by Daisy Tate
Monty wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Wanna get jiggy with it? I’ve not let the water out of the bath.’
Seriously? Was he mad?
‘Montgomery Burns-West. You are treading on remarkably thin ice.’
He feigned being hit in the heart with an arrow. ‘What? I can’t proposition my fair wife for a morning shag?’
‘Not when the overdraft police are riding my ass, no.’
Monty looked genuinely hurt. There was no glory in it. Why did she always have to be the bad cop? Unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, his wet chest saturating her top. ‘It’s all right, love. I know things are tough, but we’ll get there. Dreams are worth fighting for, right?’
They were, but … Freya thought of her Camden shop, and the oh-so-witty T-shirts that no one seemed to want; the dream of sustainable fashion that had now turned into an endless compromise of her ideals and lots of bounced cheques.
She found herself responding to his kiss until the butterflies began, then pulled away. A kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t fix the overdraft. Nor would fighting about it. She stuffed her tug-of-war mood into the darker recesses and told Monty she was going to help get breakfast ready. Today was about Charlotte. Tomorrow would be about facing facts.
‘Charlotte, you’ve converted me!’ Emily mooched up to the fire, a quilt slung over her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t slept this well in months. Years maybe. ‘That bacon smells amazing. Is there coffee as well?’
Charlotte turned around, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Shit. Crap. What is it? I don’t need coffee. I don’t need bacon. Fuck. Are you okay?’
Nice one, Emms. Yes. The weeping woman is perfectly fine.
‘Sorry, yes. No. There is coffee. I mean …’ Charlotte didn’t even bother swiping at her tears. ‘Oliver’s having an affair.’
Emily looked round in a panic. Where was the lemon drizzle crew when you needed them? She wasn’t equipped for this. There was the doctor’s bedside manner thing, but she’d had training for that. Professional distance came much more easily than the whole warm-and-fuzzy thing.
That. And Charlotte wasn’t a patient. Charlotte had held her hair up when she’d thrown up after an overzealous margarita night. Charlotte had helped her make models of organs out of jelly for her anatomy class. Charlotte still liked her enough to invite her to her fortieth birthday party, despite fifteen years of bunking off invitations to meet up.
‘Here.’ She grabbed an origami crane from the bunting and pushed it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Wipe your face. He’s coming.’
With the swiftness and expertise of a Hollywood actress, Charlotte snapped open the crane, swept the serviette across her face and turned to her husband with a soft, practised smile. ‘Hello, darling. Did you sleep well?’
Izzy fought the lure of sizzling bacon and waited until Oliver had walked out to the meadow, car keys jingling in his hand and phone to his ear, before joining Emily and Charlotte at the campfire. Her karma was off kilter enough without having to play along with more crap jokes and wife-belittlement. Maybe he was heading off to get Charlotte a present. A big one. ‘Hey, lay-deeez! Top of the morning to you!’
Emily jerked her head towards Charlotte who was weeping into the bacon sandwiches. ‘Izz. Do something. Say something.’
Oh, bums. Charlotte was crying. So why had Oliver just walked away as if nothing was going on?
‘Ummm … Happy birthday!?’
‘Thank you, Izzy. That is kind.’ Sniff. Wipe. Charlotte gave her head one of those quick shakes a person performed when they were hoping to look perfectly fine. It wasn’t entirely successful. ‘Bacon sandwich?’ She hastily loaded some bacon into a crusty roll then handed it to her.
Izzy took it and made a show of it being mmm-mmm, delicious, while Charlotte and Emily stared at her.
Wait a minute. Emily hadn’t spilled the beans about why she’d come back to the UK, had she? She’d promised.
‘Emily! Did you—’
‘No,’ Emily said through gritted teeth. ‘This is about Charlotte. Charlotte who’s got lots of feelings today.’
‘Charlotte Mayfield!’ Izzy planted her hands on her hips. ‘You aren’t being funny about turning forty, are you? You look amazing. Gorgeous. I want to be you when I grow up. Forty’s the new black.’ She kept spluttering platitudes until Emily cut her off.
‘Oliver’s cheating.’
