You Make Me Feel Like Glamping Page 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Muuuum. There’s nothing to do here.’

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

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

  ‘How about going down to the river?’

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

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

  Despite the pregnancy!

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

  Xanthe.

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

  ‘Mum! I’m starving.’

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

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

  Always nice to know her efforts were appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  How could she have forgotten the bunting?

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

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

  Would she be able to play happy families all weekend?

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

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

  ‘How do I look?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’ She sniffed. ‘Do I stink?’

  ‘You smell like a spring meadow.’

  Somehow, she doubted that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Wait! We’re leaving Soho?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She nodded her approval. ‘Very Crocodile Dundee.’

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

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

  ‘Much.’

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

  ‘What?’

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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