THE HAPPY GLAMPERS
Daisy Tate

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published as e-book in serial in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

This e-book edition 2020

Copyright © Daisy Tate 2019

Cover illustration © Jacqueline Bissett

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

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.

Source ISBN: 9780008313005

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008313012

Version: 2020-04-06

Dedication

For Jorja and Grissom

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

‘Cake!’

Everyone cheered as Charlotte slid the very last cake they would ever eat as university flatmates onto 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!’

‘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 Dr 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?’

Chapter One

Whatsapp Group: Happy Glampers

Charlotte: 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: *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: 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: 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. 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 Cheung: 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!) XOXOXOX

Charlotte: Oh, dear. Glamping’s not a problem is it, Emms? 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? #chinesepeopledontcamp

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: 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. 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 Two

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 satnav 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. Although, 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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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?

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 blond, 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, and the hope that she had a chance to give her children the childhood she’d only dreamt of having. Teens, it turned out, were harder to please.

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. 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.

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

‘You, 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’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. Now, 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. 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 Three

‘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 closed 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 onto 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. 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.

Anyway, a fancy, 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 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.

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 hoodie from the pile of clothes he’d stuffed into the back of the car and scooped it up into the thick cotton.

‘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 … climate change. 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. 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, darlin’’

‘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.

Izzy couldn’t move.

C’mon Yeats. Get out of the van!

An overwhelming instinct to turn round and head straight back to the airport hit so powerfully it made her light-headed. Why was she doing this, again?

‘Mom?’ Luna whispered from the back seat, puppy firmly nestled in her lap despite Izzy’s entreaties to keep him in his newly purchased crate. ‘They’re staring at us.’

Freya and Charlotte were, indeed, staring. Well. Smiling. Waving. Beckoning. Wondering why the hell Izzy wasn’t running towards them like a lunatic and joyously screaming her head off like she would’ve back in the day.

Get a grip, big breath in and … she flung the car door open, ran towards her friends, arms wide open and shouting at the top of her voice. ‘Aloha, ladies!’ She threw in a whoop. Ten years in America taught her a whoop always helped.

They countered with some British-style whoops. A bit perplexed. A bit delighted. Mostly uncomfortable.

Bless. Despite the jitterbugs, it was great to see them. If she kept making a big show of things, it’d be no big deal. Same ol’ Dizzy Izzy.

‘Hey hey, girlies!’

As the space between them diminished, Izzy just managed to keep her game face on. Charlotte looked like a proper grown-up now. Blonde, in good shape, and immaculately put together with a splash of … Stepford Wife wasn’t exactly right because Charlotte was too damn sweet, but … hmmm. She’d have to think on that. As usual, Freya was pulling off something mere mortals couldn’t. An asymmetrical pastel-striped skirt, a camouflage tank top sporting a skunk sitting on top of a landmine, and a pair of Converse. As she got closer she clocked a few more crinkles round her eyes, a proper divot between her brows, and just a hint of the softness that came with the passage of time. Like, she could talk. Should she stick with the plan to blame her own eye crinkles on Hawaii or ruin everyone’s weekend with some blunt honesty?

Before she could decide, she was enveloped in one of Charlotte’s trademark hugs. Charlotte held onto her for just slightly longer than most people would; the type of hug that reminded Izzy of the three years Charlotte had been big sister and mother all rolled into one. Izzy breathed her in, her familiar scent filling her nostrils: expensive hair product mixed with Miss Dior.

Izzy took a step back and gave Charlotte a proper wow! look at you scan. Pretty as ever. A tiny bit stressy, but Charlotte had always been a bit gah! whenever there was an event on the horizon.

Freya stood awkwardly to the side, curling one of her purple-dipped curls round her finger. When Izzy opened her arms wide, Freya stepped into them, giving Izzy that astonishingly familiar ‘I hate you but I love you too’ hug that meant she still hadn’t got over the fact she and Monty had done it. Ah well.

Izzy put Freya out of her misery and stepped back. ‘You both looking amazing. Not aged a day.’

They protested and Izzy pretended she hadn’t been lying.

The women were standing in front of a rather impressive selection of wheelbarrows. Every colour of the rainbow, the barrows were bedecked with hand-painted flowers and names. Mabel. Ruth. Esmerelda.

‘Look what we’ve found!’ They parted as one and revealed an Isabelle.

‘Awwww, girlfriends! You shouldn’t have.’ Izzy pressed her mountain of coils back from her face and went to stuff her hands in her back pockets, only to remember she had dressed up for her friends in one of her two maxi-dresses rather than wearing her go-to cargos.

‘Your hair looks nice,’ said Freya.

Izzy lifted her hand self-consciously to the coif. Kind, but no one was fooling anyone. She looked like a train wreck. The years of surfing had kept her fit, but the last couple of years? Ugh … She couldn’t even go there. ‘Where’s Emms?’

‘Not here yet.’ Charlotte’s mouth looked as though it wanted to keep on going and say something else. Oooo-kay …

Eventually Izzy had to fill the silence.

‘I can’t believe I’m not last!’ Izzy was always last. ‘Does that mean I get a prize?’

Freya rolled her eyes in an ‘oh lordy, look who hasn’t changed at all’ way. It was a wonder it had taken this long. Freya had been the least tolerant of her messiness. Her lateness. Her general inability to pin herself down. The fact she’d got a starred first for her degree despite not having appeared to have studied all that much. That had particularly annoyed Freya.

Charlotte, on the other hand, had always treated Izzy as if she were a wonder. Her poet mother. A childhood of flitting from one academic hotspot to the next. Dining with royalty one day and living on beans the next. Your life sounds so romantic. Until this very moment, Izzy hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed her.

A sudden urge swept through her to throw herself at Charlotte’s feet and beg her to make all of the incredibly difficult decisions she still had yet to make. Charlotte would choose well. Charlotte would choose impeccably. Emily was helping the best she could, but she wasn’t exactly well equipped in the sensitivity department. Charlotte was. She would know which tack to take. Which path to follow. Like marrying Oli, for instance. That had panned out well. City lawyer. Country life. Beautiful children. Hiring super-fancy glampsites for her fortieth. From what Emily had relayed, everyone still thought Oli was a bit of a wanker, but on the whole? Charlotte’s life was just as she’d planned. Perfect.

Behind her, she heard the van door slide open. The enormous canine fur-ball that was Bonzer ran between Izzy’s legs, his voluminous puppy fluff tickling her calves as he settled himself in front of her. One ear up. One ear down. Fur the colour of an apricot. And the biggest, brownest eyes in the universe. He’d break the ice. Everyone loved a giant puppy.

‘Izzy?’ Charlotte’s hands fisted, except for her index fingers which were pointing at Bonzer. ‘Ummmm … is this a dog?’

Except maybe Charlotte?

‘We left our dog with a pet sitter,’ Freya said pointedly.

Well, bully for you.

Explaining was always an option. She could pour her heart out. Detail the Amazonian effort it had taken to leave Hawaii, come back to the UK, find a school for Luna, a van, a puppy. But she’d get flustered and leave bits out, fuelling yet more ‘typical Dizzy’ eye-rolls. So she smiled and said nothing.

Charlotte, on the other hand, fell over herself apologizing.

‘I’m so sorry, Izz. I thought I said on the WhatsApp that there were no dogs. Remember? They have some health and safety issues here and Oli’s a tiny bit allergic.’ Charlotte pinched her fingers close together, as if doing so would make the dog evaporate and all of the awkwardness that came from not having seen one another in over a decade would *poof!* disappear.

Izzy flashed Charlotte her apology grin. The one she used to use when Charlotte reminded her she forgot to get tea bags. Or to Freya when she’d neglected to take out the rubbish. Or Emms (plus a fluttering of eyelashes) when she hadn’t strictly finished one of her term papers and maybe, kind of sort of, needed just a leeeetle bit of help. They always moaned at her. They also always forgave her.

Was that why she’d come back? So she could be with people she knew would take her in no matter what? Screwing it all up over a puppy simply wasn’t worth it.

So she smiled, boofed her forehead with the heel of her hand and made a goofy face. ‘Girl, you know what I’m like with fine print! I never exactly got on the WhatsApp thing because of changing phones and countries. Tell me what I gotta do to make it up to you? Sing? Dance? Bake cakes? You probably already did that, didn’t you? I’ll be your birthday slave all weekend.’ She put her hands into prayer position and made sad clown eyes until, finally, they laughed.

‘I’m so sorry, but he can’t stay,’ Charlotte’s eyebrows templed in a way that suggested she understood the pickle Izzy was in, but matters were out of her control. ‘The manager was very insistent. I had to sign a disclaimer.’

‘Really? It’s just … I’m not asking for me, it’s more …’

Everyone turned as the world’s most beautiful child ran up alongside her.

‘Mom?’

Her daughter, Luna, slipped her hand into Izzy’s and looked up at her, those bright blue eyes of hers still a bit of a surprise each time she saw them. A bit like a Siamese cat’s. Sapphire brightness against silky smooth skin. Just a shade or so lighter than her own. Luna was her very own flesh and blood and yet, every time she looked at her afresh … goose-bumps.

Izzy turned to face her friends. How to introduce the daughter she’d never told any of them about except for Emms who was really letting the team down by not being here.

Freya’s jaw had dropped open. Not a cute face. A bit like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Subtle.

Charlotte, on the other hand, smiled warmly.

Thank you.

‘Well, who do we have here?’ Charlotte squatted down, introduced herself to Luna, and shook her hand.

Izzy knew she could rely on Charlotte. ‘This is Luna.’

‘Luna! That’s a beautiful name.’ She looked back up at Izzy, ‘Sooo … I guess there’s been a bit more than surf camp in your life since we’ve seen you last.’

‘Yup. Just a little.’ Understatement of the year.

Where on earth was Emily? She’d always been better at telling Izzy off for things than Charlotte had. Charlotte had never been any good at telling anyone off for anything. Which was very likely why her children had no respect for her and her husband was having an affair, but that was another matter.

Izzy held the puppy up. ‘Are you absolutely positive the puppy can’t stay?’ She waved his paw at them.

‘Izz. Sorry, it’s just that … Oh, this is terribly awkward …’

The last thing she wanted to do was upset Izzy’s newly discovered daughter. Charlotte could feel a little bit of her self-possession slipping away. Her friends were bound to see through it, of course. A true friend wouldn’t need X-ray vision to tell she was barely holding it together. It had been years since they’d all lived together, but she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. Freya had definitely noticed something was up. Since she’d arrived, she kept pointedly making reference to their husbands. Did you know our husbands are at the pub? What will our husbands make of this yurt, these olives, those cows? Maybe not the cow part, but she wished Freya would stop pressing the point that the two of them were married. To husbands. How on earth was she going to get through the weekend?

Time to have a grown-up talk with Izzy away from little girl ears.

