by Daisy Tate
Emily companionably bumped her out of the way. ‘I’ll wash if you dry.’
‘Why don’t you dry?’
‘Boring,’ said Emily. ‘Now. Why don’t you tell your nice Auntie Emms what’s wrong.’
Freya threw a quick look over towards Charlotte who was trying to turn a serviette into a crane. ‘I just feel such a numpty that I lost it like that.’
Emily had forgotten the fragility of Freya’s bravura. Sometimes it seemed indomitable. Others? You could pop with a pin.
‘You were epic. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do it.’
‘You drill inside people for a living. You definitely would’ve have the guts to do it.’
‘Nah. They’re unconscious.’
Freya blew a raspberry. ‘I was drunk. It was stupid. I was just so … so angry with him. Humiliating her like that. My father never would’ve even dreamt of making my mum feel that way. Nor would Monty. And I’m much more difficult to live with than my mother.’
Emily thought she’d let that one lie.
Freya swiped at a plate with her tea towel. ‘I wanted him to feel as small as he was making her feel.’
Emily handed her another plate. ‘If that was the goal? I would say you achieved it. In spades.’
The hint of a smile appeared. ‘And it wasn’t too awful?’
Emily shook her head. ‘As I said. Epic. Bolshie. If not a little bit fuelled by the cray-cray juice.’
And then, at last, Freya began to laugh.
‘Knock knock!’ Monty clomped into the kitchen in his walking boots. Izzy smiled at him since no one else did. Poor Monty. Being a man at this particular moment wasn’t really working in his favour. ‘Sorry girls. Still getting the children together. Ummmm … I can’t seem to track down Luna.’
‘Isn’t she with the rest of the children?’ Freya asked, narrowly avoiding being brained by the Monopoly box she was trying to pull down from the high shelf.
‘I’m sure I saw her recently,’ Charlotte called from the sink where she was dutifully washing up her mug of tea.
Emily said something about seeing her as well. They chattered away, putting their hands to their eyes and scanning the vast wildflower meadow beyond the tent. It really was a huge field.
An hour later, Izzy could barely make out the words coming out of people’s mouths. They hadn’t been able to track down Whiffy. No one else seemed to be about. No surprise seeing as it was the bank holiday weekend, but …
Izzy stemmed a pathetic whimper. She knew she shouldn’t be panicking, but … where was Luna? Her sweet, beautiful, raison d’être.
She’d checked everywhere. In the toilets where she’d found Charlotte splashing cold water on her face. The car park where Monty and Freya were having one of those gritted-teeth talks with terse gestures. In her tent. The children’s tent. Under beds. By the river. The tree house. Oli had left his things strewn about the place. She wondered how Charlotte put up with it, being the neatnik she was.
Not that it mattered. Tidy. Messy. Loud. Quiet.
All she wanted was her daughter back in her arms.
Panic overrode everything. As if the pendulum had swung directly from happy-go-lucky straight to worst nightmare ever.
If anything, anything, happened to Luna she’d not be able to live with herself. This felt worse than her inability to get her mother to Switzerland even though she’d begged. Soared past not contacting her father ‘to bond’ as her mother’s will had stipulated and then, of course, being too late when they’d finally tracked her down. A chill poured through her. Was she wrong not to have let Luna’s father know he had a daughter? If she’d let him know, would he be here now? With Luna? Holding her in his arms, keeping her safe. She couldn’t imagine a world without her little Loony Tune. Her Booboo. Her joy.
She began calling out Luna’s name, only pausing long enough to suck in enough air to do it again.
Charlotte pressed a torch into her hand.
Callum took hold of her elbow and steered her towards the long track that led up to the village. He put his big hand on the small of her back when Emily joined them, and assured her they were going to do this together. Systematically. They’d find her daughter. No matter how long it took.
Luna wasn’t meant to go first. Izzy was. That’s what this whole move had been about. To ensure Luna would be safe. And here she was, falling at the very first hurdle.
Freya hadn’t remembered just how long the drive was.
She glanced ahead at Charlotte whose two children were lagging behind her, each of them staring at their phones, only occasionally remembering to call out Luna’s name.
‘Mum?’ Regan whispered.
