by Daisy Tate
Monty was the love of her life. She didn’t want to hate him. But there was an increasingly large chance they would be homeless if things carried on as they were.
‘C’mere.’ He took her small hand in his big old wide ones. The hands he’d used to build all of the cupboards in their kitchen. Her shed in the back garden. The one who kept everything going while she went on research trips to meet new suppliers. The ones that had bathed the children while she sat late into the night making new designs. They were softer now than they’d been back when he’d been their resident Monts the Builder. He’d been happier then. More charged with purpose. He led her to a weathered picnic table that overlooked the sprawling vista. They sat down, side by side, both of her hands in both of his. He kissed her fingertips then put them back in her lap.
‘I know I cocked up. I should’ve been honest with you. I should’ve got a job years ago when the kids started school. Used my degree. Sold some photos. Sold that bloody micro-brewery kit.’ He pressed his hands between his knees and they both stared as the blood drained from his thumbs. Then he looked her straight in the eye. ‘I was ashamed, Frey. You work so hard for us. I know your dreams aren’t being fulfilled, at least in the way you thought they might be, but I guess I just … I’d hoped having the kids and me was enough. And we’re all so used to you being the capable one. The one who sorts everything out. I’m not like that. I don’t have it in me to do what you do.’
Freya wanted to protest. Wanted to remind him how bloody brilliant he would’ve been as a lawyer. He was so passionate. So intelligent. So caring.
Was that what he was doing now? Laying out his case before her? Both judge and juror of how their marriage would continue?
‘I’m going to talk to my parents,’ Monty said. ‘See if I can get a loan.’ He held up his hands because he knew how Freya felt about borrowing money. Especially from his family. ‘And I’m going to get a job.’
Her eyes popped wide open. ‘Seriously?’
She’d heard that one before.
‘Yes. Absolutely. Let’s make some changes. The kids are old enough to start helping out round the house a bit more. I can dust off the old CV. We’ll all muck in. We’ll do this. Together. As a family.’
She wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe him. But … ‘I just …’ Oh, blimey, it was so many things. Trust. Fear. Control. They were all big issues with her. Holding them tight was so much easier than letting go. But had that been part of the problem? Had she held so tight to her dream of running a shop that she’d cornered Monty into being something he wasn’t? What if he’d taken that law job? Or a corporate one like his mum had wanted? Would she be the stay-at-home mum? Buying bits of fabric with her pin money, trying to steal the odd free hour to put together a frock to sell on Etsy? Perhaps that’s why all of Monty’s projects had gone wrong. He was so busy looking after them, he genuinely had no time to make a success of himself. Who knew? They both might be where they’d wanted now if they’d chosen his path and not hers.
Was there not one path wide enough for both of them?
‘C’mere, babe.’ Monty pulled her into his arms. Arms she had always been powerless to resist. Today she sat rigidly, desperately counting down the seconds until he let go.
‘We can’t live like this any more,’ she said as she eventually extracted herself from the never-ending hug.
‘I know, babe. I know.’
Their names were called to go up to the zip-line platform.
She knew he would try to change. He always did. It never worked but at least he tried. Had she? Or each time something like this cropped up, had she simply popped on some blinkers and soldiered on, waiting for him to one day catch up with her vision of who she wanted him to be? The male version of a power woman.
Maybe being strapped to him for a kilometre-long zip ride would do the trick.
‘You two ready for the ride of your life?’ the guide asked enthusiastically.
‘Bring it on!’ Monty rubbed his hands together and held out his hand. ‘Ready to hurtle yourself out into the great unknown with me?’
Freya thought for a nanosecond then said, ‘No. I think I need to do this one alone.’
Charlotte was a bit shell-shocked at how swiftly her real life had pierced through the new-found strength she thought she’d channelled over the past few days.
They’d lost signal for a bit on the drive up, and here, at the top of the quarry, a flurry of messages had pinged in. The first one was from Oli. He’d been held up getting the paperwork together but it should be with her in the next few days. One from Jack with a solitary question mark. Then seven from Poppy. All asking to come home.
They knew about the divorce.
Oliver had told them. By text.
