Do You Really Want to Yurt Me? Read online

  ‘Yes indeed. We met at the Regenbogen parade. He’s a musician. That’s why we need your room. So he can set up his studio.’

  Puta madre. Trust Callum to have his ‘some enchanted evening’ with Barcelona’s answer to Moby. If she’d gone on his Euro Pride Tour with him as requested, she’d very likely not be in this mess. On the flipside, if she’d gone she’d no doubt be in some sort of other mess. Her mother had recently friended her on Facebook and Twitter, marking a dramatic curtailment to her already half-assed #lovinglife presence on social media. Which is why she’d stayed home and done double shifts. Yesterday, after her mother ‘waved’, she’d taken an ironic panorama of the dim sum across the street to a sign outside the hospital warning people about viral gastroenteritis. Her mother had rung immediately and told her not to bother, there was a better place down the road with far better dumplings.

  All that genius … wasted.

  ‘You’ll like him,’ Callum gushed. ‘I can’t wait for you two to meet.’

  As he yammered on about the perfect place in Soho to eat because he thought meeting at the flat would be awkward all things considered, she shook the phone, praying something, anything, would magically change the fact that Callum was dumping her by FaceTime. Why couldn’t he have text-dumped her like a normal person? Not that it was really dumping seeing as they were only friends, but … even so …

  Sigh. She should’ve answered more of those WhatsApp things from the girls. Then she’d have gained some ‘bitch about Callum’ credits.

  She stomped down the road to her appointment. How was she going to find somewhere new to live by the end of the month?

  There was always her parents’ place. The basement ‘granny flat’ was kept in pristine condition for her inevitable return to care for them in their dotage like a good little spinster daughter.

  ‘You’ll really like him, Emms. Ernesto’s …’ Callum went all doe-eyed. Gross. Men over six foot tall should never go dewy over anyone or anything. Except, perhaps, puppies. She gave out the odd free card for puppies. Even though she’d never want one herself, obviously. It would die of loneliness. A bit like her, she supposed.

  ‘Emms? A little feedback would be nice.’ Callum was openly plaintive.

  She tried to rustle up some enthusiasm but couldn’t. Instead she decided to rub in just how completely unfair this all was. ‘Soo … you need me out by the end of July? If I’m working and packing, how much time does that leave us for Brighton?’

  Callum put on his apology face. It needed work. ‘About Brighton … Ernesto’s never been and with only the one room booked—’

  She made a screeching noise. ‘No. Please. I get it.’ Emily didn’t need Callum to spell it out. Boyfriend trumped flatmate. Ex-flatmate. Whatever.

  ‘You okay, Emms?’

  Oh, now he cared.

  ‘Brilliant. I’m on my way to a meeting. Better go.

  ‘Emmzzzz. C’mon, baby. I know there’s some hurt going on in there.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? That I’m devastated? Okay, I’m devastated - happy?’

  ‘Emmmmzzz.’

  This was becoming plain irritating.

  ‘What? You’ve met me. I’m not going to cry. I don’t have feelings.’ She had loads of feelings. She just didn’t want to show them. ‘I’ll leave my boa for you on the kitchen table. Make good use of it.’

  Callum began protesting and placating and everything else that she found freaking annoying. Bloody overemotional gay man. Why had she ever thought he was the ying to her Cristina Yang? And still he jabbered on.

  Maybe she’d go and see Izzy.

  Emily thought about their last text exchange.

  Emz! Reeeeeeks of mould in here. There’re big, dark stains on the ceilings.

  Thought it was the dog.

  Bonzer has his moments, but he’s not pooping on the ceiling … yet! Any chance you could come out with a Petri dish or something sometime? It’d be a shame to die before … you know … it’s time to die. Love to Callum. xx

  A shudder ran down Emily’s spine. Euuurgh. Wales. Thank god ‘gay time’ moved at an exponential rate of knots and the standard two-year relationship could be boiled down to a fortnight. She would stay in one of the on-call rooms. Callum’s whole ‘I’ve met the love of my life’ thing would blow over soon enough.

  ‘Got another call coming in. Have a great time! Kisses to Ernesto!’ No one in their right mind would’ve thought she sounded sincere.