She smiled at Izzy’s daughter. What was she? Nine or ten? Such pretty blue eyes. So, like Izzy, but she must look like her father, too. Whoever he was. Charlotte knew there was no point in asking Izzy about the father outright. She’d never liked being pushed on personal details. They’d just have to wait until Izzy was good and ready.

Such pretty eyes.

Charlotte had always loved blue eyes, especially Oli’s. Light blue like a perfect summer sky, she’d once thought. Lately, today especially, they seemed cooler. Chilly. Like ice.

Right. On to this talk. ‘Luna, if you like, the children are around somewhere …’

Freya helpfully jumped in. ‘My children have got a hedgehog they’re looking after until management bring down a little house for it. Perhaps you’d like to join them, Luna?’

Luna looked up at her mother with a pleading expression. How Izzy ever said no to that face was beyond her. Perhaps she didn’t. ‘Can I stay here with Bonzer? We’ll sit in the car.’ Luna stroked the puppy, which licked her hand.

Izzy raised her eyebrows at Charlotte’s micro ‘please can you just do this’ look, then smiled softly at her daughter. ‘No, Booboo. It’s a beautiful day, no one is sitting in the car.’ She gave her daughter a hip bump, pulled her incredible mane of dark, coiled hair away from her face and kissed Luna’s forehead. ‘Why don’t you go check out the hedgehog? They don’t have those in Hawaii.’

‘Felix and Regan would love to meet you,’ Freya added. ‘My two. They’re twins!’

Charlotte could see that Luna was clever enough to know she was being moved on so the grown-ups could talk about ‘the situation’ without her.

‘C’mon. I’ll show you.’ Freya put out her hand as Luna, clearly intrigued by the prospect of a brand-new mammalian discovery, gave in and took it. ‘Charlotte?’

Her cue to sort out the problem. This one she could handle. Unlike the wayward husband problem. That one would have to wait.

Before Izzy could blink, she found herself handing Bonzer’s lead over to Sittingstone’s estate manager.

‘Bye bye, bud. See you soon.’ Izzy nuzzled the puppy.

‘Any news on the hedgehog house?’ Freya had just jogged up to their little group and given them all a full report on the hedgehog, a need for tweezers (ticks) and an assurance that Luna was as transfixed by the little creature as the rest of the children were. And by ‘rest of the children’, she meant hers. Charlotte’s children, just that little bit older than the others, had been seen sloping off to their bell tent arguing about charging points.

‘We should have one kitted out for you in the next hour or two,’ the manager said. ‘The dowager countess has a thing for hedgehogs, so we’ve got loads round the estate. Normally we’ve got a few in store, but this one’s caught us a bit early.’

‘Mmm,’ Freya nodded deeply, then mouthed ‘global warming’.

Izzy stifled a laugh. Same ol’ Freya. Bless. She’d have to triple-check the recycling rules before she threw anything away. That. Or torture her like she and Emily used to back in the day. The fuss over an uncomposted banana skin. Good times. Simpler times.

The manager gave Bonzer a ‘let’s see now’ look. One that suggested he had the hedgehog situation under control, but puppies? Not so much.

‘Are you sure it’s okay?’ Izzy held out her hand for the lead.

‘Positive,’ said the manager, who had insisted several times everyone call him Whiffy instead of Peter. Something to do with how he’d always ‘smelt of the countryside’ as a kid, and nowt had changed other than that he lived down South where the weather were a bit fairer.

‘It’s for his own safety.’ He crouched down and gave the puppy’s head a scrub. Izzy was vaguely mollified when Bonzer gave him a big sloppy lick on the face and Whiffy laughed.

‘Breed?’

‘Erm … designer dog?’ Or mutt. All in the spin, she supposed.

‘The rescue charity said he’s a mishmash of Lab, collie and some sort of enormous mystery beast. I’m guessing that’s why his paws are so huge. Pyrenean mountain dog?’

They all studiously examined Bonzer. His white eyebrows quirking left, then right, then left again. ‘The woman said he was the product of a “secret liaison”.’

Freya’s eyes shot to her as if she’d been giving them some code about Luna. Izzy herself was the product of a secret liaison, so … no judgement in this camp.

‘When did you move back again?’ Freya asked. ‘Long enough to get a puppy, obviously.’

‘Monday.’ Izzy held up her hands. ‘I know. We’re doing this all a bit ass-backwards, but …’ She shrugged. ‘I thought Bonzer might help us both settle in once we get to the cottage.’

‘Cottage?’ Freya’s eyebrow shot up.

She’d forgotten Freya’s insatiable appetite for details.

Cool your jets. It’s been ten years. Plenty of water under the bridge. More water to come.

‘The one I inherited. It’s in Wales. Welsh Wales.’ She swiped the air between them. ‘I’ll fill you in on everything later. Right now I just wanna make sure this little guy is going to be all right.’

Bonzer nestled his head into Whiffy’s hand then looked up at him, a picture of doe-eyed innocence. Everyone went, ‘awwww’, then threw guilty looks at each other seeing as they were meant to be saying goodbye.

Whiffy grinned at Izzy. ‘Don’t you worry. His accommodation will be posher than what you lot are in.’

Charlotte bristled.

Whiffy held up his hands. ‘Not like that.’ He laughed. ‘A kennel’s a kennel. It’s just that it’s up at the main house.’

‘You mean the earl and countess are in residence?’ Charlotte shook her hair a bit to make it look as if she didn’t really care, but Charlotte, Izzy now remembered, had never been particularly good at pretending.

Whiffy looked down at Bonzer. ‘They’d love a little guy like this. Mad about puppies, they are.’

Izzy threw Charlotte a panicked look.

Whiffy saw the exchange. ‘Don’t worry. Lord James and Her Ladyship are away this weekend. Greece, I think. They won’t be anywhere near the kennels. The dowager countess is in.’ He dropped them a cheeky wink. ‘She does love an evening stroll to the kennels. Not sure I’ll be able to keep her mitts off this one.’

‘Well, if that’s the case, then maybe it’s better if we keep Bonzer. I’ve got the van and—’

‘Nope. No. Sorry, madam.’ Whiffy really did look sorry, but he took a step back from her all the same. ‘You really don’t want to see a longhorn cow protecting her calf against this little guy.’ Whiffy gave Bonzer’s head another scrub, then lifted him into the back of his utility truck. The women waved goodbye. Bonzer’s expression read as all of theirs had when their parents had left them to ‘get on with the magic of learning’ that first day of uni. Half bewildered, half ‘you can go now’.

Devoid of her puppy and child, Izzy gave the site a proper scan. It was lush. Stunning, really. That seemingly effortless combination of whimsy and class. The Brits were brilliant at baronial elegance.

Her eyes settled on a nearby yurt. The first time she’d ever gone camping was with these girlies. Emily had had a hissy fit after her first insect bite and had slept in Izzy’s van. Not that there had been much room in it. Charlotte had decanted near enough their whole house into the thing. Freya had been the truly useful one. Fire-starter. Tent putter-upper. Arbiter of just how long the five-second rule really lasted when a sausage dropped off a stick into the sand. (About thirty seconds if anyone was asking.)

‘Are you all right, Izzy?’ Charlotte reached out to take the backpack Izzy was holding looped on her arm.

‘Absolutely. More than.’ Izzy smiled. She wasn’t here to mope. She was here to party! ‘This place is amazing.’

Charlotte beamed. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’ She tucked her arm in Izzy’s and pointed towards a bell tent. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about what’s brought you back home.’

All in good time, Izzy thought. This was great. Being home again. She loved the UK. She loved her friends. She loved life. All in good time, but not tonight. First, she wanted absorb all of this. The fire pit, the kitchen tent, the smattering of benches and picnic rugs that were all so fabulously British. Everything was just so, except … ‘You know what would make this place absolutely perfect?’

Charlotte and Freya leaned in.

‘Bunting!’

‘Wait! Stop the car.’

‘I thought we were late.’

Emily pressed her hands to the dash. ‘Oh, gawd. Just look at it all.’ Emily thought she might throw up a little. It was all so twee! She loved kitsch, but she did not do twee. In fairness, she thought there’d be bunting. Bunting might’ve tipped her over the edge.

Emily arched an imperious eyebrow at Callum and did a refresher course. ‘Okay. Charlotte’s the hostess with the mostest and it’s her birthday.’

‘Am I right in guessing she’s also the world’s biggest fan of Emma Bridgewater?’

Emily shrugged. ‘Probably. She’s the nice one. The nicest.’ They were all nice.

‘Freya. Erm … She drummed her fingers on her lips. ‘Freya is our resident eco-politico-do-gooder. Married to Monty. Don’t recycle in front of her. You’ll get it wrong.’

‘She sounds a right barrel of laughs.’ Callum mimed turning the car around and making a break for it.

‘Less annoying than she sounds. She’s a weird mix of practicality and creative idealism. Or was anyway. It’s difficult to dislike someone who once made a dress entirely out of cornflakes then tried to donate it to a homeless shelter.’

Callum laughed appreciatively. ‘Sounds like the sort of person who should’ve stayed in Bristol.’

Emily shoved her chunky fringe out of her eyes. Good point. But London was a bit like Oz back in the day. Going to uni then moving to London was simply what you did. Their lot anyway. Except, of course, Izzy. ‘I think the plan was to be some sort of couture artist, but she has a shop in Camden now.’

‘Selling?’

Clothes that were a far cry from the unbelievably beautiful dresses she had once made out of flower petals, but … daisy-chain tutus weren’t exactly everyday wear. ‘Slogan T-shirts.’

Callum looked at her blankly.

‘You know. The kind that say “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m a Unicorn” or “hashtagI’mWithHer”.’

A smile lit up Callum’s face. ‘You should have one that says “Glamping Queen”.’

He laughed so hard the car lurched and ground to a halt.

‘Listen, mate, if I get the slightest hint that there are nasty insects or a compost loo anywhere near this so-called “glamorous” bell tent we’re in, you’re taking me to a Hilton.’

‘Well, someone’s certainly looking forward to seeing her nearest and dearest girlfriends of days gone by.’

She was. Oh, she definitely was. And she also really wasn’t.

‘Just as a point of interest, they might also think you’re my boyfriend. Just go with it.’

She ignored the pointed look and unfurled her index finger towards the glampsite. ‘Onward, James.’

Fuck it.

Was there nothing that would stop the hounds of insecurity baying at Freya’s door? At least Charlotte had finally given her a job. Chopping. Chopping was good. These would be the best carrot, pepper and celery batons the world had ever seen.

Tuning out Izzy’s oohing and aahing as she peered into all the cake tins, Freya selected a glossy red pepper and chopped it in half in one fluid, surgical move. It felt good. But not good enough. Were there enough crudités here to pound out the jealousy she was still feeling over Izzy and Monty?

