by Daisy Tate
‘Bye bye, bud. See you soon.’ Izzy nuzzled the puppy.
‘Any news on the hedgehog house?’ Freya had just jogged up to their little group and given them all a full report on the hedgehog, a need for tweezers (ticks) and an assurance that Luna was as transfixed by the little creature as the rest of the children were. And by ‘rest of the children’, she meant hers. Charlotte’s children, just that little bit older than the others, had been seen sloping off to their bell tent arguing about charging points.
‘We should have one kitted out for you in the next hour or two,’ the manager said. ‘The dowager countess has a thing for hedgehogs, so we’ve got loads round the estate. Normally we’ve got a few in store, but this one’s caught us a bit early.’
‘Mmm,’ Freya nodded deeply, then mouthed ‘global warming’.
Izzy stifled a laugh. Same ol’ Freya. Bless. She’d have to triple-check the recycling rules before she threw anything away. That. Or torture her like she and Emily used to back in the day. The fuss over an uncomposted banana skin. Good times. Simpler times.
The manager gave Bonzer a ‘let’s see now’ look. One that suggested he had the hedgehog situation under control, but puppies? Not so much.
‘Are you sure it’s okay?’ Izzy held out her hand for the lead.
‘Positive,’ said the manager, who had insisted several times everyone call him Whiffy instead of Peter. Something to do with how he’d always ‘smelt of the countryside’ as a kid, and nowt had changed other than that he lived down South where the weather were a bit fairer.
‘It’s for his own safety.’ He crouched down and gave the puppy’s head a scrub. Izzy was vaguely mollified when Bonzer gave him a big sloppy lick on the face and Whiffy laughed.
‘Breed?’
‘Erm … designer dog?’ Or mutt. All in the spin, she supposed.
‘The rescue charity said he’s a mishmash of Lab, collie and some sort of enormous mystery beast. I’m guessing that’s why his paws are so huge. Pyrenean mountain dog?’
They all studiously examined Bonzer. His white eyebrows quirking left, then right, then left again. ‘The woman said he was the product of a “secret liaison”.’
Freya’s eyes shot to her as if she’d been giving them some code about Luna. Izzy herself was the product of a secret liaison, so … no judgement in this camp.
‘When did you move back again?’ Freya asked. ‘Long enough to get a puppy, obviously.’
‘Monday.’ Izzy held up her hands. ‘I know. We’re doing this all a bit ass-backwards, but …’ She shrugged. ‘I thought Bonzer might help us both settle in once we get to the cottage.’
‘Cottage?’ Freya’s eyebrow shot up.
She’d forgotten Freya’s insatiable appetite for details.
Cool your jets. It’s been ten years. Plenty of water under the bridge. More water to come.
‘The one I inherited. It’s in Wales. Welsh Wales.’ She swiped the air between them. ‘I’ll fill you in on everything later. Right now I just wanna make sure this little guy is going to be all right.’
Bonzer nestled his head into Whiffy’s hand then looked up at him, a picture of doe-eyed innocence. Everyone went, ‘awwww’, then threw guilty looks at each other seeing as they were meant to be saying goodbye.
Whiffy grinned at Izzy. ‘Don’t you worry. His accommodation will be posher than what you lot are in.’
Charlotte bristled.
Whiffy held up his hands. ‘Not like that.’ He laughed. ‘A kennel’s a kennel. It’s just that it’s up at the main house.’
‘You mean the earl and countess are in residence?’ Charlotte shook her hair a bit to make it look as if she didn’t really care, but Charlotte, Izzy now remembered, had never been particularly good at pretending.
Whiffy looked down at Bonzer. ‘They’d love a little guy like this. Mad about puppies, they are.’
Izzy threw Charlotte a panicked look.
Whiffy saw the exchange. ‘Don’t worry. Lord James and Her Ladyship are away this weekend. Greece, I think. They won’t be anywhere near the kennels. The dowager countess is in.’ He dropped them a cheeky wink. ‘She does love an evening stroll to the kennels. Not sure I’ll be able to keep her mitts off this one.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, then maybe it’s better if we keep Bonzer. I’ve got the van and—’
‘Nope. No. Sorry, madam.’ Whiffy really did look sorry, but he took a step back from her all the same. ‘You really don’t want to see a longhorn cow protecting her calf against this little guy.’ Whiffy gave Bonzer’s head another scrub, then lifted him into the back of his utility truck. The women waved goodbye. Bonzer’s expression read as all of theirs had when their parents had left them to ‘get on with the magic of learning’ that first day of uni. Half bewildered, half ‘you can go now’.
Devoid of her puppy and child, Izzy gave the site a proper scan. It was lush. Stunning, really. That seemingly effortless combination of whimsy and class. The Brits were brilliant at baronial elegance.
Her eyes settled on a nearby yurt. The first time she’d ever gone camping was with these girlies. Emily had had a hissy fit after her first insect bite and had slept in Izzy’s van. Not that there had been much room in it. Charlotte had decanted near enough their whole house into the thing. Freya had been the truly useful one. Fire-starter. Tent putter-upper. Arbiter of just how long the five-second rule really lasted when a sausage dropped off a stick into the sand. (About thirty seconds if anyone was asking.)
‘Are you all right, Izzy?’ Charlotte reached out to take the backpack Izzy was holding looped on her arm.
‘Absolutely. More than.’ Izzy smiled. She wasn’t here to mope. She was here to party! ‘This place is amazing.’
Charlotte beamed. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’ She tucked her arm in Izzy’s and pointed towards a bell tent. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about what’s brought you back home.’
All in good time, Izzy thought. This was great. Being home again. She loved the UK. She loved her friends. She loved life. All in good time, but not tonight. First, she wanted absorb all of this. The fire pit, the kitchen tent, the smattering of benches and picnic rugs that were all so fabulously British. Everything was just so, except … ‘You know what would make this place absolutely perfect?’
Charlotte and Freya leaned in.
‘Bunting!’
‘Wait! Stop the car.’
‘I thought we were late.’
Emily pressed her hands to the dash. ‘Oh, gawd. Just look at it all.’ Emily thought she might throw up a little. It was all so twee! She loved kitsch, but she did not do twee. In fairness, she thought there’d be bunting. Bunting might’ve tipped her over the edge.
Emily arched an imperious eyebrow at Callum and did a refresher course. ‘Okay. Charlotte’s the hostess with the mostest and it’s her birthday.’
‘Am I right in guessing she’s also the world’s biggest fan of Emma Bridgewater?’
Emily shrugged. ‘Probably. 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.
‘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.
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.
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.
‘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.
Emily made a show of assessing each of them before abruptly unleashing that sly-dog, hard-won smile of hers. ‘Well, thanks very much, ladies!’
‘For what?’ Charlotte looked perplexed.
‘For telling me we didn’t have to dress like Ray Mears.’
Laughing, 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 Four
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 her
s had cheered when Izzy revealed some genuine American marshmallows.
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.