  ‘Thanks, doll face! Love you!’

  ‘Yeah.’ Whatever.

  Emily rammed her phone into her backpack and stomped to the sky-blue terraced house in the middle of the pastel-painted block. She’d have to build up to ringing her mum about the flat. Right now she had other worries.

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail before taking the handful of steps up to the slightly chipped, sunny yellow door. She took a couple of breaths before she triple-thumped the knocker with a bit more reverb than anticipated, stepping back in a ridiculous attempt to make it look as though someone else had pounded it and she’d only just shown up.

  Her parents would be mortified if they knew about this. In all honesty, she was mortified. Which is why she’d told precisely no one. She’d only been to two sessions and they’d been so long ago she was pretty sure this one would count as starting again.

  ‘Emily!’

  Noomi held the door open wide and beamed at her. Noomi was a beamer. Something to do with her Icelandic heritage and lots of oily fish, she supposed. That or the fact she made her living by hugging people.

  ‘Don’t be shy. Come on in.’

  It wasn’t shyness that was holding her back.

  Noomi beckoned for her to come in. ‘It’s a half-hour session today, right?’

  ‘Ummm.’ Emily tripped as she entered the doorway. Skillz. ‘I’m pretty sure it was a the full hour.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’ Noomi thunked her forehead then ushered Emily through a cloud of mint-and-grapefruit-scented air into the Victorian tiled corridor. ‘I’m such an airhead.’

  Yes. She was. Emily was beginning to wonder if she had a thing for airheads. Well. Not airheads exactly. People who were connected to the more … elemental components of being a human. Like feeling comfortable in their own skin. The way Callum was. And Izzy. Was that why she’d looked at the brochure she normally would’ve thrown away and booked an appointment? To one day realize that deep-seeded desire to be hugged and not instantly go rigid with an all-consuming discomfort. Sometimes Emily wondered if she’d been doled out extra helpings of back-off vibes when she was born. Even as a little kid she’d preferred a wide arc between her and the other kids. My space. Your space. And a big fat empty area in between the two.

  ‘Right, Emily,’ Noomi led her into the room kitted out with an abundance of soft furnishings and natural light. ‘Was it just the cuddling today or was it half cuddling half coffee and connect?’

  ‘The former.’

  ‘Good! Excellent. Shall we get down to it?’

  Noomi invited her to sit down and said they’d start with a ‘back hug’ to ease into things. She walked behind Emily, knelt down and slowly closed the space between them, touching first one arm, then the other as, cell by cell, Emily felt herself stiffen.

  Chapter 2

  ‘You sure you’re all right to drive?’

  Charlotte glanced across at Freya just long enough for the car to drift into the next lane and yet another volley of horns to sound.

  Freya’s grip on the door handle tightened as Charlotte pulled the car back into the fast lane behind Monty. The choice of lane had been thoughtless of him, given the fact Charlotte was suffering great emotional distress. ‘You can just say, Lotts. I’m happy to take a turn at the wheel.’ Not that she was sure she’d do much better, given her own emotionally charged state.

  ‘Maybe if we hold fire on the rest of the Oli questions till we get there?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you want.’ Freya swallowed down a
lump of guilt. Not launching into Monty between London and the Oxford services had taken near enough all the willpower she possessed. She had long ago vowed to follow her parents’ lead to never, ever, have a free-for-all in front of the children. As such, once she’d ensured everyone had had a wee, had unearthed the children’s reusable drinks bottles from the cool box (un-aired and smelling of bleach) and waved Monty and the kids off before finally jumping into Charlotte’s car, she had an almost biological need to tear apart someone else’s husband in a vain attempt not to feel so alone.

  Charlotte, on the flipside, appeared to be experiencing an entirely different breed of shell shock. The kind that didn’t involve fielding ‘how low did he go?’ questions from Freya.

  Another lump of guilt followed the first. Rather than shredding husbands to bits, Freya had wanted to be the friend who offered that jewel of advice. The one that would provide a beacon of hope to Charlotte in this, her darkest hour. Proof that Freya still had the capacity for insight and compassion when all she really wanted to do was paper-cut her husband to death with the year’s worth of unpaid council tax bills she’d just discovered. She fretted at a hangnail. Who tidily stuffed overdue notices under the cutlery tray anyhow?

