’d let the friendships … drift. Yes. Drifting would be a good way to describe it. She didn’t not want to be friends. She simply didn’t include any time in her life to have friends. Which was why Callum, a man gifted with actual social skills, was the perfect person to accompany her to a fortieth birthday party where she’d swat at insects, not flush loos, and eat carcinogen-covered food with friends she hadn’t seen for at least a decade and might not actually like any more.

Callum appeared behind her in the mirror. ‘Are you trying to picture your survival chances for the West Sussex version of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?’

She bumped her breathable-fabric-covered hip against his and whined, ‘I’m Chinese. I don’t do glamping. It’s all out of doors.’

‘The Chinese aren’t big North Face fans, then?’ He dangled the tags in front of her.

‘Oh, we love it. We just don’t get it dirty. Or bring it outside the city.’

‘Wait! We’re leaving Soho?’

She scowled at him as if it were his fault she’d accepted the invitation, then flopped down on the bed and tugged on one of the walking shoes she’d bought online. As if by magic a WhatsApp notification pinged in, accompanied by a very Charlotte-esque list of reminders:

1. Remember to bring sunblock suitable for your skin type. Don’t be shy about bringing factor 50! (Obviously for Freya, who turned into a large freckle the moment the sun appeared.)

2. Swimming costumes. There’s a wild swimming pool! (Errrrr. Nope. That one was for Izzy.)

3. Insect spray. (Bingo! Definitely for her. She was prepared to Deet the living daylights out of the little blighters.)

This, chased up with a cutesy request to ‘Pipe up with any special dietary requirements. We’re even prepared for all you barbecue-loving vegans!’

She had no idea who that one was for. Freya maybe? Emily couldn’t remember who’d been vegan, vegetarian or gnawing raw meat straight from the source last time they’d met. Bad friend.

She stood up and bounced on the soles of her new shoes. Springy.

Callum’s quirked eyebrow meant he was still waiting for an explanation about the Chinese distaste for outdoor activities.

‘Fifty years of enforced labour do that to a people.’

He laughed. ‘I suppose it’s the same as my people.’

Emily blinked and asked in her best innocent voice, ‘The people of Edinburgh don’t go camping?’

He pulled off his scrubs top, then basket-balled it into the laundry bin. ‘My mum is permanently scarred by childhood exposure to midges and my father prides himself on being the most immaculately dressed man Nigeria has ever produced. I think we can agree, Emms –’ he did his own version of a catwalk strut and twirl – ‘this apple did not fall far from the tree.’ He pulled a shirt out of the closet and held it up for Emily to inspect. ‘Will this impress?’

She nodded her approval. ‘Very Crocodile Dundee.’

He feigned disappointment. ‘I was going more for the Bear Grylls look.’

‘You look very rugged. Très SAS. Better?’

‘Much.’

She pulled her pager out of her pocket out of habit rather than an actual need. ‘This is weird.’

‘What?’

‘Not being at the hospital. D’you think we should pop in on the way out?’

‘Nope. We need a break. And what better way than a weekend communing with … who are we communing with again?’

She held up fingers to represent them. ‘Freya Burns-West. Scottish. Arty. Very woke. Husband is a living saint.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see.’ She held up another finger. ‘Charlotte Mayfield. Organizer extraordinaire. Want your place to look picture perfect? She’s your woman. Two point four kids. House in the country. Amazing cake-maker. And Izzy Yeats.’

Emily stared as Callum wriggled into a pair of fitted, cream-coloured trousers that were entirely inappropriate for the great outdoors. Unlike her, she had zero doubt he’d throw himself into the weekend and come out spotless. Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to him. He just seemed so comfortable being him. The gayness. The braininess. The inability to pick a special someone and get on with life like the rest of the adult world.

Callum slid his belt on and nodded. ‘Right. So, we’ve got a happy homemaker and an arty tree-hugger. You’re the brainy, over-achieving, too narky for her own good because you’re actually very lovely wunderkind …’ Callum smiled when she punched him in the arm. ‘Which one’s Izzy?’

‘Another housemate.’ Emily paused, uncertain what to tell him about the woman she counted as her soul mate. ‘She ran a surf camp in Hawaii for the last ten years. Just moved back. C’mon. Move it. We’re going to be late.’

Eventually he’d tease more out of her. But for now? The fact she owned a skort should be proof enough these women meant the world to her.

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.

‘Kids!’ She beckoned for them to come out. ‘We’ve got a medical emergency here.’

Freya held the hedgehog’s tiny little face in front of her own and cooed, ‘It’s okay, darlin’. We’ve got you.’

A premonition jolted through her.

Babies.

It was technically too early, but … global warming. She gently tipped the hedgehog over and exposed her stomach. It looked swollen. She traced her finger along the creature’s tiny pink feet, then atop the soft white arc of her belly. ‘Do you have some hoglets growing inside you?’

‘She’s pregnant?’ Regan looked as if she’d found a treasure chest.

Freya secretly wished her daughter would become a vet. Between the mice, the budgies, the runaway tortoise, and, of course, Dumbledore, the family Labradoodle, Regan was definitely the family’s number-one animal lover. Maybe a proper summer at her family’s farm would do the trick.

‘Should we ring the RSPCA?’ Her daughter’s delicate fingers hovered above the hedgehog’s spines.

‘Yes. Definitely. Unless they have a wildlife clinic here.’

‘Is it hungry? Should we feed it milk or something?’

‘No. Not milk. Upsets their poor wee tummies. Water’s good. Cat or dog food works.’

Regan moaned. ‘I should’ve brought some of Dumbledore’s.’

‘Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to rustle something up.’ Freya popped a kiss on her daughter’s head. ‘Felix, love. Can you grab Dad’s woolly hat, please?’

Her gangly son tripped on his way to the back of the car. Poor lad. All limbs and no coordination.

‘She’s soooooo cute!’ Regan lightly brushed her fingers along the hedgehog’s spines.

‘I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant.’

‘Can we call her Persephone?’ Felix asked.

‘We can call her whatever you like.’

‘This is great.’ Regan cooed. ‘I love it here already.’

And just like that … the long weekend stretched before Freya as a place of wide, joyful possibility.

Late, late, late, late, late, late!

Why hadn’t Callum talked Emily out of stopping by the hospital? He should’ve known she was completely incapable of turning down a displaced compound hip fracture. Catnip. Just as her had father predicted when they’d decided she should pursue orthopaedic surgery. Her mother had, of course, supplied the statistics. Hip fractures alone were a soaring industry, never mind the huge number of knee replacements. They were expected to rise nearly 700 per cent in the next twenty years. Just as well she loved putting things back together. Far better than Lego.

She glanced at her watch. Oh, God.

Charlotte was going to go mental. Well. Not mental exactly, because Charlotte didn’t go mental, but she made plans. Exacting plans. Plans with arrival times. And departure times. And yurt assignments.

Callum poked her in the thigh. ‘Chill, woman. There isn’t an accelerator pedal on your side of the car.’

‘Why aren’t you overtaking that car? Get out of this lane. It’s full of slowcoaches and geriatric, Radio-Four-listening dawdle-pants.’

‘You listen to Radio Four.’

‘Yeah. Whatever. Just go.’

Callum obliged her. ‘Did you grab the booze bag?’

‘What booze bag?’

‘The one by the front door filled with vodka, gin and Aperol? The one you said was essential for surviving a weekend in the wilderness?’

She unleashed a torrent of language upon him. ‘It’ll have to be services.’ Not ideal, but it would have to do.

‘There’s a diddy one before we hit the M25. One of those petrol station ones where your feet stick to the floor.’

They both shuddered.

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