Ah. She hadn’t expected that.
Then again, the man had felt her up at his own wedding.
‘Sorry. Sorry, girls.’ Charlotte swept away some tears then gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Honestly. It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but … I’m just going a bit mad is all. One minute I was frying bacon, happy as can be. The next I was bawling my eyes out and telling my least emotionally available friend – sorry Emily, you’re lovely, but we both know you’re not equipped for these sorts of histrionics, are you?’ Emily nodded. It was fine.
‘I’ve been like this for hours.’ Charlotte was on a roll. ‘All night actually. One minute I can’t bear the sight of him and the next I’m absolutely, positively sure I want nothing more than to devote my life to making our marriage better. He said he wants it to work. I want it to work. And then … all of a sudden … I don’t! It’s like being on one of those – those …’ She looked up to seek the best word, tears dripping off her chin.
‘Waltzers?’ offered Izzy. They’d once made Charlotte go on one and she’d never seen a human more pale.
‘Yes.’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Just like that.’
Clearly the memory hadn’t faded.
‘Okay. Right. Well, first of all, the man’s an idiot.’
Charlotte offered Izzy a forlorn smile through her tears. ‘Her name’s Xanthe.’
Izzy scoffed. ‘That’s a stupid name.’
‘It’s Greek, actually. She’s a junior partner at his law firm.’ Charlotte almost sounded wistful.
‘So? Anyone can become a lawyer. Monty’s a lawyer.’ They threw each other guilty looks. ‘No offence to Monty.’
‘She’s very pretty. Especially in a bikini.’
‘You’ve seen her poolside?’ Emily looked appalled.
‘Instagram,’ explained Charlotte.
They all nodded and quietly thought on the complex world of cyber-stalking.
‘She also might be pregnant.’
‘Oh!’ Izzy said in her upper register. That made things more complicated. ‘Ummm … Is there a plan?’
‘No, you na-na. She’s only just found out,’ Emily said.
‘Muuuuum! I’m starving.’
Charlotte’s son dropped onto a bench where he was clearly expecting to be served as Charlotte hastily wiped her face with … was that Freya’s origami bunting?
‘I’ll get a tray of sandwiches up in a minute, darling. Why don’t you go over to the kitchen tent and see if you can’t find the ketchup and brown sauce?’ Charlotte looked and sounded like a modern Doris Day. How did she do that?
‘Brown sauce?’ Jack made a vomit face. ‘Mother.’ He shuddered.
Charming.
He pointed at Izzy. ‘Why’s she got one then?’
Doubly charmed. Izzy resisted giving him a slap round the back of his head and telling him to pull his socks up because his mother had just found out his dad was a lying, cheating bastard.
‘Because she’s a guest, darling.’ Charlotte gave Izzy a sorrowful look. ‘With low blood sugar. It’s a condition.’
Gosh. Charlotte told a fib! Izzy tried to figure out the best way to look as if she had a condition when Emily cut in. ‘Go. Ketchup. Brown sauce. It’s your mother’s birthday.’
Wow. Guess no one had given Emily the memo about telling other people’s children what to do. Even so … Jack obeyed her.
‘Okay, Lotte. What do you want us to do?’ Izzy whispered as soon as he was out of earshot, noting that Oli, the bastard, still hadn’t left yet.
Charlotte ran her index fingers under her eyes to swipe away
invisible mascara stains.
‘Well, there’s no plan really. Yes,’ she said abruptly straightening her spine. ‘There is a plan. It is to do nothing. Oliver reckons we’ll get through this. Just an early morning wobble is all. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m being a silly goose.’
‘What? About your husband having an affair?’
Charlotte nearly lost her composure.
‘No, of course not. He’s said he’s put a halt to it. That the pregnancy isn’t for sure. Most likely a lie to get him to choose between the two of us. That’s what all of these phone calls are for.’ She vaguely gestured out towards the meadow where Oli was, once again, jabbering away on his mobile. He caught Charlotte’s eye, pointed at Izzy’s sandwich, then at himself.
Dickhead.
‘It’ll be just a moment, darling. Izzy’s got low blood sugar!’
