We are the Glampions!

by Daisy Tate

  Emily nodded. It made more sense now. She still wasn’t sure miring them in massive debt was something she’d forgive quite so easily, but even with her heart of stone, she could see that the pair of them had been trying to do what they thought best. Poor Freya. And, she supposed, poor Monty. The phrase ‘clouded judgement’ sprang to mind. A mental pea-souper more like. ‘Is Monty still seeing the counsellor?’

  Freya shook her head. ‘It took a couple of goes to find one who was a good fit. I’m seeing one too and, of course, we’ve still got a few more sessions with the debt therapist, but …’ Freya made a noise that was hard to read. Did she actually want out but felt duty bound to stand by her man?

  ‘A lot of people would’ve left him.’

  ‘I’m not a lot of people.’ Freya knotted the bin bag tightly and marched off towards the hallway.

  Emily looked round the large open-plan kitchen/living space she knew Freya loved and tried to see things from her perspective. If she stayed in London she’d be facing a life of endless penury and, most likely, bankruptcy. Being a single mother would be exhausting. Freya’s art embodied joy and whimsy. She wouldn’t feel either of those things if she tried to press on through. She supposed she could always move back to Scotland. Her brother and father would be over the moon if she moved back.

  Freya slammed the door shut then stomped back into the room.

  Uh-oh. She had her lecture face on. Emily took a swig of lukewarm wine. It too had a tang of potpourri.

  ‘Monty is brilliant.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Don’t make that face! He loves the kids. He loves me!’ Freya poked herself in the chest. Too hard from the looks of things.

  ‘No one’s saying he doesn’t love you.’

  Freya took in a deep breath. Then another. After the third she began in a more measured tone, ‘I was every bit as responsible for this mess as Monty was.’

  ‘Fine. You were an idiot, too, but that doesn’t mean you have to tie yourself to Monty for the rest of your life. So he’s doing some work for his brother. Fab. Don’t forget that that work is to pay back debts he accrued. Not you. And how is working and micro-managing the family finances going to work out? Will Monty love being on the end of a string for every penny he spends? Will it give you more time with the children? I doubt it. And don’t tell me that’s what the counselling is for because what he’s done – what you’ve both done since you’re so keen to share the blame – is break the foundations of your trust in one another. Is that something that can really be fixed by moving?’

  ‘It’s something that can be fixed by talking.’

  Emily barked a laugh. ‘What? Because the pair of you have been doing that so brilliantly.’

  Freya glared at her then spat out, ‘You’re just jealous everyone is moving to Bristol without you.’

  The words hung between them like little razors. Little razors of truth.

  Izzy needed the treatment, so her move was a no-brainer.

  Monty had work there.

  Charlotte did too.

  Everyone was moving onwards and upwards, apart from Emily. Well. She was a Sultan Osteopath. That was something.

  Before she could respond, Freya began backtracking. ‘I was superimposing a patriarchal system on Monty that spoke to a preconceived and archaic notion about marital expectations.’

  Right.

  ‘Oh. My. Fucking God, Freya! Drop the lingo will you? Speak-a da English!’

  ‘You can be such a bitch sometimes, Emily.’

  ‘So you can you, you sanctimonious granola-eating do-gooder.’

  They glared at one another. Emily pushed the bottle of wine across the counter. This was possibly the most honest they had ever been with one another. ‘Drink. Speak normal words to me.’

  Freya defensively crossed her arms. ‘You know what your problem is, Emily?’

  Oh, this would be rich. ‘No, Freya. I don’t know what my problem is, but I bet you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘You’re jealous. And I’m not just talking about Bristol.’

  Pah! ‘Of what?’

  ‘The fresh start Monty and I have chosen to take. Together.’

  All right. No need to freaking rub it in. So she was married. Whatevs. Not everybody needed a cottage with roses bedecking the door.

  ‘You’re unable to trust people and you’re jealous because we do trust one another. Trust each other enough to take a risk. Follow our hearts. You are so risk averse it’s no wonder you’re stuck living in your parents’ basement. Just like they’d always planned.’