Logic dictated she should be grateful. Logic seemed to be taking a bit of a holiday.

Sure. If Izzy hadn’t brought him home and had Very Loud Sex with him over that fortnight, she and Monty never would have met. He’d been unceremoniously dumped but had still popped up at the odd party because Izzy had pronounced him good fun if not boyfriend material. When their paths had crossed again at that massive anti-Gulf War march, kismet, Freya had thought. Kismet. But the truth was, fate had nothing to do with it. Her cupid was Izzy.

She chopped so hard she gave herself a crick in her neck. Idiot. Monty loved her. He’d chosen her. They had two chestnut-haired, blue-eyed children to prove it. Their lives were exactly what they’d hoped for. They didn’t need nods from the couture houses or an Amal Clooney-esque track record of human rights triumphs to know they were still in love. That had been the original plan, but … life. At least they were still doing their bit for the planet.

Chop.

Just because, unlike Charlotte, she and Monty had done everything the wrong way round, didn’t mean she needed to be insecure about it.

First came love. They’d got that part right. Then came the double-wide baby carriage. Then, once they’d given in to Monty’s father’s extremely unsubtle offer to pay for a reception at their local in Gloucestershire, marriage.

In the lead-up to their wedding, the twins had been toddlers. Two year olds into everything. It all began to flood back as if it were happening right now. The endless stream of nappies. The panic about primary schools. A ridiculous need to prove to all of their friends that they were still up for throwing one hell of a party. The bone-crushing fatigue.

Freya had had no energy beyond caring for her children, making on-trend T-shirts and getting her family’s bills paid. There hadn’t been extra energy for rolls in the hay. Or money for a nursery or a nanny. Monty had told her it didn’t matter. The job at Human Rights Watch would’ve paid less than it would’ve cost to hire someone to look after the kids, so … Looking after them at that juncture hadn’t meant to be permanent, more … a means to an end. Only there didn’t seem to be an end. Maybe Izzy’s reappearance was a sign that change was afoot. Of good things to come? Or a harbinger of doom?

Chop.

It came to her clear as day. Monty was going to leave her. No wonder he’d run off to have a pint with Oliver. She’d hollered instructions after him as if he were a teenaged boy, not a man. If she were in his shoes, she’d run away. With Izzy, for example. Now that she was back. Izzy was beautiful. Carefree. Freya was the opposite of carefree. She was … pernickety. A bossy, pernickety, purveyor of so-so unicorn T-shirts.

Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop.

‘All right there, woman?’ Izzy sidled up to Freya and hip-bumped her at just the wrong moment. Freya was about to snap at her when Izzy leant in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘So good to see you. You look bloody brilliant. Still keeping Monty on his toes?’

… and breathe.

‘Brilliant T-shirt, Frey.’ Izzy pointed at it with a slice of red pepper. ‘Love the skunk and grenade motif. Is that a Banksy-inspired take on conflict? A “war stinks” kind of thing?’

Prickles of frustration crackled through her. The T-shirt was one of her favourites. And, yes, it was inspired by Banksy. Not that she would ever admit as much. ‘I thought it was a bit more subtle than that. More along the lines that the artist’s role in nonviolent protest is critical to bringing about change.’ She sniffed.

‘It’s cute.’ Izzy plopped the dips into a pair of glossy green bowls without waiting for Charlotte’s decision.

Typical Izzy. Just ploughing ahead and doing whatever she wants, no matter the consequences!

‘It’s very … evocative,’ Charlotte said. Which was kind, but not really the ego boost it was meant to be because, in a million-zillion years, Charlotte would never be caught dead wearing one of Freya’s T-shirts. Except, perhaps, the unicorn range and even then—

‘Emily!’ Izzy’s scream brought Freya’s maniacal chopping to an abrupt halt.

Charlotte clapped her hands. ‘Oh, good! I was beginning to think she wouldn’t make it.’

Izzy took off like a gazelle, arms wide open, as Emily peeled away from the fancy convertible she’d arrived in, instantly falling into her role as The Girl Who Hates Group Hugs.

Freya followed Izzy, noticing – as she left the tent – Charlotte swiftly rearranging the dips before she, too, headed towards the car park.

‘Enough!’ Emily wailed as they surrounded her and bombarded her with the very things she hated most, kisses and hugs. ‘Get off!’

Through her cries of protest, they all vied to be heard, ‘You look amazing!’ tangled up with, ‘How long was the drive?’ ‘Who’s the hottie emptying the boot?’ And ‘Jesus wept, are you wearing a skort?’

The familiarity of this, the silliness of it, stripped a layer of defensiveness from Freya’s heart. Her insecurities were obviously playing silly buggers with her. Everything was as it appeared. Izzy was no threat to her marriage. Oli was as good a husband as any. And Emily was secretly loving this.

‘Get off me you heathens!’

See? Nothing had changed at all.

Once she’d shaken everyone off, bar Izzy, who was draping her arm over Emily like a feather boa, Freya got a proper look at her.

‘Crikey, Emms. You’ve not aged a day!’

Emily gave a nonchalant shrug. She looked like Lucy Liu with a fringe. Long, inky-black hair. Pitch-black eyes. Not a line in sight, nor a lick of make-up. The women all beamed at each other and, for a moment, the years fell away and they were all twenty-one again, the world at their feet.

Emily made a show of assessing each of them before abruptly unleashing that sly-dog, hard-won smile of hers. ‘Well, thanks very much, ladies!’

‘For what?’ Charlotte looked perplexed.

‘For telling me we didn’t have to dress like Ray Mears.’

Laughing, Emily clapped her hands together with a decisive crack, then brandished two condensation-covered bottles of fizz that she’d pulled from her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s get this pre-party party started!’

Chapter Four

When supper was finally ready, the children descended like locusts, making Charlotte’s efforts feel worthwhile. She’d always loved the hubbub of happy children. Even hers had cheered when Izzy revealed some genuine American marshmallows.

The children, having devoured most of the marshmallows, started to disappear from around the fire which, until food was put in front of him, Monty couldn’t seem to leave alone. Or Oli, for that matter. As if he who made the largest fire would come out as top man. Why on earth was Oliver still trying to prove he was the alpha male when he so obviously was? Charlotte’s concept of what made a real man snagged on the thought. Perhaps the fact Monty had enough pride and self-confidence to be a stay-at-home father did make him the stronger one of the two. She would bet any money in the world Monty wasn’t running around behind Freya’s back.

‘Oof! Charlotte.’ Izzy rubbed her flat-as-a-pancake belly. ‘That was amazing. Still hostess with the mostest!’

Hostess with the mostest secrets, Charlotte thought, giving herself an invisible pat on the back for not succumbing to the growing urge to tell her friends that her charming husband sought his carnal pleasures elsewhere. It had been on the tip of her tongue all evening.

‘Tomato sauce, Emily?’ Did you know I’ve not had sex with my husband since Christmas?

‘Pimm’s, Freya?’ The last time I tried to make love with him, he pushed me away.

‘Izzy, do have the last bit of burrata.’ How’s life as a single mum? Do you think I’d take to it?

‘Anyone care to finish these off?’ Charlotte held out the scant remains of their supper. A pair of odd-shaped sausages, a bit of over-charred potato with chorizo and some wilted salad leaves.

‘Would you look at that?’ Freya tipped her head towards the fire pit where Monty was now sound asleep on a broad slab of oak, tucked beneath one of the lovely National Trust rugs Whiffy had brought out. He was hugging his camera bag like a teddy bear. ‘Stamina of a gnat.’

Charlotte watched Freya examine her slumbering husband. It was difficult to read her expression. Half loving, half ‘oh, please’. Their banter was as bright as ever. Maybe a bit more bossy on Freya’s part, but … she was the breadwinner in the house, and if Charlotte’s home was anything to go by, the bill payer had free rein to comment on the failings of the non-earning person. Perhaps that was where she’d gone wrong. Literally making herself valueless.

‘He lasted longer than Callum.’ Emily flicked her eyes towards the yurt where her boyfriend had disappeared after announcing he was exhausted after a ‘savage week on the ward’. Mind you, Emily hadn’t actually introduced him as her boyfriend. Just said, ‘And this is Callum, the hospital’s answer to Dr Kildare.’ The two of them seemed to have a little joke at this, which was sweet … but he did seem a bit … theatrical. ‘He seems lovely. Your Callum.’ Charlotte pushed the remains of the cheese tray towards Emily.

‘Ha! He’s definitely not “mine”.’ Emily picked up a grape and stared at it. ‘The man does as he chooses.’ When she realized everyone was looking at her with raised eyebrows, she qualified. ‘As do I. Obviously.’

‘Amen to that.’ Freya sat up straight. ‘I find a lot of the mums at the school treat me very differently to the other mums, but that they simple adore Monty. Make a huge fanfare out of things he does – like getting the children to school on time – that the other mums get tuppence for. When I point it out? They all flock to his defence.’

Emily gave her a sideways look. ‘I was just saying we’re our own people. Open and honest. Nothing to make a big deal about.’

Izzy gave Emily a stagey nudge. ‘Yes. It’s good to be open and honest with the people we love, isn’t it?’

Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why, yes, Isabelle. It is good to be open and honest with the people we love.’

Freya snorted, then pretended she hadn’t. ‘Are you two still doing that weird “saying meaningful stuff in front of us without spelling it out” thing?’

‘No,’ they both said tightly.

Freya drained her wine glass and extracted herself from the picnic table, announcing an urgent need for more Sancerre.

Charlotte gave Emily and Izzy a curious look. Were they hiding things? Not that she was judging. She’d been hiding things all night.

As if on cue, Oli strode out of the kitchen tent where he’d been muttering away on his mobile.

He shut off his phone and sauntered over towards the women. Charlotte noticed that his natural swagger was exaggerated to the point of outright arrogance by the amount of booze he’d put away, both at The Golden Goose and here.

‘Here she is, the birthday girl. Well done, darling. Did the meal transport you back to the good old days as expected? Burnt bangers and charred burgers hit the spot for everyone?’

Charlotte squirmed. What an odd way to make her feel good about herself. Mocking her Northern simplicity. She was certain the tzatziki had covered up any dryness the burgers might have suffered on the grill. And the griddled potato and chorizo had been devoured. Putting in that touch of sherry had made a difference.

‘Have you lot had Charlotte’s Yorkies? Best thing to come out of Yorkshire, if you ask me.’ Oli just missed covering up a belch. ‘Apart from Charlotte, of course.’

‘Your wife can rustle up a MasterChef meal on a hotplate. I’ve seen it.’ Freya gave him a curt nod and handed him the bottle and the corkscrew. ‘Here. Why don’t you make yourself useful?’