  Someone with something to hide.

  The betrayal she was feeling was on a par to discovering he’d slept with someone else. Courtesy of the unpaid bills, their own home could now be beyond their financial reach.

  ‘Did you see the piece about the Sittingstone Larder in Waitrose Weekend? I thought the photographer really captured the place brilliantly. Lady Venetia was such a natural,’ Charlotte said after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘Yes!’ Yes, Freya had. She’d become a loyalty cardholder so that the magazine came free along with a café latte. She’d bought an 80p cabbage as well, so hadn’t felt a complete freeloader. ‘Wonderful. I absolutely loved it.’ And she had also been tooth-grindingly jealous that she didn’t have a dowager countess swooping into her life in her time of need. ‘You looked brilliant. I can’t believe how many products you’ve got in the shop now.’

  Charlotte flushed and waved her off. Freya nodded back to the heavy traffic. It was as if the whole of Britain were heading to Wales today. The whole of Britain minus Emily and Izzy, who still had yet to say whether or not they were going to come. They had to. If she fell to bits, who would look after Charlotte?

  ‘It was silly really.’ Charlotte, despite the protestation, sounded proud. ‘Lady Venetia insisted I be in the photo as well, but it should’ve just been her.’

  ‘What? Why? You did all the work.’

  ‘Sure, but—’

  ‘But nothing, Charlotte. It was your brain, your creativity and your hard work that turned that scruffy little shed into something the Waitrose crowd would flock to, not her. I’m sure she’s absolutely fab, but don’t you go thinking just because Oli tore your self-confidence to bits that you need to give Lady Venetia the credit for the Larder. That’s all you.’

  Charlotte gave Freya’s knee a pat. ‘Let’s talk about you for a bit, hey?’

  ‘Me? What for?’ Freya sat up straighter. Had she been too obvious about not wanting to be within screeching distance of Monty? Or was it that Charlotte genuinely wasn’t up for talking about herself right now? Crumbs. She wasn’t doing a very good job of pushing her own troubles to the side. How could she when her brain was crackling like an ungrounded electricity pylon? Snapping and sparking away, desperate for purchase. If only she hadn’t lifted up the cutlery tray to find that special spatula she used for pancakes. She’d found it all right. Along with the damning evidence that Monty hadn’t paid the council tax in a year. This, despite knowing they were behind on the mortgage to a gut-churning level. She’d have to sell at least an extra two grand’s worth of T-shirts if they wanted to pay the big red number at the bottom of the bill. She pictured the requisite number of T-shirts flying out the door with Camden’s monied weekend crowd. Positive imagery had been another suggestion from her grief counsellor. As if picturing a vase filled with tulips on Valentine’s Day or a shop stuffed with customers could make up for the fact that the one thing she wanted she couldn’t have. Her mother back, alive, at the end of the phone, offering her some advice on what to do. Shouting at Monty wouldn’t change the fact her designer dream was becoming a nightmare.

  ‘Everything all right with you two?’

  ‘’Course. Absolutely fine. Ticking away nicely.’

  ‘Liar.’ Charlotte poked her knee then immediately began apologizing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to be – well, sticking my foot in it really. I should never try to be funny. I’m not funny.’

  ‘What? Of course you’re funny,’ Freya fibbed, wishing not talking about Oli didn’t mean talking about her instead.

  She resisted flicking through the radio channels to find a distraction and flopped back against the leather climate-controlled seat with a fuzz of the lips. ‘Anyway. You’re right. I am a liar. Much nicer than being called the household Himmler.’ She ran her hands along the seat. She’d had no idea they could cool as well as warm.

  Charlotte looked horrified. ‘Who called you that?’

  ‘Monty.’

  ‘Well, that’s not very nice. Or funny.’

  ‘Vell, I kan be vvvery ex-akting!’ She could. If Monty became capable of reading a simple list, she wouldn’t have to be.

