by Daisy Tate
‘How could I forget the Cheerio dress?’ Charlotte laughed. ‘And Izzy’s Gummy Bear skirt! Priceless.’
‘Yes! I still cringe thinking of the neighbour’s poor dog who ate half her skirt while she was still wearing it. Having to have its stomach pumped after. I don’t think they ever forgave us.’
‘Izzy did, though. And that’s what matters now.’
Bless her. Charlotte had a way of remembering the good things. As if to confirm it, Charlotte patted her knee. ‘The dog was fine. Izzy’s back in touch. Everything’s good.’
Freya fell silent.
‘Isn’t it?’ Charlotte glanced across at her and turned the radio down. ‘Freya?’
‘Of course it is. I’m being silly.’
‘About what?’
A thousand things she wasn’t ready to admit to yet. She picked one she could. ‘Izzy.’
‘Izzy? What on earth for?’
‘It’s ridiculous, really, but seeing her again, all beautiful and leggy and unencumbered as ever—’
‘Not so unencumbered,’ Charlotte reminded her.
‘I know. I know, it’s just … wouldn’t it be nice to be as footloose and fancy free as she is? Inheriting a cottage and starting all over again?’
‘You wouldn’t want that, though, would you? You’ve got your house and your business. The children will be starting secondary school.’
‘Hmmm …’ Freya slipped a couple more Hula Hoops onto her little finger then ate them. Charlotte was right. She didn’t want to start a new life. She just wanted the one she was living to not be so ruddy difficult. It wasn’t just the money, but also the fact Monty didn’t trust her enough to tell her he wasn’t handling the finances well felt awful. Gutting, really. He was supposed to be the love of her life! And yet, some days, like today, it seemed as though he was actively trying to obliterate the foundations of their shared dreams and ideals. They used to share everything – was she was becoming unapproachable? She looked down. Bleach in the cool boxes. Really?
‘Oh my goodness. Freya. Look.’
Freya followed Charlotte’s finger to their car where, if the hand gestures were anything to go by, Monty, Felix and Regan were having a boogie. It looked fun. Freya couldn’t remember the last time she and the children had had a singsong on the way to school. It was all ‘did you remember to do this?’ and ‘don’t forget to tell the headmistress that.’ In-struk-tions.
Maybe Monty had a point.
As fast as she could, she blurted, ‘It was the council tax bill actually. Monty told me ages ago he’d sorted the direct debit and …’ She threw her hands up in the air trying to decide whether or not to also admit to being scarily behind on their mortgage. ‘We’re in quite a state of arrears, it seems. Instead of screaming at him like I wanted to, I was very, very bossy about how we loaded up the car, then when we’d finally got the kids and the dog in, my brother called and …’ She fuzzed her lips and conked her head against the window.
Charlotte’s voice dropped an octave. ‘Your brother?’ And then it went high-pitched. ‘Is Rocco all right?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Rocco’s fine. He’s always fine. A hero, really. Best big brother ever. Needs a girlfriend who doesn’t mind that he smells of cow poo, but other than that … It’s dad, really.’ She hoicked round, pulling the seatbelt out and away from her as she retucked one of her flipflop-less feet (dirty) up onto the (cream) leather seat so that she could sit side-on to Charlotte. She’d wipe it off later.
‘Is your father all right? It must’ve been such a blow to him, losing your mother like that.’
It had been a blow to all of them. ‘He’s not really. Rocco thinks he has dementia. I think it’s grief, but if I even begin thinking that Rocco’s right, I’ll start blubbering and I don’t want to be all red-eyed when we arrive. Monty’ll think I’ve been weeping about him.’ She glared at the car in front of them, where the gestures had become more wild. ‘The jobby-flavoured numpty.’
Charlotte threw her a look. ‘Do I want to know what that means?’
‘No,’ Freya grinned, imagining the words coming from Charlotte. ‘I don’t think jobby-flavoured anything should ever enter your far more civilized lexicon.’
Charlotte made a noise as if that was probably a good idea, then tipped her head to the side. ‘That’s a lot to have on your plate. Fingers crossed, Rocco’s just being overprotective. As for you and Monty, are you all right? Financially, I mean.’