Charlotte caught the glint of a challenge in his eye. ‘Of course!’ He grunted as he deftly extracted the cork and handed Freya the bottle with a pointed, ‘The perfect little woman, my Charlotte. Maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen and whore in the bedroom, right love?’ He leant back and barked a solitary ha!, pleased with his own daring. Charlotte failed to hide her cringe, her eyes darting round the table, hoping no one noticed the sharp look Oli shot her when his joke fell flat. How quickly he must have forgotten how, just a few hours earlier, he had been pleading her, with actual tears in his eyes, to forgive him. Take him back. Continue to love him and keep their family whole. It was the only thing he wanted, he’d said. She was the only thing he wanted. Somehow, she wasn’t entirely convinced that was true.

‘You’re a lucky man to have your very own K-Midd,’ Emily said, holding out her glass for more wine. ‘The power behind the throne.’

‘And the brains.’ Izzy gave Oli one of those ‘just try and contradict me’ looks she’d learned from her mother. Charlotte had always been a bit intimidated by Izzy’s mother. As, she supposed, she had been of Oli. Which was an awful thing to realize. Maybe she should have refused his offer to try and work things out. Instead of accepting gratefully, she could have nodded benignly and said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve made your bed, Oliver. Now off you go. Lie in it.’ As if she’d ever have the courage.

Freya was about to say something else but Charlotte gave her head a quick ‘please don’t’ shake.

She knew she should be grateful to her friends for attempting to burst his little bubble, but all she could feel was the hot embarrassment of shame at the situation, at Oliver, and mostly at herself. How had she managed to end up like this? No self-esteem, no respect, and – potentially – no husband.

‘Well, this is all lovely, the old gang together, thick as thieves like always.’ Oliver put the emphasis on ‘thick’ and Charlotte felt the colour rise to her face. She’d never embarrass him in front of his friends.

Oli yawned and stretched. ‘Wonderful as all this is, how about some coffee, and possibly a nightcap, Charlotte?’ His request felt suspiciously like an order, but desperate to end this particular horror show, she was about to acquiesce when Freya made a ‘no you don’t’ cluck.

‘Sit back down, Lotts. It’s your birthday.’ She shot a look at Oli then said, ‘You’re to be waited on hand and foot this weekend. Sit.’ She climbed out of her spot on the picnic bench and playfully, but firmly, admonished Oli. ‘Lavish your wife with affection.’

Charlotte flushed again. Oli didn’t take to being told what to do, and getting him to lavish anything on her other than disapproval at this point was as likely as Elton John turning up and bashing out ‘Happy Birthday to You’.

A tinny-sounding tune vibrated in Oliver’s pocket. Charlotte thought it sounded a lot like Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’. He tugged his phone out, quickly silenced it, then shoved it back in again. Was it her? Was that their song? She almost wanted to laugh. Filthy and annoying. A bit like him.

He turned towards the tree house, mouthing, ‘Business. Sorry.’ Her friends stared at Oliver’s retreating figure with ill-disguised horror.

‘Not to worry,’ she said in too high a voice. ‘He’s always a bit like this when he’s working on a big deal.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘Besides,’ she tacked on as brightly as she could, ‘if he didn’t work so hard, I wouldn’t get lovely treats like this.’

She waved her hands expansively at the scene around them, at the detritus from the evening; then, as if Oli had snipped the marionette strings that held up her wrists, her hands dropped to the table top with a small thud.

Freya caught eyes with Izzy. For once they could agree on something. Oli was being an arse. The splinters of hurt splicing through Charlotte’s cheery demeanour as her husband disappeared up into the tree house were painful to watch.

It was a super-big ‘ouch’ in an evening that had been increasingly filled with Awkward Oliver Moments. Not that he’d been anything less than charming in his trademark way. A bit of locker-room humour, a bit of bantz and teasing in that slightly juvenile, slightly bullying public-schoolboy way of his.

Everyone’s awkwardness spoke volumes. None of them had ever really taken to Oli. Apart from Charlotte, obviously, so they’d all made allowances. Laughed at his terrible jokes and tried to ignore his privileged egotism. When he’d proposed, they’d all figured if the nicest human in the world loved him, then he couldn’t be all that bad. Hidden depths and all that. But this time there was something else at play, something more … cutting.

‘Guess I’d best clear up for the big day, then.’ Charlotte half stood. ‘Perhaps bring Oli up a coffee.’

The three women exchanged brief ‘WTF’ looks with each other and all rose to help.

Izzy picked up the stray food platter while Emily cleared up the unused cutlery. Freya shooed Charlotte away from the stovetop coffee percolator and made a show of topping up Charlotte’s wine glass whilst lavishing her with praise about the glampsite, the meal, her outfit. When the coffee was ready, Freya ran it up to Oli but didn’t bother waiting for him to answer the door. The soft murmuring tones she’d heard before she’d knocked hadn’t sounded anything like a business call.

Once they’d sat back round the picnic table, an awkward silence settled around them, which Freya was the first to break.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, hen?’ she asked Charlotte quietly. When Freya reached out to touch her hand, Charlotte looked as if she was about to break. A kind word or a hug could push her over the edge. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Oli’s just had a few too many, that’s all.’ She popped on a bright smile.

Freya wasn’t convinced, but! As Monty would say, it was her party, so no point pressing if she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Let’s sort out this bunting crisis, shall we?’ Freya started folding little 3D dresses, robins and hearts out of the unused serviettes.

Izzy plucked a serviette off the pile. ‘Show me?’

‘Give us a stack.’ Emily made pincing movements with her hand until Charlotte handed her some of the polka-dotted napkins, then took some for herself.

Under Freya’s instruction, the women listened, learnt, folded. ‘I’m just going to nip out and find some twine or string for these,’ Charlotte said. When she came back from the car where she had indeed found a ball of green twine, her eyes were rimmed red.

Izzy was officially fuming on Charlotte’s behalf. What a bastard. How dare he make Charlotte feel small? Her mother’s poet voice came to her, rich and strong: The instinct of man is to oppress. It was why Izzy’s mum had never married. She’d always said she didn’t care if the caged bird sang. The free one did, too. And without fear of a blanket being thrown over its head.

Izzy looked up to the tree house where a battery-powered lantern lit up the windows.

How had Oli gone from the husband she’d last seen at Freya and Monty’s wedding – a bit grabby, but still proudly boastful of Charlotte and their little ones – to a man who barely bothered disguising his lack of respect for her. And her mates, for that matter. As if they were B-grade guests versus the A-listers invited for ‘the real do’ tomorrow.

Charlotte had been so ridiculously in love when they’d married. A true Cinderella story, with Jimmy Choos standing in for glass slippers. They’d all been thrilled for her, if not slightly perplexed that she wanted them to be her bridesmaids in lieu of her new set of friends. Except for Freya, they’d not really stayed in touch. Either way, they’d all been excited. Perhaps it had been the promise of a swanky reception. It definitely hadn’t been the dreadful, flouncy, lavender bridesmaid dresses. Freya had tried her best to zshuzsh them up, but Charlotte’s mother-in-law had put a shockingly swift end to ‘those shenanigans’. Charlotte’s mother-in-law was a society girl from a bygone era. There were rules. They were meant to be obeyed.

Perhaps that was what had happened. Too many rules.

Izzy wasn’t very good with rules. But she was good with loyalty, and she wanted to put a smile back on Charlotte’s face.

Freya moved the huge pile of serviette bunting to the side, throwing a quick glance over at Monty who was still sound asleep. ‘And you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing we can do to help tonight?’

‘Honestly, most of it’s taken care of,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘Oli’s booked caterers, servers, everything. We’ve even sorted things for the vegans.’ She gasped and paled. ‘Oh, Freya. I didn’t force you into eating meat tonight, did I? I know we did a few vegetable kebabs, but I kept pushing everyone to eat the sausages.’

‘Not to worry.’ Freya gave one of her Mother Earth smiles. ‘We did go veggie for a bit, but now we get boxes from an organic farm out in Berkshire. Grass fed, free range, massaged on a daily basis. That sort of thing.’

Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘It really was lovely of you all to make the effort to come early. The big do was Oli’s idea, but mostly I wanted to see you girls. Catch up on your news.’

‘Which perfectly leads us to the question on everybody’s mind,’ Freya said, rather grandly.

Emily glanced behind her, as if the question was tiptoeing in from the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. ‘What question?’

Poor Emms. She hated questions. Her mother relentlessly peppered her with them. It had been the only reason Emily had been allowed a phone at uni. So that her mother could send texts demanding updates on her daughter’s academic progress and promises of sexual abstinence. Polar opposite to her mum. There’d been times Izzy had been quite jealous of Emily and her mum. There’d been times when she’d been jealous of each and every one of them. Even Little Miss I’m Still Jelly That You Shagged My Husband sitting across from her. Freya topped up her glass again. Maybe she should slow down on her one-woman attempt to drink all of Oli’s fancy wine.

‘Right! What’s this question of yours then, Freya?’

Freya sat up straighter, as if psyching herself up, then asked in one of those ‘not at all casual but meant to be’ tones, ‘How did Luna come into your life, Izz?’

‘The usual way.’ She almost pointed to her lady garden, but as Charlotte was there she made a bulging tummy gesture instead.

‘And the father is?’ Freya’s eyes jumped between hers and Emily’s, rightly suspecting that Emily already knew.

Emily shrugged. She was the best liar.

Izzy was less gifted, so she threw Freya a smattering of facts. ‘He was a surfer. Surprise surprise. We met in Morocco. He was a bit of a player. I found out I was pregnant after he’d left to chase some waves in Bali and … that’s about it.’

Freya, strangely, looked rather relieved. As if the fact that Luna was the product of a one-night stand in Morocco had settled a bet she’d made with herself.

‘Do you know his name?’ Charlotte asked, just a tiny bit horrified.

‘Course! It’s a bit dorky, though. Sounds much better in his accent.’

‘Oh!’ Charlotte clapped, her eyes softening. ‘He’s foreign. I always thought that would be so exotic. To have a husband with an accent.’

‘And his name is …?’

‘Alfred.’

‘Oh!’

The table fell silent. Like she’d said. Dorky.

‘Did you ever see him again? The father?’

She shook her head no. She had actually. From a distance. At a surfing festival on Maui, where pretty much everyone but her and Alf had been in their twenties and high as a kite. He hadn’t seen her. Or Luna. One look at those eyes and he would’ve known. They were his. All his. If she’d known then what she knew today, she just might have braved it, but … regrets and all that.

‘I think he’s back in Denmark. Not a hundred per cent sure.’

She was. She’d googled him. Once a year she let herself, on Luna’s birthday. Her way of checking in. It had taken a few years, but he was back in Denmark, behaving like a responsible adult. Just as her own father had when her mother had shooed him out the door to return to his wife and children in Sweden. Anyhoo …

She faked a massive yawn. ‘Ladies, I am afraid I am going to have to turn in. I still haven’t shaken the jet lag, so if you don’t mind?’

