The Happy Glampers

by Daisy Tate

  ‘They’re having enough fun without me there to ruin it.’

  Oh. Now this didn’t sound good.

  Charlotte sat down beside her, resisting the urge to pull her into one of the cuddles they’d so enjoyed when she was a little girl. Poppy had become a big fan of space since she’d started at this new boarding school that Oli had insisted would be the making of them.

  ‘I thought the three of you were friends.’

  ‘No, Mum!’ Poppy spat. ‘We’re not friends. Typical you. Seeing what you want to see instead of seeing exactly what’s in front of your face! Can’t you see they’re only nice to me because of Jack?’

  When she saw the dismay on Charlotte’s face, she crumpled as quickly as she’d roared. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I don’t mean to shout at you on your birthday.’

  This time Charlotte did put her arms round her daughter. Stiff shoulders and all. The poor love. Feeling she was playing second fiddle to her brother. How awful. Who knew if it was true? Girls could be so difficult at that age. So complex.

  She’d hated being a teen. All of the changes that had come with it. And not just the physical ones. The new schools. New cliques. New friends to invent when she needed to escape her parents’ flat. She’d been so dreadfully shy and her school had been particularly awful. Bullies. Truants. Gangs. Charlotte had always thought of the life they gave their children as a godsend. Not a well-heeled copy of her own.

  Poppy eventually ducked out of the hug, loosening yet more hair out of her thick, fishtail plait. She looked more little girl than blossoming thirteen-year-old. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry. I’ve probably got my period coming or something.’

  She tried to protest, but Poppy held up a hand that distinctly said No, grabbed a couple of canapés off the counter and slipped away into the crowd. She was right. Now wasn’t the time. Just as it wasn’t the time to tell Oli she was up to the challenge. She wanted to raise their children together. For their marriage to work. She wanted her family. Even if it meant constantly treading water to keep it.

  Charlotte cringed as the calls for a speech grew louder. It had been mortifying enough opening her presents in front of everyone. The gifts had been lovely, of course. Freya’s lace-edged serviettes made from Irish linen were beautiful. There’d been no need to confess they were seconds. Izzy had bought her a delicate necklace with a starfish on it. Her favourite sea animal. And Emily had given her a Brora cardigan she already had plans to move into for the autumn. Together they had bought her membership to the Royal Academy of Arts. She’d nearly wept at the thoughtfulness. It had been so long since she’d been to a gallery. Oli found art appreciation tedious at best.

  Amazing to think how many years it had been since they’d properly seen one another and yet how perfectly her friends still knew her.

  She stared at the gifts on the table. The children had given her a handbag she knew for a fact her mother-in-law had selected because it was bright blue, a colour Charlotte had never favoured. Poppy had tucked a couple of her favourite sanitizing gels into the side pocket, which was thoughtful. The rest of the gifts were … nice. She wasn’t ungrateful, but couldn’t help feeling that the guests had been generous in the way one might be to a maiden aunt who only came down from her poky cottage in the Lake District for Christmas. A spiralizer. A leather-bound journal. Quite a few organic soaps and lotions. She already had the book on hygge and was fairly certain she’d seen the Christmas ornaments at one of the school’s silent auctions a year or so back.

  It was extraordinary how little the people she saw every day of her life knew her. Was it because there wasn’t much to know? She always agreed with Oli. Rarely put her foot down about anything as one of the school governors. She was the tea-maker, really. Had no opinion on current events. What little news she was aware of she read in Waitrose Weekend. Not exactly a paper with its finger on the world’s political pulse.

  Perhaps it was her fault Oliver had strayed. Xanthe did seem terrifically interesting, if her Instagram posts were anything to go by.

  Her eyes moved over to the small velvet box placed in prime position on the gift table. It was from the jeweller’s in Sittingstone village, so his errand this morning must have been to collect it. She didn’t know whether to feel hurt it had been so last minute or pleased he’d remembered at all.

  The sapphire earrings Oliver had chosen were lovely. Beautiful, in fact. But clip-ons? It was his mother who didn’t have pierced ears. She’d had hers done since she was a teen. And, again, she had never really been one to wear blue, so …

  ‘Speeeeeech!’