Izzy did a little wobbly knee move to make it look true.
‘Is that what you want? To carry on?’ Emily asked her.
‘Yes.’ Charlotte clapped her hands together decisively. ‘Now. If you two wouldn’t mind keeping this under your hats, I’d really appreciate it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to create such a fuss—’
Freya marched up to their group, mouth already open in ‘I’m about to give a speech’ mode. One of the children had probably messed up the recycling bins or some equally heinous crime.
Emily’s eyes silenced her.
Emily was a powerful ally in a crisis.
‘Can I tell Freya?’ Izzy was horrid with keeping secrets. Most secrets, anyway.
‘Tell me what?’
‘Oliver’s having an affair. Shit. Sorry, Lotte. And she’s preggers. Crap. Is that all right? Fuck. My bad.’
Emily glared at Freya as if it was her fault Izzy had spilled the beans.
Freya’s open mouth dropped even further. Izzy was tempted to close it for her.
‘Charlotte wants her party to go ahead as planned.’ Izzy handed the rest of her sandwich to Freya. If she was eating, she wouldn’t be able to embark on a diatribe against Oli.
‘Fucking bastard,’ Freya said, stuffing in an errant piece of bacon.
Okay. That hadn’t worked.
‘She wants to work through it. Stay with Oli,’ Izzy said. Meaningfully.
‘Oh.’ Freya swallowed. ‘I mean … marriage is tough.’ Her eyes flitted to Monty who was horrifying the children with a pretend striptease with his towel only to reveal he was actually wearing shorts. Goofball. He was everything Oli wasn’t in a father figure. Which, of course, made him endearingly lovable despite all their problems.
‘So … the plan is?’ Freya took another bite of bacon sandwich. Hopefully, to keep the sea of commentary at bay.
Charlotte began crisply shifting perfectly fried bacon onto a serving platter covered in rosebuds. ‘The plan is to forget we ever had this discussion. It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I’m so sorry I—’
‘No,’ Emily cut in. ‘You have nothing to apologize for.’
‘That’s right. Absolutely nothing. This is your day.’ Freya nodded along.
Izzy clicked her heels together and gave Charlotte a sharp salute. ‘Party pixie reporting for duty!’ Izzy took the tray from Charlotte and tipped her head towards the tent. ‘I’ll round up the children. Freya, are you good with helping Charlotte sort out whatever she needs to make this the happiest fortieth ever?’
Freya stuffed the rest of the bacon sarnie into her mouth and swiped her hands together. She was ready for action.
‘Right,’ Emily nodded in a style usually reserved for black-and-white war films as a squadron of mismatched soldiers were about to embark on a make-or-break mission. ‘We have three hours to make this place look exactly the way Charlotte wants it. Ready or not, girlies. Operation Happy Glampers is under way.’
Chapter Seven
‘Charlotte! Darls … Happy Birthday! Twenty-one again!’
And so the charade begins.
‘Jessica! So glad you could make it. Treena! What a lovely frock. Is that Rixo? Thank you so much for … oh! For me? You really shouldn’t have. Oli’s just over there, by the champagne. Ha ha! You know what he says. A day that begins with bubbly is never a bad one!’
The effort was exhausting. Was this what her mother had felt like during her final days with the oxygen mask? Constantly taking those small sips of air in the vain hope the torture might end.
Oli was long back from his mystery errand looking roughly the same as when he’d wandered off, bacon sandwich in hand, phone to ear. Only this time it was glasses of fizz and lipsticky kisses that were occupying him. No added layers of guilt as far as she could ascertain. Perhaps, as Izzy had suggested, he had been off getting her a present.
The only truly good part of this, Charlotte thought, was having Freya, Izzy and Emily here. They were doing a remarkable job. Steering people this way and that. Checking up on her but not looking too sympathetic. Too much sympathy would crack the very thin veneer of normality she was desperately clinging on to.
‘What? We’re not up at the proper house?’
Charlotte’s attention shot to the car park where, amidst the hubbub of their other guests, she couldn’t miss her mother-in-law’s distinctive voice.