He’d not waited for them to come home. Not rung to form a ‘party line’. Nothing. So she did something she hadn’t done in a very long time. Followed her instinct. After a tearful ‘why is this happening to me?’ talk, and a lengthy conversation with Poppy’s head of year, Charlotte had booked her daughter on the next flight home. If all went according to plan, and there was no reason why it shouldn’t, Charlotte would be holding her baby girl in her arms by the end of the day. Half of her was terrified she wouldn’t know what to do, the other half was desperate to reclaim the love and respect she feared she’d lost.
‘You all right there, love?’
She looked at the safety instructor and, for one mad moment, considered saying, ‘No. No, I’m not all right. My husband’s left me for another woman. She’s pregnant. By him. At least I presume so. He’s also told our children we’re splitting up, which he’d promised not to do. I think my daughter’s being bullied and that my son’s respect for me is subterranean, but other than that … things are tickety-boo, ta.’
She didn’t of course. She smiled, said she was fine and watched as the lean, corded muscles of his arms stretched and lengthened while he triple-checked the multiple ropes and clips she was attached to. His arms reminded her of Rocco. Freya’s brother was a much larger man, of course. Taller. Not fat. Not at all. Just … capable. One of those men who, given a few minutes, could tinker about with anything and fix it. A tractor. A cow with a dislocated shoulder. A broken heart.
‘Safety’s off!’
She bent her knees and felt her weight being taken by the double sets of cables and the thick harness. She barely heard the guide doing a swift countdown as he eased her towards the edge of the platform, her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t make out what he was saying to her. It didn’t matter now. She was flying!
Arms spread wide, she was soaring towards the woodlands. For the first time in she didn’t know how long, she let all of her thoughts and worries glide away.
Her broken marriage. Her children’s swithering loyalties. The fact she didn’t know how long she’d be living in her house. There was nothing she could do about anything over the next ten minutes. No cakes to bake. Shirts to press. Appearances to maintain. It was an extraordinary feeling. This, she thought, was the sensation she wanted to capture as she set off on the next phase of her life. Liberated. Powerful. Free.
Acknowledgements
If this was a pop-up book, at this juncture a very long scroll would unfurl with a squillion names on it going back to primary school. Earlier. Birth. Thank you mum and dad for having me. And thank you for bringing us camping. A lot. What a fecund pool of material to draw from. This book has been such a great joy to write for many reasons, not least of which because it rekindled a fabulous friendship with the glorious Jackie N. Thank you for all of your honest insight. Lady W – muchos gracias for the fashion advice. You are, and shall forever be, my Coco. Netts – you are, as ever, a wonder. You are made of kindness and all of the other lovely things. Beth – you read the earliest, most painful drafts of this and still had nice things to say, so thank you. Darcy – again, thank you for your honesty and insight. You iz most helpful. JP and Mich - your friendship, that chicken soup and those pickles were a godsend. Neve
r before has shampoo been more gratefully received. Natasha, bless you for the Zencils. They made all the difference. James – thank you for the insight into the amorous tiers of lawful luvvin’. Most interesting. Christine and Pam - you’re tremendous cheerleaders. Mwah. Sue and Stu! You made real-life glamping extra fun. Sarah L – thank you for lunch and illuminating me on just what it takes to pack a large family up for a weekend under canvas. Exhausting. To my agent, Jo Bell who is not only marvellous at reading small print, but who is tremendously talented at reminding me about which small stuff to sweat and which big stuff to get on with and achieve. A heartfelt thanks to you. To the team at Harper Collins for making this twinkle of an idea a reality, especially that transcendentally superpowered Kate Bradley, my amazing faith-filled, patient, inspirational and acutely insightful editor. Thank you for believing in me. Great love to Grissom and Jorja who began this journey with me and to Skye who picked up their batons. And, of course, to my sweet beloved husband. Without you … well … that’s not really worth thinking about is it? Bring on the marshmallows!
Are the friends finished with the outdoors for good, or are they ready for another weekend of secrets and unfinished business …? Find out in the next glamptabulous instalments available to buy now!
About the Author
Daisy Tate loves telling stories. Telling them in books is even better. When not writing, she raises stripey, Scottish cows, performs in Amateur Dramatics, pretends her life is a musical and bakes cakes that will never win her a place on a television baking show. She was born in the USA but has never met Bruce Springsteen. She now calls East Sussex home.
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