‘No.’ Instead of feeling horrible about the admission, Freya felt strangely relieved. Honesty. With a friend. How novel.
‘I’m sorry. That’s tough. Anything I can do?’
‘You could share your divorce lawyer with me,’ Freya joked, then before Charlotte could ask if she meant it, waved the comment away. ‘Kidding. Anyway, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you. It’s not like you haven’t had a crap time as well. For what it’s worth, I hope you drain him dry.’
Charlotte made a difficult-to-pin-down noise. ‘It’s more the children I’m worried about.’
‘You’ve told them already?’
‘No, I had thought we might …’ Her mouth stayed open, as if she was going to explain what it was she actually thought, then shook her head as if she didn’t trust herself. ‘We’re waiting until they get back from their school trips.’
Freya, who had zero expertise in this department, offered Charlotte a Hula Hoop. She said no, thank you, then gracefully changed the topic. ‘How would you like a shop consultation? You’re obviously the expert on the shirts and things, but, it seemed to help out at Sittingstone if Waitrose Weekend is anything to go by.’
Though she’d already thought of asking her, Freya balked at the suggestion.
She’d always had a fiercely protective need to run the shop on her own. When she’d decided to do a degree in art and textiles, her family had said they’d support her in every way they could but financially – mostly because they couldn’t – and she had translated that into a blinkered intensity to prove to them their loving support had been worth it. But now, with the business clearly struggling and, according to Rocco’s call this morning, milk prices dropping again, why did it feel so humiliating to say, yes, please. I need all the help I can get?
Izzy popped into her head again. People were always giving things to Izzy. Loved doing it, in fact. And Izzy always accepted with a huge smile. As if she couldn’t believe her luck. Maybe it was time to learn how to start accepting offers of help instead of pushing them away.
‘That would be amazing, Charlotte. Thank you.’ She dug round in the bottom of the Hula Hoop bag and came up empty.
‘Have some more crisps.’ Charlotte urged. ‘There’s every flavour under the rainbow, including … prawn cocktail.’
Freya made a rapturous sound of delight. ‘Oh, you are a legend. You won’t tell Monty, will you? He’d not let this go. Not after my crusade on E numbers.’
Charlotte turned an invisible key in front of her lips and threw it away with a smile. How nice. To have someone entirely on her side. Suddenly she was ravenous.
‘I’ll do them.’
Emily’s registrar looked at her in shock. No one volunteered to work the entire duration of their kyboshed holiday. ‘What? All of them?’
‘Yeah. Why not? Sign me up.’ She pretended she was hunting for something really important on her phone and reread Izzy’s text. It wasn’t strictly urgent, but it was worrying. Izzy was reaching out. As it was a rare event, Emily’s instinct was to pretty much come running. And it did sound like an actual problem.
She had the time now that Callum had flung her to the wolves.
She glanced down at the schedule the registrar was merrily filling in.
‘Wait. Sorry. Keep that bit free. I’ll work from today to Thursday and let you know tomorrow if I can do the rest. Let’s get all of these hips replaced!’ She put her hand up as Noomi had suggested. Initiating physical contact gives you control of how far it goes.
The registrar wen
t in for a fist bump as she went for a high five. It was all very awkward.
They both pretended it hadn’t happened. He tapped his tablet. ‘Thanks, Dr Cheung. You’re a life-saver.’
‘That’s the guys up in cardio – I’m just the joint saver.’ She dropped an invisible mic and mimed saying Boom!
The registrar stared at her for a moment, a poster boy for all exhausted, thirty-something, NHS medical practitioners, then scuttled away. Fair enough. She was being weird. She would’ve run away, too.
She headed towards one of the on-call rooms and flopped down on the bed. She’d go and see Izzy on Friday. She would. Definitely. It’d make up for not seeing Freya and Charlotte. She’d yet to master being empathetic for someone else’s shit life when she was actively engaged in wallowing in the crapitude that was her own sad excuse of an existence.