  Oliver stood up, shushing the crowd in that ‘All right, already. I’ll give you what you’ve all been waiting for’ way of his. They never wanted her to say anything, thank god.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he began loftily as the crowd leant in and the waiting staff topped up everyone’s glasses.

  The children weren’t anywhere to be seen, save Poppy who, worryingly, was wandering back towards that little nook she’d appropriated in the kitchen tent. At the edge of the crowd, Emily, Izzy and Freya had all lined up and were each holding one of her handmade cakes. It looked like a Bake-Off presentation of Charlotte Mayfield’s Greatest Cake Hits. Those girls. Until this very moment, Charlotte had thought she’d invited them out of misguided sentiment, but honestly? She’d asked them to come because she wanted people who knew her at her party. The Charlotte who adored art. The Charlotte who couldn’t enter a room without giving it a tweak or a rejig so that it looked just so, and would then appreciate that she’d done as much. The Charlotte whose hopes and dreams they’d supported rather than dismissed as silly when there were other, Mayfield-shaped hopes and dreams to fulfil. She saw now she was drowning in a quicksand of upper-middle-class beigeness. Perhaps she’d known that, without their help, there wasn’t a chance on earth she’d be able to claw her way out and find herself again.

  ‘What can I say about my wife of over fifteen years?’ Oli took her hand and stood back, appraising her as one might a newly purchased heifer.

  ‘That she has the patience of a bloody saint!’ a red-faced man shouted out. Karl, was it? One of the chaps who propped up the bar at their local. What on earth had he done to warrant an invitation? She’d not so much as said hello to the man.

  ‘That’s a good start,’ Oli laughed congenially. He always could play to the crowd. ‘It’s astonishing to think this beautiful creature here is forty. It seems like only yesterday she was but a naive Yorkshire lass with nothing more than big dreams in an even bigger city—’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Izzy, nearly losing her grip on the carrot cake. Oh dear. ‘I think you’ll find an art history degree hardly makes her Dorothy in Oz!’

  Charlotte squeezed Oli’s hand. He squeezed back, mistakenly thinking she was on board with being portrayed as a modern-day Eliza Doolittle. When had his hand stopped becoming a thing of comfort? Yesterday morning? The first time he’d sided with his mother rather than his wife? This very moment?

  She pulled her hand free.

  ‘Absolutely right, Izzy. And of course there was the party planning. Back in the day she would’ve had us celebrating properly up at Sittingstone Castle, but this clever one insisted all the cool kids were keeping it au naturel!’

  No she hadn’t. She’d done no such thing. Charlotte was about to correct him when she caught him sending a pointed look at Freya’s bunting which was now, unfortunately, a bit worse for wear.

  People laughed, but didn’t look as if they were entirely sure they knew why.

  He carried on smoothly, ‘Regardless.’

  Indeed.

  ‘Charlotte is, as I said, from ooop North. When I met her …’

  … Oli had been covered in red wine that one of the legal secretaries had thrown at him after he’d made a sexist remark. Not that Charlotte had known that then. He’d told her the girl was cross because he wouldn’t go home with her.

  Oli smiled ingratiatingly at Charlotte, then the crowd. ‘My girl he
re needed a bit of softening round the edges. With a few curative pointers from myself and my family,’ he lifted a glass to his mother who sent an adoring look in return, ‘we now have supper instead of dinner, bread instead of teacakes and, my personal favourite, a proper cup of Earl Grey in the morning instead of that—’

  ‘Eh, laddie! I object to that! A person’s from where a person’s from and no one should try and oppress them for it!’ Freya’s broad Scots rang out despite Monty’s feeble attempt to shush her. Charlotte had forgotten what champagne did to Freya’s accent.

  Amidst the murmurings of ‘bloody Scots’ and ‘never miss a chance to wave the Saltire’, Oli soldiered on. This was his crowd and he knew it. ‘So here she is, over fifteen years on. All grown up and properly civilized. She makes a mean Sunday roast. Her Yorkies are the envy of Sussex—’

  ‘Seriously? Her Yorkies?’ Emily, who hated the limelight as much as she did, was indignant. ‘How about her brains? Her efficiency. Her UN-like diplomacy?’

  A few people called out ‘hear-hear’, but not enough to decrease the humiliation. Or Emily’s sotto voce, ‘Bloody wanker.’