‘Yes, darlin’?’
‘Is this my fault? I mean … I was with her last.’
A protective fire flared in her chest.
‘Absolutely not,’ Freya said, solidly cupping Regan’s face in her hands. ‘This is not your fault.’
‘Are you sure?’ Regan’s head crinkled in the same way she knew hers did when she asked Monty whether or not he’d had a chance to file the taxes. ‘If Izzy wants to shout at someone, I think she should blame me.’
She pulled her daughter in close and dropped a kiss on her silky hair. ‘It’s not your fault love. It’s no one’s fault.’
Just like it hadn’t been anyone’s fault when her mum had gone in to check on the bull over the Christmas holidays last year. They’d told her time and time again not to go into his stall, no matter how much he looked as if he wanted a cuddle. Aberdeen Angus bulls weighed nearly a tonne. Her little bird of a mum had always been such a softie for the cattle. The number of calves and lambs who’d spent the night warming in front of the stove in their kitchen … Her mum would’ve done anything for them. Just as Freya would for Monty, Regan and Felix. They were her family.
Charlotte’s phone vibrated against her hip. It took Jack doing a ‘Gah! Mum. Are you, like, going to answer that?’ to get her to connect the dots.
All she’d been able to hear were Izzy’s raw shouts of appeal to her daughter ringing out across the fields. The naked strains of fear were painful to listen to. Please god let them find Luna quickly. Watching Izzy careen into panic mode from her usual unhurried, hippy self had been disconcerting to say the least.
She answered the phone.
‘Yes. Good evening. I’m looking for the birthday girl.’ Charlotte stared at the phone. The voice at the other end was very posh. She’d said gehl instead of girl. It wasn’t her mother-in-law. Although … a chill ran down her spine. Many of Oli’s parents’ friends sounded similar. Had something happened to Oli on the way home?
‘This is Charlotte Mayfield speaking,’ Charlotte said primly. Just as uptight as Oli sometimes accused her of being.
‘Yes. Good. Venetia Brockley here.’
‘Lady Brockley?’ Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Well.’ There was a sniff at the other end of the line. ‘Technically, it’s Lady Venetia, but we mustn’t let ourselves get muddled up with technicalities so deep into the weekend, must we?’
Venetia’s voice was like cut glass, but strangely friendly. A bit like Princess Margaret, Charlotte couldn’t help thinking. Or, at least, the actress who played her.
‘Yes? How may I help?’
‘It’s the other way around, dear. If you wouldn’t mind making your way up to the house, I’m quite certain I have something of yours.’
Chapter Nine
The Dowager Countess of Sittingstone, Lady Venetia, or ‘plain old Venetia’, as she insisted everyone called her, turned out to be a dead ringer for Joanna Lumley. A Joanna Lumley who enjoyed gardening, raucous dinner parties, and had no interest in being sent off to moulder in some London ladies’ club by her globe-trotting, eco-warrior son, whose latest plan was to set up Sittingstone as an Airbnb.
Charlotte thought she was wonderful. There was something so very confident about her, and yet she seemed incredibly approachable. She bore no air of competitive
ness. As if she, too, had once been humbled and, like a phoenix, risen from the ashes. Charlotte longed to have just one solitary ounce of that strength. To rebuild herself from nothing.
She shook her head. Pure fiction. The woman just had one of those auras.
‘An Airbnb would be amazing,’ Freya gushed, then quickly corrected herself at Venetia’s narrowed eyes. ‘I mean. Obviously, it is much better as a private home.’
They all oohed and aahed at the grand entrance hall that could’ve been straight out of Downton. Towering oak columns. Marble flooring. Enough portraits to fill a gallery. Family, Charlotte guessed, from the tight set of most of the men’s eyes.
Charlotte was still shocked Venetia had let them in the front door, ragtag bunch that they were. She kept a hand pressed over the most persistent of the chocolate-cake stains on her skirt. Oli would’ve been horrified.