  Charlotte indulged her horrible German accent with a laugh and something about men never seeing the why behind the request. ‘There are ramifications for everything,’ Charlotte said, as if she knew the fight had started because Monty had tossed a pair of red socks in with the children’s white school shirts. ‘Men seem to resent the fact that women can see the flaws in their behaviour before they do.’

  ‘Zose are verrry vise vords, meine Freundin.’ They were as well.

  Freya been furious when Monty had uncharacteristically lashed back. Told her to back the hell off and let things be; if he’d wanted his life micromanaged he would’ve stayed back home in Gloucestershire. At least he’d refrained from pulling out the lowest of blows. That she was turning into his mother, the architect of Monty’s resistance to making the family’s dreams come true. With his older brother following in his builder father’s footsteps, Monty’s mum had been over the moon when he’d become the first in the family to attend university. Ever since he’d matriculated, his mum had regularly hounded Monty about his unfulfilled potential. The blame for this, in her eyes, fell firmly in Freya’s lap. Apparently it was her fault that he’d done human rights law when she’d steered him towards corporate. Definitely her fault he’d not made a go of the micro-brewing, the cheese-making, or the yoghurt. No, she didn’t want Monty to fall back on being a tradie because he could. What she wanted was for Freya to take a back seat so that Monty could fulfil all his mother’s dreams.

  Yes, that particular argument always ground some rather uncomfortable grains of truth into her craw. Today even more so, seeing as she was squirming in a quagmire of contemporary feminist ideals and an old-fashioned desire to have someone else be in charge. Like, for example, her husband.

  Oh, Monty.

  If she were going to turn into anyone, she’d far rather turn into her own mother, a woman who’d never been fazed by empty bank accounts, enormous workloads and no chance of finding a pot of gold at the end of any rainbow. Her mother simply accepted that this was the life she had chosen when she’d married a dairy farmer. She loved him, so she loved the life. End of story. Freya was beginning to worry that her love for Monty wasn’t as robust.

  ‘Well, for the record I think you’re much more like …’ Charlotte chewed on her lips as she sought the perfect person and smiled when she came up with, ‘Lady Venetia. A woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.’

  Despite the inaccuracy of the comparison, Freya was stupidly pleased. ‘Honestly, Charlotte. I’m not trawling for compliments.’ She was a little.

  ‘I’m not trying to butter you up,’ Charl
otte insisted. ‘How many women do you know who would invite someone – last minute – on their annual family camping trip when their marriage fell to bits over poached pears and Armagnac.’

  ‘Is that when he did it? Over pudding?’ Freya knew Oli was a selfish git, but honestly. Trust him to wait until she’d served him an entire meal and the blinking digestif before pulling the plug.

  Charlotte didn’t register the question. She swept a French-manicured hand through her hair and glanced up into the rear-view mirror. ‘Your children are going to think I’m a proper disaster. Between the chaos at Sittingstone and now this …’

  ‘No they won’t,’ Freya said darkly. ‘They live with Monty and me.’ Perhaps they could both do with not talking about their lives for the next five hours. ‘Have you got any snacks?’ She twisted round in the seat. ‘Sorry. I was running about putting the remains of the packing together this morning and didn’t eat anything.’ Once her blood sugar was up she’d be fine.

  ‘Yes, sorry. I forgot to say I picked up a few things while I was waiting for you at the services. There’s a bag just behind me and some more things on the back seat.’

  Charlotte tipped her head towards the back seat where three brand-spanking-new Waitrose cool bags overflowed with all sorts of delights. Behind her seat, as promised, was another bag that appeared to have all of the crisps ever made in it.

  Freya gave a delighted laugh. ‘Did you clear out the whole of the services?’

  Charlotte threw her an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m not entirely sure what happened to me this morning. One minute I was in the kitchen, the next I was in the car realizing I hadn’t really prepared anything, so when I got to the services I may have gone a bit OTT.’

  Wow. An unprepared Charlotte. This was bad.

  Freya had a dig around in one of the bags.

  ‘Hula Hoops! I haven’t had Hula Hoops since the kids were wee. Ha!’ She flopped back against the seat and pulled open the packet. She adorned a few of her fingers with the cylindrical snacks then grinned. ‘Do you remember when I forced you all to wear the edible Halloween costumes I’d made?’ She started cackling.