They all said they didn’t, though it was easy to see Charlotte and Freya wished she’d told them more. Just before she got up, she felt Emily’s hand creep into her lap and grab her hand for a quick squeeze.

The gesture spoke volumes. I love you. I’m glad you’re here. One day you’re going to have to tell them.

Soon enough she’d tell them, but tonight? Tonight she was totally happy to let everyone think she was the same ol’ Dizzy Izzy.

Chapter Five

Emily flushed the toilet and called out to Izzy who was brushing her teeth. ‘I can’t believe how civilized this feels. Flushing!’

She joined Izzy at the long, low butler’s sink, turned on the tap and smiled at Izzy’s reflection in the mirror. It was good to see her looking every bit the surfer girl she had emblazoned in her memory. Neither of them were Facebookers or Instagrammers, so her imagination had gone to some very dark places.

‘You all right?’

‘Mmm,’ Izzy said, after spitting out her toothpaste.

‘You know she doesn’t mean it, right?’

‘Who?’

‘Freya. The narkiness.’

‘Oh,’ Izzy said, then, ‘Yeah, I know.’

She finished brushing her own teeth then gave her face a quick wash.

Emily didn’t like it when Izzy fell silent. When it came to expressing what they really felt, neither of them were talkers, but Izzy was the queen of babbling on about anything and everything. Like a toddler. Not talking about anything at all? Not a good sign.

It had to be The Other Thing.

After they’d walked back past the kitchen tent where Freya and Charlotte were herding their children away from the cake tins, Emily grabbed Izzy in a loose headlock.

‘You. Me,’ Emily said to the big ball of curly half-fro in her face. ‘Talky talky.’

Izzy squirmed against her, then nuzzled into Emily’s neck and made purring noises. That was more like it. The Izzy she knew and loved. ‘I don’t wanna!’

Emily shook her off. ‘We have to. For Luna.’ She felt like a bitch for adding that part, but … needs must and all that.

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. The gesture of defeat felt like a sucker punch. It wasn’t like Emily wanted to have the talk. Or be the grown-up. She was as rattled by everything as Izzy was.

‘Tomorrow? Later? We can meet in London. Talk then. Once I’ve got all of the paperwork together,’ Izzy pleaded.

‘Isn’t it in the van? I thought you said you had everything with you.’

Izzy shrunk another few centimetres. ‘Most of it. I just … C’mon, Emms. I don’t want the girls to accidentally see. Or Luna.’

Both good points. Even so. Emily jabbed at the air between them. ‘You’re not leaving here without the two of us coming up with a proper plan.’

‘I have a plan. It’s a good plan.’

‘It’s not a good plan. Nor does it seem to involve Alf.’

Izzy fuzzed her lips. ‘Why should it?’

‘He’s the father of your child, idiot.’

That got Izzy’s back up. ‘He doesn’t even know her!’

‘So maybe now’s as good a time as any to change that. Go for a weekend. Take a city break.’

‘Yeah, right. Oh, hi Alf! Remember that night on the beach ten years ago with the girl with the big hair? Look! We made a mini us. Copenhagen’s brill! Should we go see the mermaid?’ She looked out towards the castle. ‘Besides. There’d be no one to look after Bonzer.’

Emily’s shoulders scrunched up to her ears in frustration. ‘What’s up with the elephant puppy, anyway?’

‘Luna’s pretty wobbly about things.’ She held up a hand so Emily would let her finish. ‘About leaving Hawaii. Starting in a new school. Not knowing anyone. I decided we needed a comfort dog.’

The two of them were going to need a damn sight more than a dopey-faced therapy puppy if things didn’t go according to Izzy’s so-called plan.

When they reached Emily’s yurt, Izzy gave her a kiss on the bonce, filling Emily’s nostrils with that crazy almond vanilla scent of hers. ‘Night night, Dr Cheung.’

Emily made a show of wiping off the kiss and waved goodbye without looking back.

When she got into the tent and began to undress, she shivered. It was chilly enough that, for the first time in a long while, she actually wanted a good old-fashioned cuddle.

Easing the quilt out of Callum’s fist, Emily curled up next to him. After an evening playing board games with Luna, then on to an intense-looking ‘what do you do’ talk with Monty, the man deserved a prize. Though he was clearly asleep, he pulled her into a tight, snuggly embrace.

He was a great snuggler. She mostly hated the whole body-against-body thing. The heat bodies generated. But if, like now, she was facing out and had the bulk of their very large bed as an escape zone, it was actually all right. When Izzy had crawled into her bed back in uni it had driven her bonkers. On a number of levels.

She let herself be tugged in close to Callum. Feel the steady thump thump of his heart against her back.

Why hadn’t she just come out with it when she had the chance?

Told them Callum was just a mate.

Because. That’s what she did.

Once she overcame thousands of years of Chinese tradition and told her parents …

Ping!

Swear to god her mother had a sixth sense. She tugged the phone across to her.

Listen. Mr Chang from next door has cousin visiting from China. Hunan Province. Tall. Good idea for you to come for Sunday dim sum.

She flipped the phone over and took a deep inhalation of cotton, canvas and earth. It was quite cosy, this. Snuggling with someone with all of that fresh air circulating around them.

Good bed. Soft sheets.

The quiet.

It was really, really quiet.

Almost quiet enough to hear the skittering of a field mouse.

Instantly, Emily was wide awake again.

God, she hated camping.

As they hung their tea towels on the Aga, Freya got the sense Charlotte wasn’t quite ready to go.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes! Of course,’ Charlotte said unconvincingly. ‘Why do you ask?’ She swiped at the perfectly clean counter with a J-cloth.

‘Nothing really. I just … I kind of got the sense that everything might not be tickety-boo with Oli.’

Charlotte looked physically ill. ‘What? No. Everything’s fine. I’m just being a bit funny about turning forty.’

‘Don’t be daft. You look as young as you did the day you got married.’

Charlotte’s smile faltered.

Ah. It was definitely about Oli. Freya felt that bloom of solidarity that came from discovering she wasn’t the only one wading through the magical wilderness of a long-term relationship.

Charlotte’s laugh fell flat. ‘Perhaps I’m just a bit worried about tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘Ohhh. You know …’ She threw Freya a quick glance then set about refolding all the tea towels. ‘My in-laws are coming and all of our friends. I mean … obviously you’re my friends, but these are more Oli and his family’s group. Some of the children’s friends and their parents. They can be a bit cliquey. High expectations always make me a bit edgy.’

‘Is this party meant to be for you or for Oli?’

Charlotte threw her a sharp look. ‘For me, of course. We’d hardly be camping if it was Oli’s party.’

‘Well,’ Freya said, ‘I think this place is amazing. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a better venue.’

‘Oh, believe me they do.’ In a very un-Charlotte-like move, she began ticking things off on her fingers. ‘So far this year, we’ve been to all of the Soho House venues – private rooms. Babington House. Twice. A château in France. A snowmobile trek to see the Northern Lights with two nights in an ice hotel. Oh. And a weekend at a country estate in Ireland.’ She pulled a small handkerchief out of an invisible side pocket and fretted at its scalloped edging. ‘My children didn’t want to tell their friends. About the glamping. In truth, they didn’t want to come at all. Oli had to bribe them.’

‘Oh, Lotte.’ Freya pretended not to notice Charlotte swiping at her eyes.

How awful.

Sure. Freya sometimes had rich people envy, but at this moment? She wouldn’t trade places with Charlotte for anything.

Freya felt an unexpected rush of love for Monty. He might be shit with money, living in a bit of a dream world most of the time with his harebrained schemes for their future (perhaps they should move to the Isle of Mull one day and set up a retreat for burned-out tech entrepreneurs and teach them how to live mindfully), but he was an amazing father and her family loved each other. Not one of them would ever have to be bribed to spend time together. Monty always instilled respect into their kids. Years ago, when Regan was four, she’d had a particularly foul tantrum when Freya had been trying to get out of the house to work. Monty had made Regan FaceTime her on her way to the tube and sing ‘The Apology Song’. It wasn’t a real song. Monty had made it up. They’d also bought her a Tunnock’s Snowball and put it on her pillow after making her toad-in-the-hole for supper. Her faves from home.

She couldn’t imagine Oliver ever doing the same for Charlotte. She made a silent vow to try and not kick Monty tonight when he began to snore.

‘Hey,’ Freya brightened at a memory. ‘I forgot to say, Rocco sends his best.’

‘Your brother?’ Charlotte’s features softened.

‘The one and only. We rang him on the drive down. I mentioned we were seeing you and he starting dredging up memories from the summer you came up and worked at the fruit farm with me. Remember that?’

‘Of course, I do. It was a brilliant summer.’

Freya squawked, ‘Hardly! We worked our fingers to the bone … oh, wait. You got upgraded to the café, didn’t you?’

‘Farm shop. I did the displays,’ Charlotte said, as if it had happened yesterday. ‘And your brother dropped us off and picked us up every single day.’

‘Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. He’s a good big brother.’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte looked lost in a world of her own. ‘Very nice.’

Freya grabbed a couple of Charlotte’s brilliant homemade biscuits then took a torch out of the ‘general use’ box.

Charlotte hadn’t moved.

‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘Perfect.’ Charlotte gave her hand a quick squeeze then shooed her on. ‘Never better.’

Charlotte had nearly cracked. Told Freya everything. She’d virtually tasted the words in her mouth.

Oliver’s having an affair. He wants us to stay married. Push on through. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know what she wanted. Plenty of women forgave their husbands for indiscretions. Even Beyoncé. There were others, of course, who didn’t. But could you ever move on from betrayal?

She had no money of her own. No job. Nowhere to go. No friends to turn to – not on her doorstep anyway.

Oh, it was an impossible situation, and not one she’d imagined having to contend with on her birthday. Not anytime, really, but it did seem particularly unfair to find out now. Her mother would’ve wept with laughter. Shows you, Little Miss Fancy Britches. Always thought you were too good for your own kind.

Yes. She had been shown. And now she needed to decide how to proceed. She tiptoed up the curved stairwell to the tree house, even though the place was still blazing with light. Perhaps Oli hadn’t been taking a call from her after all.

She quietly opened the door and looked across to the huge king-sized bed where Oli was skimming through messages on his phone, that telltale smile playing on his lips. The one that said he was in the mood. Her heart lifted. Maybe he really had meant it. About keeping things going. Wanting the best for their marriage. He looked up when she closed the door behind her with little more than a click, met her inquisitive gaze and said, ‘Oh. It’s you.’ As if he had been expecting someone else.

‘Hello, darling. Chilly out. Oh, good, you got your coffee.’

His eyes flicked to the bedside table then back to his phone. ‘Your friends were pretty lairy tonight,’ he said. As if they’d trashed the place. ‘Especially … who is it? The Scottish one. She likes her sauce.’ He mimed glugging a bottle of wine, which was rich given the fumes he was emitting. ‘You’ll keep an eye on her tomorrow, right? Make sure the staff don’t top her up too often?’