  ‘Ooohoo! Touché!’

  And then the words sunk in.

  Oh, shit. She was right. Emily took a swig of wine.

  Freya took advantage of her silence to push the knife in further. ‘And whether or not you care to admit it, I think you are jealous that Charlotte and Izzy are coming to Bristol as well. Foolhardy or not, we’re all proactively changing our lives, when all you’re doing is playing out the script your mum and dad wrote for you the day you were born.’

  Emily grabbed her coat, fully prepared to storm out f-o-r-e-v-e-r when Freya hoinked her shoulders up to her ears then heavily let them drop. ‘I’m sorry. That was really mean. I’m too tired to argue. Can we be friends again?’

  They stared at one another.

  Emily didn’t want to fight either, but she wanted Freya to admit she had a point. Following their hearts wasn’t foolproof. Freya wanted her family to be whole again. Izzy wanted to live. Charlotte didn’t want to stay in a house suffocatingly full of memories of Oliver, even if it legally was hers (score one to Hazel the Lawyer!).

  But Emily felt as though she was the only one dealing with the practicalities of making each of those dreams a reality. She’d been the one to get Izzy into the trial when it became apparent the chemo wasn’t working. She’d hooked Charlotte up with Hazel the Lawyer when Oli was primed to steamroller her into a divorce on his terms. Okay, she hadn’t done much for Freya, but she was helping her pack. That was something.

  Her chest began to constrict as Freya’s accusation took root.

  She wanted her friends to be happy but they weren’t all meant to move on without her.

  She thought of Tansy’s number stuffed into her purse, the ink fading with each passing fistful of coins.

  ‘C’mon, Emms.’ Freya pushed the wine bottle towards her. ‘Let’s be friends. I don’t want to move with us being all …’ She waggled her fingers and made a plerfzzzt noise. ‘Let’s make up?’

  Emily shifted her hip so that she looked super nonchalant, but her insides were vibrating. She’d never had a fight like this – if you didn’t count the time she smashed her violin in front of her mother. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Hug it out?’

  Emily made a face.

  They both started giggling. Nervously.

  ‘You’d let Izzy hug you.’ Freya didn’t sound cross about it. It was just a fact.

  ‘Izzy’s—’

  Freya waved her hand between them. ‘I know. I know. You and Izzy have your thang. C’mere.’ She opened up her arms. ‘I’m gonna hug you anyway.’

  Emily didn’t move. She hadn’t finished being furious yet. But when Freya wrapped her arms around her, she did her very best not to squirm.

  Who’d forgotten to tell Bristol it was summer?

  If only Izzy could find a way to blast the vicarage’s central heating without banjaxing Charlotte’s bill, life would be perfect.

  As it was, layers would be the name of the game. Izzy tugged up the zip on the puffer jacket Emily had bought for her in the sales. A thick neck-to-knees number with built-in pocket warmers. Cosy toasty. Most likely she’d be tearing it off in a few minutes when yet another hot flush hit, but for now? Perfection in a down cocoon.

  ‘Just pop that one over there, Izzy.’ Charlotte put down her own box then frowned. ‘If it’s too heavy, leave it.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable,’ Izzy groused as she went to pick up the box and couldn’t
courtesy of the pins and needles in her hands. Unwilling to admit as much to Charlotte, she sat down and unpacked it where it sat. Inside was a jumble of books and framed paintings that looked very much as though Izzy had packed it. Nothing like the neat and tidy boxes Charlotte had put together. She picked up a loosely wrapped object. Sugar and spice she was tired. She’d finish this box then sneak away for a nap in her lovely quiet ground-floor room that Charlotte had insisted she accept.

  After Charlotte watched her for a bit she put on her ‘let’s talk positive’ voice. ‘Did Luna tell you what was on her programme today?’

  Izzy had to laugh. ‘Combat archery chased up by street dance and Parkour, if memory serves. There might be some maths in there but I’m not one hundred per cent on that.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘Honestly. Schools these days.’

  ‘No, Charlotte,’ Izzy corrected. ‘Very fancy school summer camp which Luna and I shall be eternally grateful for. Thank you.’