  The children appeared at the edge of the group, clearly keen to see what the hubbub was about.

  Oh, when would this end?

  Undeterred, Oli carried on as if no one had said a word. ‘Thanks to Charlotte’s fortitude, we’ve got two gorgeous children who, hopefully, take after their mother more than they do their monster of an old man.’ He pulled a face, beaming when the protests flooded in.

  Charlotte did her best not to flinch when he put his arm around her shoulder and lifted his glass. ‘I’m going to wrap this up so all of this attention doesn’t go to her head. Wouldn’t want her running off and finding someone else’s shirts to iron, would we? To Charlotte. Happy Birthday.’

  As the crowd dutifully echoed the toast and drank, Charlotte watched in horror as Freya marched with the fixed determination of someone who may have had slightly too much to drink to the front of the group and lobbed her beautiful, buttercream, triple-chocolate devil’s food cake directly into Oliver’s face.

  Chapter Eight

  Freya drained her water glass and shot another sheepish grin at the girls. At least the catering staff had finally left. Mea culpa-ing with an audience was – och. She’d screwed up. Plain and simple. Even if the children had found it hilarious. And the look on Oli’s face! Blinking priceless. Not that it was clever or funny to throw Charlotte’s beautiful birthday cake into her husband’s face in front of all their friends and family. No. It wasn’t funny at all. She swallowed her giggles and tried again. ‘Charlotte, I am so, so sorry.’

  ‘Please.’ Charlotte rigorously scrubbed at the chocolate icing on her skirt, ‘Don’t apologize.’

  ‘Can I help? Run up to the tree house and get you something else to put on?’

  ‘No. Please. Just …’

  Charlotte’s refusal to look at her sent Freya back a few steps. Maybe she really had meant it when she’d said she wanted the marriage to work. Maybe she just hated a scene.

  Izzy pulled her knees up to her chin on the nearby bench and mouthed a quick ‘nice one, babes.’ Emily, who’d already given her a very awkward high five, whispered something to Callum who gave her a nod then wandered off towards their yurt.

  Grrrrr. Why had Freya let that bloody man rile her so much? All she’d had to do was listen to his crass speech like a good girl and then later, when everyone had left, tell Charlotte she’d thought him very rude.

  Indignation surged through her like a tsunami.

  No!

  Oliver was an adulterer. Then he adds insult to injury by telling everyone Charlotte would be little more than a guttersnipe if he hadn’t gone all Henry Higgins on her? Happy fucking birthday, o wife of mine! Monty wouldn’t dare talk about her like that in front of her friends. Especially if he’d just confessed to having an affair.

  She rinsed another sponge out and handed it to Charlotte. ‘I’m so sorry about how much cake ended up on you.’

  Oli had flung it on her, blinded as he’d been by the devil’s food.

  ‘Not to worry, Freya. Honestly.’

  Her tone was softer, but Charlotte still wouldn’t meet her eye.

  She’d already offered to pay for any dry cleaning. Would’ve promised to cover costs for the weekend (or at least the fizz) if it wouldn’t have meant remortgaging the house. She’d pull her heart out of her chest if it meant Charlotte would forgive her. Should she drop to her knees and beg? It had worked the time she’d borrowed one of her dresses back at uni and accidentally ripped it on a blackthorn bush during a rather unfortunate conga-line incident. Emily had taken great delight in plucking the greenery out of her bum.

  This wasn’t about a dress. It was about humiliating Charlotte’s husband and, by extension, Charlotte, in front of all their friends and family. Freya felt awful. Would fall on any sword. Make any amends. She wanted Charlotte to know just how much she valued her friendship. Somehow, she didn’t think a Sunday roast at The Harvester would work as well as it had back in the day.

  Oh, tarnation. As her mother used to say. Freya quickly crossed to the refrigerator and relished the hit of cool as she fought the sting of tears that inevitably followed when she remembered she couldn’t ring her mum any more.

  She stuck her finger into a bowl of guacamole and sucked it off as she peeked under the tinfoil-covered plates. A few canapés. Some pork. A lot of pork. Surprise surprise. Half the crowd had been crowing about how energetic they felt since they’d gone vegan.