That. And she had to find a way to move back into her parents’ house without dooming herself to life of constant remorse. Yes, Ma. You’re right. I should’ve stuck with the violin. And the piano. Physics club. Oxford. Cambridge. Harvard. Princeton. All of it. She should have done it all and hadn’t, because fulfilling even a handful of her parents’ dreams had been hard enough. Then again, they’d been right about the doctor thing. She loved it. Maybe they’d be right about living with them and finally learning how to play mah jong with her ‘aunties’.
She pulled a Twix out of her pocket, tore open the packet then kicked the wall.
Callum could piss off! He wouldn’t know real friendship if it smacked him in the mouth. Take Izzy, Freya and Charlotte as a prime example. She hadn’t seen them in pretty much twenty years and they still accepted her. Foibles and all. Which, she supposed, she could learn a valuable lesson from if she weren’t so busy sulking.
She picked up her phone to text the registrar and tell him she would work for ever.
Another message pinged in from Izzy. A photo of a black splodge.
Gah! She should go. If she didn’t, she’d very possibly be dooming her best friend and child to death by toxic mould.
That sort of negligence eclipsed sulking about having to move back in with her parents.
She tapped out the text and pressed send. She even put in a hug emoji. Noomi would be very proud.
Chapter 3
Freya gave the chilli a distracted stir as she stared out at the ocean. Arriving at the sparsely populated campsite had been like entering their own nook of heaven. She had absolutely no idea how the whole of Britain didn’t know about this sheep field by the sea. Not that she was going to start advertising it. One deep breath of the sun-warmed, tangy air and she felt the tiniest of layers of her ‘real-life problems’ ease away. The tents were up. Monty had been surprisingly good about helping to unpack the car, organizing the fire, setting up the tripod which she never seemed to manage on her own and, as ever, keeping the kids entertained while she and Charlotte sorted out their makeshift kitchen. The wind wasn’t too strong tonight, but there had been ‘weather’ predicted.
‘Ready, Mum?’
‘Yes, sorry darlin’. I was away with the fairies. Here you are. Take that extra bowl over to your brother, would you Regan? Chilli, Monts?’ Freya held the ladle above the flame-licked pot. ‘The tripod worked a treat over the fire,’ she said when he didn’t answer.
‘What a lucky wife you are, eh? To have such a handy husband.’ Monty kissed her cheek, took one of the battered tin camping plates they’d bought as newlyweds and drifted off after Regan and Jack who were sitting at a wooden table in the old lambing shed.
How lucky, she thought, to have such a selective memory. All right fine. Yes. He had been handy putting up the tent. A big burnt-orange number the twins were beginning to balk at sharing with their parents. He’d unpacked the rooftop storage case and helped Charlotte with the gargantuan tent she’d bought at one of those outdoor shops near the Brecon Beacons. He had also started a truly excellent campfire. All of which he’d done after the game of squirt guns had fallen apart when Felix had tripped over a log and broken one of the arms off his glasses. Another forty-odd quid down the drain.
She wondered if this skill – the selective memory – was how he managed to be at peace with himself. That. Or he was doing what she was. Stupidly hoping against hope she would sort herself out and earn some more money. In moments of brutal honesty, she knew she’d be better off designing pants for Sainsbury’s. A reliable salary. A pension. Nice benefits if she included the staff discount. Maybe she should give Gok Wan’s people a call. She’d taken a textiles course with one of his minions back in the day. She thought of her shop and then … failure. Maybe she should read that book about how to fail? Freya felt the familiar sickening knot in her stomach. She didn’t feel particularly ready for that reality yet.
‘Here, Freya.’ Charlotte pulled the tinfoil-covered garlic bread out of the fire. ‘Why don’t I bring this over to the shed and you sort yourself out. No more serving everyone, all right?’
‘Thank you.’ She meant it.
‘No,’ corrected Charlotte with a wag of her finger. ‘It’s me who should be thanking you. This is bliss. Just what I needed. Perfect place to blow away the cobwebs. France and Namibia have their lures, but I think the children are missing out.’