An instruction. So many of their conversations were actually lists of instructions. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even trying to be different. This wasn’t the behaviour of a repentant man. A husband desperate to make amends. All of her hopeful thoughts that they might be able to go through this marital … calamity … fluttered to her feet.

She wondered if Oli’s lover was the same as she had once been. In complete awe of him. The power. His physical presence. The confidence. It was his confidence that had really swept her off her feet. He was still every bit as handsome. Every bit as charismatic. Every bit as much in love with her?

She reached out to him, her heart lurching up into her throat as she asked, ‘Darling, do you think this will all work out?’

‘What? The party? So long as your mates behave themselves, I’ve got it all in hand. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.’

Then he rolled over and turned out the light.

In that moment, Charlotte resolved to tell her friends everything.

Chapter Six

Sleep might have helped. So would flinging her phone into the fire and watching it melt away into nothing.

As things stood, Charlotte wasn’t in the best frame of mind to host a birthday party.

Calling it off was out of the question. Too many wheels in motion. The caterers, for example, would be arriving any time now.

Almost involuntarily, her thumb flicked her phone from the home page to Instagram. Cyber-stalking, it turned out, was rather addictive.

Xanthe was terrifically young and beautiful. No surprise there.

Xanthe had well over two thousand followers, could ski, scuba, and loved a quality organic facial.

Xanthe – she thumbed a bit further down the page – also went out to nightclubs where her husband doled out kisses like lollipops. She looked happy and comfortable. As if it were perfectly normal to have another woman’s husband plant kisses on her dewy young cheek.

Charlotte pocketed the phone and stared helplessly at the yurts where her friends peacefully slept away.

As certain as she’d been that she must tell them what was really going on, morning brought with it the dawning realization that if she were to veer off script now she might lose what little traction she had in her marriage. Putting on ‘a good show’ was paramount to the Mayfields. And today, which came complete with the full complement of in-laws, would be no different.

Mostly because everything seemed one step removed from reality. As if discovering her husband was a cheat had dropped triple-glazing between her and the life she thought she’d been living.

She remembered the advice that some of the older wives at the law firm had given her in the early days of their marriage; giving her the lowdown on what being a ‘seasoned wife’ meant, and what was in store for Charlotte when Oliver became the youngest partner in his firm. Don’t complain about supper drying out in the oven. It will happen frequently. Never moan about the long days. Those billable hours were keeping her in Chloé and Stella McCartney. And most importantly, don’t fight about the affairs. It was simply how it worked. That will never happen to me, she had thought.

The affairs, she’d learnt that night, had tiers. The secretaries slept with the junior partners. The junior partners slept with the senior partners. The librarian slept with everyone.

She took a sip of her tea and watched, through the steam, as the morning sun edged its way from the woodland into the large meadowscape where, soon enough, she’d be celebrating her birthday.

Forty years old. She’d got her first party-planning job the year her mum had turned forty. They’d not celebrated. Quelle surprise. Forty. So much more grown-up sounding than thirty. Thirty had sounded full of possibility. Forty sounded … forty sounded a bit flat, if she were being perfectly honest. A crossroads.

Charlotte’s gaze shifted. Freya’s makeshift bunting had grown dewy in the night, causing quite a few of the cranes’ wings to droop, but, if the weather report was anything to go by, the string of origami serviettes would be shifting in a light, sun-soaked breeze by the time the party was under way.

The whole idea that she was throwing a birthday party suddenly seemed completely ridiculous.

This morning when she’d come down to put on the coffee, she’d foolishly looked around expecting something, anything, to be sitting out in the kitchen waiting for her. A card. A simply wrapped gift. A flower. But no. There had been nothing except a list of chores written in her own hand.

For all she knew, Oli had had to bribe the rest of their friends to come as he had the children. Veuve Clicquot and Michelin-starred amuse-bouches standing in for fifty-pound notes.

… deep breath in …

All she had to do was get through the next twelve hours. Twelve hours of smiling, greeting, nodding and, perhaps, if she dared, testing just how strong the bonds of her old friendships were.

Charlotte smoothed her hand across her spreadsheet, willing the detailed layout to act as a balm. Here was her day, laid out before her in black and white, with the odd yellow highlight (she really would have to stay on top of the Watlington boy’s peanut allergy, seeing as how Oli had insisted on a satay-based canapé and there was no guarantee his mother would remember his epi pen or that the catering staff would make an announcement).

Welcome drinks.

Nibbles.

Games for the children.

The hog roast.

Cake.

She pored over the sheet until she could see it with her eyes closed, then, as if someone had flicked a switch, the day began.

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Oli. Bacon sarnies ready soon? Need to run into town to get something.

Someone, more like.

Well, she thought, her thumb hovering above the Instagram app, happy birthday to me.

‘What did you say?’

Felix glanced nervously over his shoulder. Felix didn’t do conflict. ‘Ummm … Dad’s taking a bath so he told me to ask you?’

Freya was in danger of turning into a bobble head she was nodding so violently. ‘A bath. I see. Well, that’s bloody rich, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so?’ Felix had never known a bath to be an activity of conflict before. ‘Ummm … can I have some money?’

Freya felt the hot rise of anger at her throat. ‘And he told you to ask me for money?’

Why did Monty do this? Send the children to her for money so she’d have to be the one to say no. She’d told him she only had forty quid and that they needed it to fill the car seeing as they’d already used the electric charge on the hybrid. Bloody London traffic!

‘Jack says there’s a shop and they’ve just put out scones and sausage rolls.’ Felix scuffed the dirt with his trainer. ‘I’m hungry.’

Freya did a quick calculation of the change that might’ve fallen to the bottom of her handbag and came up empty. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’. Charlotte’s making breakfast. We can’t afford fancy extras.’

Felix looked crestfallen, but tough cheddar. Waking up to not one but two ‘You’ve exceeded your overdraft’ texts from the bank hadn’t set the morning off in quite the whimsical, escape-to-the-country vein she’d been hoping for. Bloody Monty and his bloody largesse. Oli should’ve been the one footing the micro-distillery gin tasting at the pub, not her broke, wannabe portrait-photographer husband who had yet to pull his camera out of the very expensive case he’d begged her to buy him for Christmas.

Felix’s tummy growled.

Her son never asked for anything apart from books. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the screwy face she made when she was fighting off tears. This was ridiculous, having to count the pennies for a bloody pastry. How on earth had things become so bad she’d turned her own son into a modern-day Oliver Twist? Or, for that matter, flew into a rage because her husband was taking a bath.

‘Sorry, love. I … can you just hang on a few more minutes? Charlotte’s making bacon sandwiches. You won’t starve. First-world problems, remember!’

Rather than reply, Felix plopped down on the picnic bench, heaved his latest library book up onto his lap, threw a look of sheer longing in Charlotte’s direction, then cracked the book in half with a sigh and began to read.

Freya strode over to the bath-house and was about to bash the door in when her fresh-faced husband flung it open with a big old goofy smile on his face. The one that had won her over that very first time Izzy had brought him back to Holly House.

Monty wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Wanna get jiggy with it? I’ve not let the water out of the bath.’

Seriously? Was he mad?

‘Montgomery Burns-West. You are treading on remarkably thin ice.’

He feigned being hit in the heart with an arrow. ‘What? I can’t proposition my fair wife for a morning shag?’

‘Not when the overdraft police are riding my ass, no.’

Monty looked genuinely hurt. There was no glory in it. Why did she always have to be the bad cop? Unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, his wet chest saturating her top. ‘It’s all right, love. I know things are tough, but we’ll get there. Dreams are worth fighting for, right?’

They were, but … Freya thought of her Camden shop, and the oh-so-witty T-shirts that no one seemed to want; the dream of sustainable fashion that had now turned into an endless compromise of her ideals and lots of bounced cheques.

She found herself responding to his kiss until the butterflies began, then pulled away. A kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t fix the overdraft. Nor would fighting about it. She stuffed her tug-of-war mood into the darker recesses and told Monty she was going to help get breakfast ready. Today was about Charlotte. Tomorrow would be about facing facts.

‘Charlotte, you’ve converted me!’ Emily mooched up to the fire, a quilt slung over her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t slept this well in months. Years maybe. ‘That bacon smells amazing. Is there coffee as well?’

Charlotte turned around, tears pouring down her cheeks.

‘Shit. Crap. What is it? I don’t need coffee. I don’t need bacon. Fuck. Are you okay?’

Nice one, Emms. Yes. The weeping woman is perfectly fine.

‘Sorry, yes. No. There is coffee. I mean …’ Charlotte didn’t even bother swiping at her tears. ‘Oliver’s having an affair.’

Emily looked round in a panic. Where was the lemon drizzle crew when you needed them? She wasn’t equipped for this. There was the doctor’s bedside manner thing, but she’d had training for that. Professional distance came much more easily than the whole warm-and-fuzzy thing.

That. And Charlotte wasn’t a patient. Charlotte had held her hair up when she’d thrown up after an overzealous margarita night. Charlotte had helped her make models of organs out of jelly for her anatomy class. Charlotte still liked her enough to invite her to her fortieth birthday party, despite fifteen years of bunking off invitations to meet up.

‘Here.’ She grabbed an origami crane from the bunting and pushed it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Wipe your face. He’s coming.’

With the swiftness and expertise of a Hollywood actress, Charlotte snapped open the crane, swept the serviette across her face and turned to her husband with a soft, practised smile. ‘Hello, darling. Did you sleep well?’

Izzy fought the lure of sizzling bacon and waited until Oliver had walked out to the meadow, car keys jingling in his hand and phone to his ear, before joining Emily and Charlotte at the campfire. Her karma was off kilter enough without having to play along with more crap jokes and wife-belittlement. Maybe he was heading off to get Charlotte a present. A big one. ‘Hey, lay-deeez! Top of the morning to you!’

Emily jerked her head towards Charlotte who was weeping into the bacon sandwiches. ‘Izz. Do something. Say something.’

Oh, bums. Charlotte was crying. So why had Oliver just walked away as if nothing was going on?

‘Ummm … Happy birthday!?’

‘Thank you, Izzy. That is kind.’ Sniff. Wipe. Charlotte gave her head one of those quick shakes a person performed when they were hoping to look perfectly fine. It wasn’t entirely successful. ‘Bacon sandwich?’ She hastily loaded some bacon into a crusty roll then handed it to her.

Izzy took it and made a show of it being mmm-mmm, delicious, while Charlotte and Emily stared at her.

Wait a minute. Emily hadn’t spilled the beans about why she’d come back to the UK, had she? She’d promised.

‘Emily! Did you—’

‘No,’ Emily said through gritted teeth. ‘This is about Charlotte. Charlotte who’s got lots of feelings today.’