  Her mother would’ve found it hilarious. The cake thing. Cheered her, in fact. Not gasped in horror as most everyone else had done, apart from Izzy, who had cheered then quickly peeped ‘kidding’ when she realized no one else had.

  The only good thing to come of it was Oliver’s departure with the rest of the guests. Oh, he’d pretended to laugh it off. Claimed it had all been part of the plan. But he’d been fuming.

  ‘Here you are, Charlotte.’ Monty popped an enamel mug onto the spool table top. ‘A nice cup of tea for you. Two sugars as you’ve had a bit of a shock. Anyone else for tea?’

  No one said anything. They’d all had a bit of a shock.

  ‘Love,’ Freya pulled Monty to the side. ‘If I scrounge together some money, what do you think to taking all the children to the pub for tea?’

  Chips. If they kept to the child-size portions and he only had one pint … or better still, tap water! ‘Umm, OK.’

  ‘You’ve got enough? To cover that and a bit of petrol on the way back, right?’ His expression said ‘your call babe’. Maybe … the forty quid was earmarked for petrol, but if they kept it cheap and cheerful they could scrimp on fuel. It wasn’t like they needed a full tank to get home.

  She glanced across at Charlotte. Emily and Izzy were assuring her the skirt would be fine after a dry clean. Oh, lordy. She should give Charlotte a twenty immediately.

  She’d give Monty her card. The one earmarked for extreme emergencies. She hadn’t checked the balance for a few months, but if memory served there were still a couple hundred quid left before it was maxed out.

  When she dug out the card and told Monty he was to stick to a ten-pound max budget, he gave her a solemn nod. ‘I’ll try and keep the kids busy with some card games or something as well. Give you girls some time together to … errr … sort things out.’

  ‘If Charlotte will even speak to me again.’ What on earth had she been thinking? Smashing a cake in the host’s face in front of all his friends and family?

  She swiped at a couple of escapee tears.

  Monty pulled her in close. He smelt of whisky she hadn’t remembered seeing circulated. Bums. Would he be able to drive?

  He tucked a curl behind her ear. ‘Talk to her. She knows what you did came from a good place. Hey! Why don’t you help her come up with a plan? You’re good at plans.’

  She gave a doleful nod. She was good at plans. Freya nestled her head into the sweet nook betwe
en Monty’s chin and shoulder. The man definitely had his plus sides, and this was one of them.

  She pushed back from Monty’s chest when she heard giggling. Was that … Charlotte?

  She turned round and saw Izzy stomping around, waving her hands about as if she were in the middle of some grand oratory.

  Oliver. Had to be.

  Oh, lordy. Izzy was re-enacting it already? Before she could launch herself across the room to stop her, Emily got up and re-enacted Freya’s role. With a real cake. Carrot from the looks of things.

  ‘Ooo! Easy!’ Charlotte held out her hands. ‘We want to keep at least one!’ She saw Freya was watching. ‘C’mere you.’ She patted the seat next to her then, when Freya had sat down, whispered, ‘Thanks for having my back.’

  Thank god for Izzy and her ability to make something funny sooner rather than later. When she wanted to, Izzy was like eucalyptus. She had a magical way of clearing the air. If only Freya could do the same.

  ‘Nom, nom.’ Emily dunked a tortilla into a bowl of guacamole that Freya had unearthed from the refrigerator. She well and truly had the post-party munchies. ‘Anyone seen Monty? I’d have thought they’d be off to the pub by now.’

  Callum, whom she suspected had been trying to convert Monty all day, had valiantly offered to go to the pub as well. ‘Leave you girlies to your bonding.’

  ‘He’s still rounding them up, I think.’ Izzy finally took a bite of the carrot baton she’d been waving around for ages. Did the woman ever actually eat a square meal? ‘Ohmigawd. I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I can’t help reliving Cake-gate over and over. Hi-lar-ious!’ She cackled. ‘Did you see Oli’s mum? She looked like she was going to have an aneurysm!’

  They all laughed except for Freya, who abruptly stood up from the table and started clearing the plates away.

  Izzy made an oops face. ‘My bad.’

  Emily patted her head then got up and joined Freya at the sink.

  ‘All right, woman?’

  ‘Totes. Super totes.’

  Which, of course, meant no.