‘Thank you so much.’ Izzy blew her nose again, her daughter clamped to her side like a limpet. ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Best Sunday evening I’ve had in yonks. Do come in, dear.’ She beckoned to Felix who was still standing just outside the door, angling one of those enormous books of his up towards the porch light. ‘Yes. That’s right. And close the door behind you. We wouldn’t want any more escapes, would we?’ She cackled gleefully and cuddled Bonzer close to her, pretending to give him a sip of her martini. ‘Gorgeous little beastie you’ve got here. The child, too. Lucky for both of them I’m drawn to the kennels of an evening. There’s nothing more curative than a trip down to the hounds at sunset with a martini in hand.’
‘Sounds bloody good to me,’ Monty said. No one acknowledged him. Poor Monty.
A short retelling of ‘the great discovery ensued’ once they’d all been ushered inside. Luna, it transpired, had never got her turn to play Giant Jenga and, not knowing anyone, found a bottle of water, a pocketful of biscuits and had set off down the long lane to find Bonzer. After briefly getting lost in the stables – Izzy gasped at this point – she’d eventually tracked down Bonzer in the kennels.
Venetia smiled at Luna, ‘… and there she was. Fast asleep with this adorable little scrub of a pup. They both looked so angelic I couldn’t bear to wake them. Apologies,’ she stage-whispered to Izzy who, now that she had her daughter back, seemed fine with the fact that Lady Venetia had waited until Luna had woken to call.
‘I’m awfully sorry to have imposed,’ Charlotte apologized. She seemed to do a lot of that. Apologizing. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of Freya’s book and, not necessarily fling cakes about, but … be less remorseful for things she hadn’t actually done.
‘Nonsense!’ Lady Venetia tinkled her jewel-weighted fingers at Luna. ‘I think this delightful girl has the right idea. Puppies over people. I’m very much in the same camp. Adults are such a ruddy bore and children aren’t always that much better.’ Her eyes swept across to Charlotte’s two who were not so subtly taking Instagram photos on their phones. Heat poured into Charlotte’s cheeks. She’d be getting a rash at this rate. Perhaps a few boundaries for the children would be in order once they got home.
Venetia allowed Luna to take the puppy when his wiggling spilt the remains of her drink.
‘She’s a rather good-looking little thing, isn’t she?’
They all turned and gazed at Luna.
‘She is a beauty,’ Izzy agreed. Crème-caramel skin. Piercing blue eyes. The same smattering of freckles across her nose that Izzy had endlessly tried to scrub away when she’d been the same age.
She flushed when she realized Venetia was watching her and not Luna. ‘This one the father?’ Venetia tipped her head in Monty’s direction.
Izzy couldn’t help it. She laughed. As if.
‘Oh, that one’s mine.’ Freya held up her hand, pointed at her ring finger, silencing Izzy’s cackle with a well-aimed glare.
Never going to let that one go, are you girlie?
Venetia noted the exchange of looks. ‘So, you’ve all known one another for some time then?’
‘Yes. Bristol University. Graduating class of 2000.’ Freya began babbling as if she’d been given a truth serum. They all squirmed as she launched into a rather meticulous explanation as to how they’d all met, stayed in touch for a few years after uni, but then drifted off in their own directions, going on to explain that even though she and Monty had had children before they were married, they were definitely married now and the two lovely children just over there …? Twins! Yes. Fraternal. Obviously. Not the two on the phones, no. The bookish-looking ones. They were Monty and Freya’s children. In fact … they hadn’t even known Izzy had a child until just yesterday. Had they?
All eyes turned to Izzy.
WTF? Had Izzy missed the ‘Dirty Laundry Cocktail Hour’ memo?
‘Wonderful!’ Lady Venetia looked utterly delighted. ‘So this is a reunion?’
‘Yes! And a celebration,’ Freya did a little presentation swirl with her hands after sending the tiniest of guilt-laced apology smiles at Izzy. ‘It’s Charlotte’s birthday!’
Charlotte looked as though she wished Freya would put a sock in it.
‘Wonderful. Yes. Luna here was telling me all about it.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I hope you’ve been spoilt rotten, Charlotte.’ Lady Venetia looked across at Callum, who was running his fingers atop a velvet cushion as if it were a Persian cat. ‘This one’s yours?’
‘Oh, goodness, no. Not mine.’ Charlotte threw an apologetic look at Emily.