‘Charlotte Mayfield!’ Izzy planted her hands on her hips. ‘You aren’t being funny about turning forty, are you? You look amazing. Gorgeous. I want to be you when I grow up. Forty’s the new black.’ She kept spluttering platitudes until Emily cut her off.

‘Oliver’s cheating.’

Ah. She hadn’t expected that.

Then again, the man had felt her up at his own wedding.

‘Sorry. Sorry, girls.’ Charlotte swept away some tears then gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Honestly. It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but … I’m just going a bit mad is all. One minute I was frying bacon, happy as can be. The next I was bawling my eyes out and telling my least emotionally available friend – sorry Emily, you’re lovely, but we both know you’re not equipped for these sorts of histrionics, are you?’ Emily nodded. It was fine.

‘I’ve been like this for hours.’ Charlotte was on a roll. ‘All night actually. One minute I can’t bear the sight of him and the next I’m absolutely, positively sure I want nothing more than to devote my life to making our marriage better. He said he wants it to work. I want it to work. And then … all of a sudden … I don’t! It’s like being on one of those – those …’ She looked up to seek the best word, tears dripping off her chin.

‘Waltzers?’ offered Izzy. They’d once made Charlotte go on one and she’d never seen a human more pale.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Just like that.’

Clearly the memory hadn’t faded.

‘Okay. Right. Well, first of all, the man’s an idiot.’

Charlotte offered Izzy a forlorn smile through her tears. ‘Her name’s Xanthe.’

Izzy scoffed. ‘That’s a stupid name.’

‘It’s Greek, actually. She’s a junior partner at his law firm.’ Charlotte almost sounded wistful.

‘So? Anyone can become a lawyer. Monty’s a lawyer.’ They threw each other guilty looks. ‘No offence to Monty.’

‘She’s very pretty. Especially in a bikini.’

‘You’ve seen her poolside?’ Emily looked appalled.

‘Instagram,’ explained Charlotte.

They all nodded and quietly thought on the complex world of cyber-stalking.

‘She also might be pregnant.’

‘Oh!’ Izzy said in her upper register. That made things more complicated. ‘Ummm … Is there a plan?’

‘No, you na-na. She’s only just found out,’ Emily said.

‘Muuuuum! I’m starving.’

Charlotte’s son dropped onto a bench where he was clearly expecting to be served as Charlotte hastily wiped her face with … was that Freya’s origami bunting?

‘I’ll get a tray of sandwiches up in a minute, darling. Why don’t you go over to the kitchen tent and see if you can’t find the ketchup and brown sauce?’ Charlotte looked and sounded like a modern Doris Day. How did she do that?

‘Brown sauce?’ Jack made a vomit face. ‘Mother.’ He shuddered.

Charming.

He pointed at Izzy. ‘Why’s she got one then?’

Doubly charmed. Izzy resisted giving him a slap round the back of his head and telling him to pull his socks up because his mother had just found out his dad was a lying, cheating bastard.

‘Because she’s a guest, darling.’ Charlotte gave Izzy a sorrowful look. ‘With low blood sugar. It’s a condition.’

Gosh. Charlotte told a fib! Izzy tried to figure out the best way to look as if she had a condition when Emily cut in. ‘Go. Ketchup. Brown sauce. It’s your mother’s birthday.’

Wow. Guess no one had given Emily the memo about telling other people’s children what to do. Even so … Jack obeyed her.

‘Okay, Lotte. What do you want us to do?’ Izzy whispered as soon as he was out of earshot, noting that Oli, the bastard, still hadn’t left yet.

Charlotte ran her index fingers under her eyes to swipe away invisible mascara stains.

‘Well, there’s no plan really. Yes,’ she said abruptly straightening her spine. ‘There is a plan. It is to do nothing. Oliver reckons we’ll get through this. Just an early morning wobble is all. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m being a silly goose.’

‘What? About your husband having an affair?’

Charlotte nearly lost her composure.

‘No, of course not. He’s said he’s put a halt to it. That the pregnancy isn’t for sure. Most likely a lie to get him to choose between the two of us. That’s what all of these phone calls are for.’ She vaguely gestured out towards the meadow where Oli was, once again, jabbering away on his mobile. He caught Charlotte’s eye, pointed at Izzy’s sandwich, then at himself.

Dickhead.

‘It’ll be just a moment, darling. Izzy’s got low blood sugar!’

Izzy did a little wobbly knee move to make it look true.

‘Is that what you want? To carry on?’ Emily asked her.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte clapped her hands together decisively. ‘Now. If you two wouldn’t mind keeping this under your hats, I’d really appreciate it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to create such a fuss—’

Freya marched up to their group, mouth already open in ‘I’m about to give a speech’ mode. One of the children had probably messed up the recycling bins or some equally heinous crime.

Emily’s eyes silenced her.

Emily was a powerful ally in a crisis.

‘Can I tell Freya?’ Izzy was horrid with keeping secrets. Most secrets, anyway.

‘Tell me what?’

‘Oliver’s having an affair. Shit. Sorry, Lotte. And she’s preggers. Crap. Is that all right? Fuck. My bad.’

Emily glared at Freya as if it was her fault Izzy had spilled the beans.

Freya’s open mouth dropped even further. Izzy was tempted to close it for her.

‘Charlotte wants her party to go ahead as planned.’ Izzy handed the rest of her sandwich to Freya. If she was eating, she wouldn’t be able to embark on a diatribe against Oli.

‘Fucking bastard,’ Freya said, stuffing in an errant piece of bacon.

Okay. That hadn’t worked.

‘She wants to work through it. Stay with Oli,’ Izzy said. Meaningfully.

‘Oh.’ Freya swallowed. ‘I mean … marriage is tough.’ Her eyes flitted to Monty who was horrifying the children with a pretend striptease with his towel only to reveal he was actually wearing shorts. Goofball. He was everything Oli wasn’t in a father figure. Which, of course, made him endearingly lovable despite all their problems.

‘So … the plan is?’ Freya took another bite of bacon sandwich. Hopefully, to keep the sea of commentary at bay.

Charlotte began crisply shifting perfectly fried bacon onto a serving platter covered in rosebuds. ‘The plan is to forget we ever had this discussion. It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I’m so sorry I—’

‘No,’ Emily cut in. ‘You have nothing to apologize for.’

‘That’s right. Absolutely nothing. This is your day.’ Freya nodded along.

Izzy clicked her heels together and gave Charlotte a sharp salute. ‘Party pixie reporting for duty!’ Izzy took the tray from Charlotte and tipped her head towards the tent. ‘I’ll round up the children. Freya, are you good with helping Charlotte sort out whatever she needs to make this the happiest fortieth ever?’

Freya stuffed the rest of the bacon sarnie into her mouth and swiped her hands together. She was ready for action.

‘Right,’ Emily nodded in a style usually reserved for black-and-white war films as a squadron of mismatched soldiers were about to embark on a make-or-break mission. ‘We have three hours to make this place look exactly the way Charlotte wants it. Ready or not, girlies. Operation Happy Glampers is under way.’

Chapter Seven

‘Charlotte! Darls … Happy Birthday! Twenty-one again!’

And so the charade begins.

‘Jessica! So glad you could make it. Treena! What a lovely frock. Is that Rixo? Thank you so much for … oh! For me? You really shouldn’t have. Oli’s just over there, by the champagne. Ha ha! You know what he says. A day that begins with bubbly is never a bad one!’

The effort was exhausting. Was this what her mother had felt like during her final days with the oxygen mask? Constantly taking those small sips of air in the vain hope the torture might end.

Oli was long back from his mystery errand looking roughly the same as when he’d wandered off, bacon sandwich in hand, phone to ear. Only this time it was glasses of fizz and lipsticky kisses that were occupying him. No added layers of guilt as far as she could ascertain. Perhaps, as Izzy had suggested, he had been off getting her a present.

The only truly good part of this, Charlotte thought, was having Freya, Izzy and Emily here. They were doing a remarkable job. Steering people this way and that. Checking up on her but not looking too sympathetic. Too much sympathy would crack the very thin veneer of normality she was desperately clinging on to.

‘What? We’re not up at the proper house?’

Charlotte’s attention shot to the car park where, amidst the hubbub of their other guests, she couldn’t miss her mother-in-law’s distinctive voice.

Verity had grown up in Rhodesia – when it was still Rhodesia – in a sprawling home overflowing with staff. She’d met and married Nigel shortly after they’d both matriculated from Oxford (classics for her because ‘she had to do something’ and law for him).

After a stint in New York where Nigel had made a rather tidy sum in real estate, they moved to their Sussex home where, Verity was fond of saying to anyone who would listen, their ‘crumbly old manor home had given them no choice but to hire in a gardener, housekeeper and an odd-jobs man.’

Charlotte had always had the distinct feeling that Verity included her on the staff list. She had, after all, been ‘one of the staff’ when she’d met Oli. It struck her that perhaps one of the reasons Oli had been so enchanted with her was because he finally had someone who thought he was perfectly fine as he was. Better than that. Amazing. His mother was incredibly demanding. Where her parents hadn’t had any expectations for her at all, Verity wanted her son to be Nigel but better, and never shied away from reminding him that the reason Oli and Charlotte lived in a very nice house was because Nigel had bought it for them. For their wedding, in fact. Her parents had given them an Argos gift token. She bristled on Oli’s behalf. The economy was quite different to what it had been back in the day, and making the squillions Nigel had was nigh on impossible unless you were an outright crook. As things stood, Oli did very well. Even if he did agreed with his mother about just about everything Charlotte could improve upon. Very well indeed. Her heart softened for her husband. Affair aside, he worked incredibly hard. And he did love his family. Perhaps all that bravura was masking a little boy still trying to attain his mother’s approval. Which made his affair a blip. A painful one, but something they could move past.

‘Darling!’ Verity swept in. ‘Don’t you look sweet in that little … that’s not Zara, is it? I’m sure I saw one of the other girls wearing the exact same one. My goodness.’ Verity gave her a dry peck on the cheek then pursed her taupe lips as she scanned the area, her eyes stopping and stalling at Freya’s serviette bunting. ‘It all looks so—’

‘Wonderful!’ Charlotte’s father-in-law, Nigel, bustled his wife out of the way, planting the obligatory kisses first on one cheek and then the other. He always smelled of pipe tobacco and leather, though she’d never seen him come in contact with either. ‘The place looks ripping. Hope you don’t mind, love, but Verity didn’t want to mess with the hoi polloi on the bus so we’ve got a driver in tow. You wouldn’t mind sparing him a sandwich or something, would you?’

Charlotte didn’t get a chance to answer as a second stream of guests from the Sussex Schooner, as Oli insisted on calling it, arrived from the car park. They all seemed quite jolly for so early in the day. It was only just noon.