  She meant it. From the bottom of her heart.

  The chemo had ended just over a month ago and when the scans had come back? Virtually everything had changed in the blink of an eye.

  Freya had given up her shop and was already working as an office manager at an artist’s co-operative here in Bristol.

  Emily was working all hours at her very grown-up sounding job.

  Charlotte sold the Sussex house, not because Oli had pressured her to but because, in her words, ‘There was simply no way the children could move on if they were living in that pristine shrine to what didn’t work.’

  And Izzy still had cancer.

  In fairness, she felt a million times better than a few weeks ago when she was a vomiting, aching, crippled chemo mess. But now that she was about to go into the clinical trial? Bit of a yo-yo.

  Unlike in Hawaii, when her doctors had whipped off her breast and taken nearly all of her lymph nodes along for the ride before the standard rounds of chemo and radiotherapy, the team in Sussex felt she should have the opposite protocol. Chemo first. Lumpectomy second. This, of course, was dependent on her tumour shrinking.

  Not only was her disturbingly large tumour still very much in place (evil, deeply burrowed beast that it was), it had decided to forge new frontiers threatening encroachment on her skin, her lungs and her brain. Score one to tumour.

  All of which made agreeing to the clinical trial Emily had wormed her onto a no-brainer. Six to eight weeks solid in hospital that would make or break the cancer. Which was where fancy summer camp came into play.

  After selling her house for quite the breathtaking sum, Charlotte had asked if Luna would like to join Poppy at Badminton’s summer school. It was lush. The girls swotted in the morning then threw themselves into archery, swimming, riding, flute (Poppy), and ukulele (Luna). They even had a special week of survival skills in August. All this and the girls could return home every night to the vicarage.

  Izzy absolutely loved the house and, more to the point, so did Charlotte.

  It was already completely different to her marital home. The sitting room was strewn with brightly coloured throw pillows. Soft blankets were invitingly draped over sofa arms. Verdant houseplants gave the whole place a vibrant, botanical flair. Not a grey thing in sight.

  Soz. Granite.

  It was, effectively, an homage to everything Oliver had disliked. Joy, mostly, if the report on their lunch was anything to go by. How had the man only just learned that babies were peeing, pooing, barf-monsters? And what was he doing whining to Charlotte about it? She didn’t knock Xanthe up. Izzy had loved seeing Charlotte’s mouth twitch when she showed her the latest Instagram post from CheekyLawGirl. The kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it and, more astonishingly, Xanthe had appeared sans make-up, hair like a rat’s nest and bags under her eyes. #mumslife #needamanny

  ‘Thank you, by the way,’ Charlotte gave Izzy a gentle pat on the shoulder, wary, as ever, of hurting her.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Helping with this. I know the children should be giving me a hand with it all, but …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Izzy waved her off. She got it. Jack was always in London. Poppy was struggling to make yet another set of friends. Oli was a wanker. Divorce sucked.

  Izzy unwrapped a small painting and held it out at arm’s length. The gilt-framed canvas was quirky. And strangely moving. ‘Is this yours?’

  It wasn’t at all like the art that had been hanging in the Sussex house.

  Charlotte knelt beside her and took it in her hands with a soft ohh, I remember you. The painting featured a cuckoo clock but, instead of a wooden cuckoo, there was a little girl in a suit emerging from the tiny door.

  ‘Goodness,’ Charlotte pressed her fingers to her mouth as she put the painting down then unwrapped a second one. It was plainly framed and had a much more modern aesthetic than the first. There was a girl falling from the sky in the foreground with some cotton wool clouds far out of reach. You couldn’t see the girl’s face. Just her hair. From the looks of things she was falling at an accelerated rate. Izzy knew the feeling. Some birds were swooping in. To the rescue maybe? ‘Are those goldfinches?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte answered distractedly. ‘Yes they are.’

  ‘I’m going to guess these aren’t Oli’s.’

  ‘Mmm. No.’

  ‘Poppy’s?’

