You Make Me Feel Like Glamping Page 5

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

  Emily shrugged. ‘Probably. Cath Kidston? Prada with polka dots?’ She didn’t know. She’d never made it to any of the ‘escape to the country’ weekends that Charlotte had invited her to. ‘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 because he hadn’t shifted the gear into neutral.

  ‘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.

  She glared at the pile of carrot batons as if everything were their fault, then swept them aside to make room for the celery.

  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. Full of un-met expectations. But were they her expectations of Monty … or of herself?

  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.

  ‘Goodness, Freya.’ Charlotte scooped the small mountain of carrot batons onto a large slate and fashioned them into a stylish whorl. ‘You’re a woman on a mission!’

  ‘That’s me!’ She sounded defensive. Don’t sound defensive. Charlotte hasn’t done anything.

  Charlotte produced two cartons of dips from the refrigerator. ’Now, what bowls should we use?

  ‘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.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Freya broke the spell. ‘It feels like we’re in a Benetton advert.

  Emily made a show of assessing each of them before abruptly unleashing that sly-dog, hard-won smile of hers. ‘Maybe more like a Dove advert, these days.’ Once more, she cast a critical eye across them. ‘Well, thanks very much, ladies!’

  ‘For what?’ Charlotte looked perplexed.

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

  Izzy performed a mouth-trumpet version of the Indiana Jones theme song, then stage-whispered to Freya that maybe she could make Emily something more suitable out of bracken for the ‘big kids’ party tomorrow.

  Freya looked at her blankly.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ Izzy fanned her hands out from her waist, as if that would jog Freya’s memory.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How could you have forgotten your pièce de résistance? The Couture de la Forêt show?

  Crumbs.

  Freya had forced them to be her models. When her tutors had said it would be impossible to make clothes out of ‘woodland fare’ wearable, Freya had insisted on proving them wrong. One of the dresses had been made almost entirely of crab apples.

  ‘It’s fancy dress tomorrow?’ Emily looked horrified.

  Charlotte waved her hands. ‘No. I think Izzy is just having a bit of fun with you. Just casual.’

  Emily snorted. Charlotte was the least ‘just casual’ person on earth.

  ‘No, come on, I think we should all wear a Freya creation,’ Izzy insisted, which gave Freya a warm, fuzzy feeling. Far nicer than the suspicious ones that had consumed her earlier.

  ‘C’mon, Frey.’ Izzy’s excitement was infectious. ‘Bluebell and Bracken birthday frocks? It’d be so fun.’

  Freya was feeling properly sentimental now. She put on a poor imitation of her grandparent’s Italian accents, ‘If we can find-a the materials, I will make-a the frock!’

  ‘Right!’ 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 4

  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. Discovering Luna had been tied to the bell tent’s central pole when she’d wandered off to find her puppy had been a bit unfortunate, but Freya’s two had made up for it by decorating the poor girl in daisy chains and a bluebell crown. She was still wearing them now, twirling every now and again in front of the mirror above the outdoor sink, totally free of self-consciousness. Just like her mother. Izzy had never had inhibitions about swanning around in … whatever, really. A swimsuit. Charity shop treasures. A T-shirt that belonged to someone else’s boyfriend.

  ‘Good to see you’re still getting your vegetables via the ketchup bottle, Izz.’

  Izzy shot Emily a sour look then quirked it into an innocent smile. ‘All the better to eat you with, my dear!’ Her eyes glinted wolfishly as she took an enormous bite of her sausage.

  Freya snorted, which nearly made Izzy spit her food out.

  ‘I’d forgotten the snort!’

  ‘What’s wrong with my snort?’

  Freya hadn’t lost that snippy edge with Izzy. Charlotte had hoped it would have softened by now. Surely Freya wasn’t still funny about Izzy and Monty’s ancient history?

  ‘Nothing.’ Izzy pushed her nose up so it looked like a pig’s. ‘It’s a lovely snort.’

  Freya pushed her nose up too, said oink-oink, and that seemed to settle the matter.

  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 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.