Verity had grown up in Rhodesia – when it was still Rhodesia – in a sprawling home overflowing with staff. She’d met and married Nigel shortly after they’d both matriculated from Oxford (classics for her because ‘she had to do something’ and law for him).
After a stint in New York where Nigel had made a rather tidy sum in real estate, they moved to their Sussex home where, Verity was fond of saying to anyone who would listen, their ‘crumbly old manor home had given them no choice but to hire in a gardener, housekeeper and an odd-jobs man.’
Charlotte had always had the distinct feeling that Verity included her on the staff list. She had, after all, been ‘one of the staff’ when she’d met Oli. It struck her that perhaps one of the reasons Oli had been so enchanted with her was because he finally had someone who thought he was perfectly fine as he was. Better than that. Amazing. His mother was incredibly demanding. Where her parents hadn’t had any expectations for her at all, Verity wanted her son to be Nigel but better, and never shied away from reminding him that the reason Oli and Charlotte lived in a very nice house was because Nigel had bought it for them. For their wedding, in fact. Her parents had given them an Argos gift token. She bristled on Oli’s behalf. The economy was quite different to what it had been back in the day, and making the squillions Nigel had was nigh on impossible unless you were an outright crook. As things stood, Oli did very well. Even if he did agreed with his mother about just about everything Charlotte could improve upon. Very well indeed. Her heart softened for her husband. Affair aside, he worked incredibly hard. And he did love his family. Perhaps all that bravura was masking a little boy still trying to attain his mother’s approval. Which made his affair a blip. A painful one, but something they could move past.
‘Darling!’ Verity swept in. ‘Don’t you look sweet in that little … that’s not Zara, is it? I’m sure I saw one of the other girls wearing the exact same one. My goodness.’ Verity gave her a dry peck on the cheek then pursed her taupe lips as she scanned the area, her eyes stopping and stalling at Freya’s serviette bunting. ‘It all looks so—’
‘Wonderful!’ Charlotte’s father-in-law, Nigel, bustled his wife out of the way, planting the obligatory kisses first on one cheek and then the other. He always smelled of pipe tobacco and leather, though she’d never seen him come in contact with either. ‘The place looks ripping. Hope you don’t mind, love, but Verity didn’t want to mess with the hoi polloi on the bus so we’ve got a driver in tow. You wouldn’t mind sparing him a sandwich or something, would you?’
Charlotte didn’t get a chance to answer as a second stream of guests from the Sussex Schooner, as Oli insisted on calling it, arrived from the car park. They all seemed quite jolly for so early in the day. It was only just noon.
‘That’s what I was saying, darling!’ Verity had a knack for pouncing on moments to prove she’d been right. ‘Look at you! Now, that’s what I call a party frock.’
Whether Charlotte wanted it to or not, the flow of people coming off the bus swept her into the role of hostess for a party she’d not entirely wanted to have.
She looked up and smiled at the long strings of decoration above her. At least she had her bunting.
An hour later she felt as if her head was spinning. Perhaps she should’ve eaten something before letting all of those leather-aproned serving staff fill up her glass. She went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and escape the sun for a moment, only to find Poppy curled up in a corner of a sofa, thumbing away at her phone.
‘Hello, darling. Everything all right?’
Poppy’s eyes shot out to a crowd of teens playing Giant Jenga. Jack was clearly the ringleader, egging everyone on to have a go. Freya’s two were a short way off showing Luna how to play Connect Four.
Poppy looked back at her phone and shrugged.
Charlotte examined the group a bit more closely. She was sure she recognized a couple of girls from the children’s boarding school. Ella and Maisie, was it? She’d definitely seen Maisie’s mum. A rather brisk woman who never bored of letting everyone know how terrifically busy she was with her organic energy ball business now that Nestlé were interested in snapping it up.
‘Isn’t that Maisie out there? And Ella? Don’t you want to be with the group?’
Poppy’s mouth screwed up tight to the left-hand side of her mouth. A nervous habit that Verity regularly tried to discourage. Charlotte preferred not to mention it as she’d always found her own mother’s rebukes doubled her humiliation and her need to seek comfort from it. Nail biting had been hers.