‘Brilliant idea with the champers, doll.’ A friend from Oli’s golf club purred into her ear as she went through the motions. Kiss. Kiss. Half hug. Smile. ‘Is that Zara? I have the same one! My goodness. It’s all very rustic out here, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what I was saying, darling!’ Verity had a knack for pouncing on moments to prove she’d been right. ‘Look at you! Now, that’s what I call a party frock.’

Whether Charlotte wanted it to or not, the flow of people coming off the bus swept her into the role of hostess for a party she’d not entirely wanted to have.

She looked up and smiled at the long strings of decoration above her. At least she had her bunting.

An hour later she felt as if her head was spinning. Perhaps she should’ve eaten something before letting all of those leather-aproned serving staff fill up her glass. She went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and escape the sun for a moment, only to find Poppy curled up in a corner of a sofa, thumbing away at her phone.

‘Hello, darling. Everything all right?’

Poppy’s eyes shot out to a crowd of teens playing Giant Jenga. Jack was clearly the ringleader, egging everyone on to have a go. Freya’s two were a short way off showing Luna how to play Connect Four.

Poppy looked back at her phone and shrugged.

Charlotte examined the group a bit more closely. She was sure she recognized a couple of girls from the children’s boarding school. Ella and Maisie, was it? She’d definitely seen Maisie’s mum. A rather brisk woman who never bored of letting everyone know how terrifically busy she was with her organic energy ball business now that Nestlé were interested in snapping it up.

‘Isn’t that Maisie out there? And Ella? Don’t you want to be with the group?’

Poppy’s mouth screwed up tight to the left-hand side of her mouth. A nervous habit that Verity regularly tried to discourage. Charlotte preferred not to mention it as she’d always found her own mother’s rebukes doubled her humiliation and her need to seek comfort from it. Nail biting had been hers.

‘They’re having enough fun without me there to ruin it.’

Oh. Now this didn’t sound good.

Charlotte sat down beside her, resisting the urge to pull her into one of the cuddles they’d so enjoyed when she was a little girl. Poppy had become a big fan of space since she’d started at this new boarding school that Oli had insisted would be the making of them.

‘I thought the three of you were friends.’

‘No, Mum!’ Poppy spat. ‘We’re not friends. Typical you. Seeing what you want to see instead of seeing exactly what’s in front of your face! Can’t you see they’re only nice to me because of Jack?’

When she saw the dismay on Charlotte’s face, she crumpled as quickly as she’d roared. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I don’t mean to shout at you on your birthday.’

This time Charlotte did put her arms round her daughter. Stiff shoulders and all. The poor love. Feeling she was playing second fiddle to her brother. How awful. Who knew if it was true? Girls could be so difficult at that age. So complex.

She’d hated being a teen. All of the changes that had come with it. And not just the physical ones. The new schools. New cliques. New friends to invent when she needed to escape her parents’ flat. She’d been so dreadfully shy and her school had been particularly awful. Bullies. Truants. Gangs. Charlotte had always thought of the life they gave their children as a godsend. Not a well-heeled copy of her own.

Poppy eventually ducked out of the hug, loosening yet more hair out of her thick, fishtail plait. She looked more little girl than blossoming thirteen-year-old. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry. I’ve probably got my period coming or something.’

She tried to protest, but Poppy held up a hand that distinctly said No, grabbed a couple of canapés off the counter and slipped away into the crowd. She was right. Now wasn’t the time. Just as it wasn’t the time to tell Oli she was up to the challenge. She wanted to raise their children together. For their marriage to work. She wanted her family. Even if it meant constantly treading water to keep it.

Charlotte cringed as the calls for a speech grew louder. It had been mortifying enough opening her presents in front of everyone. The gifts had been lovely, of course. Freya’s lace-edged serviettes made from Irish linen were beautiful. There’d been no need to confess they were seconds. Izzy had bought her a delicate necklace with a starfish on it. Her favourite sea animal. And Emily had given her a Brora cardigan she already had plans to move into for the autumn. Together they had bought her membership to the Royal Academy of Arts. She’d nearly wept at the thoughtfulness. It had been so long since she’d been to a gallery. Oli found art appreciation tedious at best.

Amazing to think how many years it had been since they’d properly seen one another and yet how perfectly her friends still knew her.

She stared at the gifts on the table. The children had given her a handbag she knew for a fact her mother-in-law had selected because it was bright blue, a colour Charlotte had never favoured. Poppy had tucked a couple of her favourite sanitizing gels into the side pocket, which was thoughtful. The rest of the gifts were … nice. She wasn’t ungrateful, but couldn’t help feeling that the guests had been generous in the way one might be to a maiden aunt who only came down from her poky cottage in the Lake District for Christmas. A spiralizer. A leather-bound journal. Quite a few organic soaps and lotions. She already had the book on hygge and was fairly certain she’d seen the Christmas ornaments at one of the school’s silent auctions a year or so back.

It was extraordinary how little the people she saw every day of her life knew her. Was it because there wasn’t much to know? She always agreed with Oli. Rarely put her foot down about anything as one of the school governors. She was the tea-maker, really. Had no opinion on current events. What little news she was aware of she read in Waitrose Weekend. Not exactly a paper with its finger on the world’s political pulse.

Perhaps it was her fault Oliver had strayed. Xanthe did seem terrifically interesting, if her Instagram posts were anything to go by.

Her eyes moved over to the small velvet box placed in prime position on the gift table. It was from the jeweller’s in Sittingstone village, so his errand this morning must have been to collect it. She didn’t know whether to feel hurt it had been so last minute or pleased he’d remembered at all.

The sapphire earrings Oliver had chosen were lovely. Beautiful, in fact. But clip-ons? It was his mother who didn’t have pierced ears. She’d had hers done since she was a teen. And, again, she had never really been one to wear blue, so …

‘Speeeeeech!’

Oliver stood up, shushing the crowd in that ‘All right, already. I’ll give you what you’ve all been waiting for’ way of his. They never wanted her to say anything, thank god.

‘Charlotte,’ he began loftily as the crowd leant in and the waiting staff topped up everyone’s glasses.

The children weren’t anywhere to be seen, save Poppy who, worryingly, was wandering back towards that little nook she’d appropriated in the kitchen tent. At the edge of the crowd, Emily, Izzy and Freya had all lined up and were each holding one of her handmade cakes. It looked like a Bake-Off presentation of Charlotte Mayfield’s Greatest Cake Hits. Those girls. Until this very moment, Charlotte had thought she’d invited them out of misguided sentiment, but honestly? She’d asked them to come because she wanted people who knew her at her party. The Charlotte who adored art. The Charlotte who couldn’t enter a room without giving it a tweak or a rejig so that it looked just so, and would then appreciate that she’d done as much. The Charlotte whose hopes and dreams they’d supported rather than dismissed as silly when there were other, Mayfield-shaped hopes and dreams to fulfil. She saw now she was drowning in a quicksand of upper-middle-class beigeness. Perhaps she’d known that, without their help, there wasn’t a chance on earth she’d be able to claw her way out and find herself again.

‘What can I say about my wife of over fifteen years?’ Oli took her hand and stood back, appraising her as one might a newly purchased heifer.

‘That she has the patience of a bloody saint!’ a red-faced man shouted out. Karl, was it? One of the chaps who propped up the bar at their local. What on earth had he done to warrant an invitation? She’d not so much as said hello to the man.

‘That’s a good start,’ Oli laughed congenially. He always could play to the crowd. ‘It’s astonishing to think this beautiful creature here is forty. It seems like only yesterday she was but a naive Yorkshire lass with nothing more than big dreams in an even bigger city—’

‘Oi!’ shouted Izzy, nearly losing her grip on the carrot cake. Oh dear. ‘I think you’ll find an art history degree hardly makes her Dorothy in Oz!’

Charlotte squeezed Oli’s hand. He squeezed back, mistakenly thinking she was on board with being portrayed as a modern-day Eliza Doolittle. When had his hand stopped becoming a thing of comfort? Yesterday morning? The first time he’d sided with his mother rather than his wife? This very moment?

She pulled her hand free.

‘Absolutely right, Izzy. And of course there was the party planning. Back in the day she would’ve had us celebrating properly up at Sittingstone Castle, but this clever one insisted all the cool kids were keeping it au naturel!’

No she hadn’t. She’d done no such thing. Charlotte was about to correct him when she caught him sending a pointed look at Freya’s bunting which was now, unfortunately, a bit worse for wear.

People laughed, but didn’t look as if they were entirely sure they knew why.

He carried on smoothly, ‘Regardless.’

Indeed.

‘Charlotte is, as I said, from ooop North. When I met her …’

… Oli had been covered in red wine that one of the legal secretaries had thrown at him after he’d made a sexist remark. Not that Charlotte had known that then. He’d told her the girl was cross because he wouldn’t go home with her.

Oli smiled ingratiatingly at Charlotte, then the crowd. ‘My girl here needed a bit of softening round the edges. With a few curative pointers from myself and my family,’ he lifted a glass to his mother who sent an adoring look in return, ‘we now have supper instead of dinner, bread instead of teacakes and, my personal favourite, a proper cup of Earl Grey in the morning instead of that—’

‘Eh, laddie! I object to that! A person’s from where a person’s from and no one should try and oppress them for it!’ Freya’s broad Scots rang out despite Monty’s feeble attempt to shush her. Charlotte had forgotten what champagne did to Freya’s accent.

Amidst the murmurings of ‘bloody Scots’ and ‘never miss a chance to wave the Saltire’, Oli soldiered on. This was his crowd and he knew it. ‘So here she is, over fifteen years on. All grown up and properly civilized. She makes a mean Sunday roast. Her Yorkies are the envy of Sussex—’

‘Seriously? Her Yorkies?’ Emily, who hated the limelight as much as she did, was indignant. ‘How about her brains? Her efficiency. Her UN-like diplomacy?’

A few people called out ‘hear-hear’, but not enough to decrease the humiliation. Or Emily’s sotto voce, ‘Bloody wanker.’

The children appeared at the edge of the group, clearly keen to see what the hubbub was about.

Oh, when would this end?

Undeterred, Oli carried on as if no one had said a word. ‘Thanks to Charlotte’s fortitude, we’ve got two gorgeous children who, hopefully, take after their mother more than they do their monster of an old man.’ He pulled a face, beaming when the protests flooded in.

Charlotte did her best not to flinch when he put his arm around her shoulder and lifted his glass. ‘I’m going to wrap this up so all of this attention doesn’t go to her head. Wouldn’t want her running off and finding someone else’s shirts to iron, would we? To Charlotte. Happy Birthday.’

As the crowd dutifully echoed the toast and drank, Charlotte watched in horror as Freya marched with the fixed determination of someone who may have had slightly too much to drink to the front of the group and lobbed her beautiful, buttercream, triple-chocolate devil’s food cake directly into Oliver’s face.

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