You Make Me Feel Like Glamping Page 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Right. Onwards and upwards.

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

  It was perfect.

  Of course it was. Charlotte had organized it.

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

  Numpty. There aren’t going to be elephants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Some actual free time to make art that mattered.

  Children whose parents could afford school trips.

  She thunked her head against the steering wheel.

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

  ‘Mum? Are you okay?’

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

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

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

  The wafty, pungent aroma of home.

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

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

  Delusion, more like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It looked like a drunken hedgehog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A premonition jolted through her.

  Babies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Can we call her Persephone?’ Felix asked.

  ‘We can call her whatever you like.’

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

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

  Late, late, late, late, late, late!

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

  She glanced at her watch. Oh, God.

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

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

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

  ‘You listen to Radio Four.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. Just go.’

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

  ‘What booze bag?’

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

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

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

  They both shuddered.

  ‘Nah. Nope. The posh one. It’s Waitrose or bust with this crowd. Majestic? Is there a Majestic?’

  ‘Emms. Chill. Pick up your phone and google one. Your friends won’t care if you’re late.’

  These weren’t just any old friends. These were her friends who cared. About everything. Everything they knew about, anyway. Which, of course, was the point of friends. And why she didn’t like having them. They cared. And caring was dangerous. Too easy to disappoint.

  ‘Take your next left. Big Waitrose. And make sure we get loads of pink fizz. Charlotte loves pink fizz.’

  ‘You got it, love.’

  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. Like a blonde Claire Foy. 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. What was it Emms always said about Freya? Something French about nothing changing. That was it. Plus ça change.

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