‘Charlotte’s husband’s gone off in a strop. I mean, rightfully so,’ Freya strode straight into the deep end … but in a stage-whisper so that the children, if they were paying attention, would know it was a bad thing – the cake, the crappy speech, the infidelity.
Emily started scanning Freya as if looking for an off button.
Charlotte looked as though she wished she were anywhere but here.
Izzy prayed for a way to make it all stop.
‘Well, my goodness me!’ said Venetia with an air of cheer that suggested she hadn’t had this much fun in donkey’s years. ‘What a lovely time to repair to the library for an après-sundowner. Fizz suit, seeing as we’re celebrating? We can find something suitable for the children unless they want to head over to the kennels with Whiffy.’
Thank god for Lady Venetia.
When yet another round of martinis was circulated, Freya ignored Emily’s glare. This wasn’t talking out of turn. This was explaining. She folded one leg meaningfully over the other and persisted. ‘What I’m trying to say, Venetia, is that I don’t think Charlotte should go back at all. She should put the children in the car and go.’
‘Right,’ Emily countered. ‘So … in this great plan of yours, where exactly is Charlotte meant to go?’
Freya’s mind fuzzed for a second. Well, home of course. And then, Charlotte doesn’t have a family. ‘Fine. She should kick him out. File for divorce.’
‘Isn’t it up to Charlotte what she decides?’
‘Izzy, just because your mother had extramarital affairs, doesn’t make it right,’ Freya intoned.
Everyone sucked in a sharp breath.
Lady Venetia took a sip from her champagne flute and said, ‘In my experience, it really is the woman’s choice.’ She nodded at Charlotte as if she were a judge passing a decree in her favour. Perhaps there was a splash of Betty Boothroyd in there, too.
‘Okay.’ Freya back-pedalled. The extra dose of bubbles was screwing up her ‘what is right in this situation’ versus her ‘what is right for Charlotte’ compass. ‘I’m just saying, Oliver shouldn’t be the one getting sympathy because of a bit of well-deserved public humiliation.’
‘He was embarrassed,’ Charlotte explained to Venetia. ‘He’s not used to being made a spectacle of.’
‘Nor are you!’ Freya was indignant. Where had Charlotte’s spine gone? She knew she was a pleaser, but c’mon! Oli had been properly out of order. Speaking of Charlotte as if she were nothing more than h
is skivvy.
Venetia tutted. ‘As the resident geriatric, might I offer the suggestion that there is no need to make a decision straight away. Men, in my experience, don’t ever entirely know what they want.’ She smiled at Monty and Callum, who both held up their hands in a ‘you go on ahead’ move. They knew when they were outnumbered.
No, Freya silently fumed. Charlotte should do something. Not sit back and take it.
As if everyone read her mind, suggestions began to fly about as to What Charlotte Should Do.
‘She could slowly poison him.’ Emily primed an invisible syringe.
‘Public humiliation? I mean … beyond the cake thing,’ Izzy said.
‘Gaslighting?’ offered Callum with a wicked laugh.
‘I’m right here.’
‘Course you are, Lotte,’ Freya said, her mind still reeling with ways to take Oli down a notch or seven.
‘I’m right here,’ Charlotte repeated. ‘Please stop speaking about me as if what I think doesn’t matter. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?’
Everyone froze.
Freya wanted to kick herself. Hard.
Charlotte was right, of course. Who were they to tell her what to do? It wasn’t as if Freya’s marriage was a bright and shining example of perfection. Debt up to their eyeballs. The bickering. The jealousy of Izzy that she couldn’t seem to shake, despite some fifteen years of proof that Monty was hers, all hers. Mortification took over where indignation had begun. She was spouting off when she should’ve listened. If she hadn’t been so touchy about being around rich people all day and quaffed Veuve Clicquot like it was water, none of this would’ve happened.
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I—’
Charlotte held up a hand. ‘I know. Just … please. Can we talk about something else?’
Lady Venetia stood up, glass aloft. ‘I propose a toast.’
Everyone awkwardly pushed themselves up from the deeply cushioned sofas and chairs and raised their glasses. The last time a toast had been proposed, it hadn’t gone particularly well.
‘To Charlotte. May her friends long continue to celebrate her … no matter what she decides.’