Somehow Freya doubted that compost toilets and a bumpy old sheep field would have quite the appeal of Cannes and dune-surfing in Africa, but you never knew. Charlotte seemed to be enjoying it. Charlotte took the bowl of chilli and wrapped the garlic bread in an oven mitt Freya didn’t remember owning, then went over to join Monty and the children.
She pressed her hands against her lower back and stretched, taking a moment to soak it all in. Almost ten o’clock and the sun was still yet to fully set. The campsite was basically a field belonging to a farm that abutted the sea. They’d discovered it one hot summer when the shop had been doing really well and Monty, fed up with trying to entertain toddlers in a sticky, sweaty London, had packed them all into the car and headed west. At that juncture, all the advertising the site had was a cardboard sign with an arrow and the words Earthly Delights. Monty had taken it as a sign. Freya had made a run of T-shirts when they’d got back featuring the arrow and the sign, and added in a tent. They’d sold well for a bit. Londoners only wore camping-related items ironically and the economy had been about to crash, so unicorns took over from there.
It was such a beautiful site she was surprised the elderly owners – Allun and Olwyn Collins – didn’t want to keep it to themselves. Apparently the grazing wasn’t up to much. Once they took off the first cut of hay in May, there wasn’t much chance of a second cut, so they’d done what all farmers did: tried to make some money out of it another way.
Allun had since passed away, but Olwyn still ran her sheep and the campsite, never booking in more than five or so families at a time. Her sons dealt with any big problems these days but, like many farmers, weren’t much for chitchat. Silently loping in and out, fixing things, but not hanging about for fanfare or praise at a job well done. Just like her brother.
They’d not seen Olwyn yet, but, if it was like every other year, she’d appear at some point. No doubt with a couple of bottle-fed lambs in the boot of her battered old Defender for the twins to cuddle. She and her boys were always tinkering away with some little addition or another. The hedge, planted back when the twins were toddlers, had thickened up now. The tent was less likely to blow away as it had that first year. A huge old stone sink with a hose attached had appeared a few years back. Stumps as replacements for the canvas chairs that always blew away appeared the next. This year it was a pizza oven. The children’s eyes had lit up when they saw it, then dulled when they heard Monty had forgotten to bring along the frozen dough that Freya had marked up for the trip in the freezer. The children were less cross about it than she had been.
Freya walked round the hedge so there was nothing between her and the sea.
It was windy, yes. But the seaside often was. A good old blast of sea air felt strangely curat
ive. A hint of the scents of St Andrews, she supposed. The gorgeous sunset didn’t hurt either.
She scrubbed a hand across her face. Why couldn’t the man follow a simple list? Each and every item Monty had deemed excessive (forgotten), or hadn’t been able to fit in the car (forgotten) or actually admitted he’d forgotten was burbling like poison along with the rest of the stew of frustrations that seemed constantly on the boil in her gut. No wonder she’d been losing weight. This latest one, though. This latest one had actually taken her breath away.
How could he have neglected to pay the council tax for an entire year? They didn’t have that kind of money to pay back. Sure. It was tip-of-the-iceberg stuff and she shouldn’t be having a meltdown about it, but the problem wasn’t the tip. It was the actual iceberg. The mortgage they’d frozen over a year ago when her business rates had been ratcheted up into the stratosphere. A freeze their bank manager had indicated was due for a thaw. There were the school trips, her business taxes, Regan’s violin needed updating, the utility bills. The artisan coffees … Food. Funnily enough, with two brand-new teenagers and a husband who all ate like wolves, they were big on food in their house. ‘We’ll sort it,’ Monty had said with that encouraging smile of his. And by ‘we’ he meant Freya.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, she was hit with a swift and merciless fear that she simply didn’t have it in her to dig them out this time. Sure. Monty could’ve told her about the council tax, but if there’d been money in the coffers, it wouldn’t have been an issue. Perhaps he didn’t tell her because he knew how she would feel. Like a couple of chickens with paper bags over their heads. God, there would have to be changes. Big changes. And for the first time ever Freya wondered if it was actually Monty who’d backed the wrong horse on the marriage front …
‘Would you like a marshmallow?’ Regan held open the pack for Charlotte. ‘Mum’s coming in a minute. After she’s had her shower.’