  ‘They’re mine.’ Charlotte sat back on her heels and smiled. ‘I bought them before I met Oli at an Affordable Art Fair. They were going to be the first things I hung up in my art café.’

  ‘The one you always wanted to open?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte beamed at the paintings. ‘The one I always wanted to open. You know, Izzy?’ She gave Izzy’s shoulder another light squeeze. ‘You’ve just given me a wonderful idea.’

  Freya had been right not to let Monty and the children stay. They had protested. Said they should do the reverse of a ship’s christening and perform some sort of silly ritual to bring good luck along with them to Bristol. But something deep inside her had needed to do this on her own. So she’d told them not to be ridiculous it was just a pile of bricks. Their future home was where their energy should be spent. Besides, she pointed out. Who else was going to drive the removal van to Bristol?

  It had been a lie, of course.

  She wasn’t meant to be attached to material things but now that it was no longer theirs, the house symbolized much more than she had thought. Their hopes and dreams as a family. Goalposts they had hit. Shelter in good times and, more recently, some very bad.

  Mostly, though – now that she was calling a spade a spade – it had been a drain.

  Up until now, she thought her adult life had been devoted to her family, her business, her principles, her moral core, the stand she took. On everything. But in reality? Her entire adult life had been devoted to buying, then keeping the house. Saving for the deposit. Paying the mortgage. Financing repairs. Remortgaging for the extension. Scraping together more money to cover the drains being refitted, the bathroom retiled, the boiler replaced. Doubling her efforts to pay the catapulting interest rate. Negotiating a mortgage freeze. Deciding to sell.

  And now it was all over.

  The hopes. And the dream. All to make way for new, more realistic ones.

  Somebody else would live here from tomorrow. They’d have their own rose-hued vision for the future, no doubt. And she could, at long last, look towards the future clear-eyed.

  She walked through each of the bare rooms, scooping up a final set of memories as she went. Felix’s broken tooth. Regan’s ‘incident’ with the candle. Monty’s height chart for the kids and Dumbledore. When she hit the landing, the woman that the estate agency had recommended ‘to guarantee that “ready to move in” look’ appeared at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘You want anything else? Last chance.’ The cleaning lady looked at her expectantly.

  Yes, she did. She wanted her family.

  And they weren’t here.

  It was all
a bit of a shambles really. This great denouement. What had she expected? To be handed a prize for having bought a house? People did it all the time. The same way people changed the goalposts on what was important.

  The cleaning woman eventually made her mind up for her, shooing her out of the hallway and onto the frayed welcome mat. Freya watched as she mopped backwards down the corridor, out of the front door, put the mop in the bucket and, in one swift move, closed the door for good.

  In that moment Freya felt an instant, blissful sense of freedom.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Hey! Look at you with the new hair!’

  ‘Yeah.’ Emily touched her slightly mellowed avatar look, equally surprised by the changes in her Nordic cuddler. Well, not hers, but … ‘I thought it was time for a change.’

  ‘Nice one.’ Noomi the Cuddler put her hand out for a fist-bump.

  Emily didn’t want to fist-bump. Nor did she really want to be hugged by Noomi now that she was here. Perhaps it was time for another change.

  ‘What do you think of my new do?’ Noomi tugged her hair out of the high ponytail.

  Not much if she was being honest.

  ‘Nice.’

  It wasn’t.

  Rather than the whimsical ‘I’m half butterfly’ effect that she presumed Noomi had been going for when she’d requested blue hair, the dye job made her look more … mortal. Which was a shame. The whole reason Emily had entertained this whole ‘money for hugging’ thing was because Noomi had seemed other-worldly. The golden hair, the willowy limbs, the whole lemon-verbena vibe. A vibe that came with a price tag, obviously, but at least it had allowed Emily to kid herself that the sessions were not part of her real life.

  Noomi shook her head. ‘I can’t believe how different you look. Any other big changes in your life?’

  Apart from the fact that all her friends had moved to Bristol leaving her to wallow in an ever-deepening pool of self-pity? Nope. Nothing new to see here. Apart from the hair. Obvs.