by Daisy Tate
[Freya]
Monty???? WTF? Hurry. Up. No sex for a week – not even a BJ if you aren’t back in five.
[Emily]
Freya. Please. There’s only so much we want to know about your private life.
[Freya]
My humiliation is complete.
Charlotte shook away the cloud of washing-up bubbles and stared at her rings.
She should leave soon if she was going to beat the traffic to meet up with Freya. She also should’ve packed. Should’ve baked a cake. Packed a hamper. It was very unlike her not to be prepared. It was also a very unusual day. Her very first as an about-to-be-divorcée.
Oli had waited until she’d gone downstairs to start his packing. A strange courtesy considering he hadn’t really left much to the imagination when he’d explained why he’d been ‘forced to do this.’ As he spoke the words – not in love any more, fenced-in, someone with more drive – Charlotte wondered if the buzzing in her head would ever stop.
It had. But the new sounds were every bit as bewildering. Step, step, step from the chest of drawers to the suitcase. This as she’d gone through the motions down in the kitchen, getting some breakfast together for the pair of them. Breakfast. As if it were just another day. Scritch, scritch went the hangers as shirt after shirt came out of the wardrobe. He’d taken an awful lot of toiletries, judging from all the clatter coming from the en suite. The methodical cadence of it all had put her in a sort of stupor. One she’d best snap out of now that ‘Xanthe and the baby were his priorities’. And the children, he’d hastily added. Charlotte, of course, had now officially been dropped off the list.
She stared at the rings again.
What did one do in this scenario?
Take them off straight away, or feign, as she had the past couple of months, that everything in her life was perfectly perfect?
What a fool she’d been. Believing Oliver wanted to make a go of things.
At least she was getting out of this wretched house for a bit of perspective. It had been her pride and joy when the children were young and she’d bustled about like Doris Day. Now it was little more than a show home for a beautiful but meaningless life.
She glanced out the window to where Oli’s car had been, chiding herself for having been so acquiescent about the whole thing. She’d just sat there and listened. Accepted everything he’d said, as if it would be sheer madness to express any sort of opinion about the fact he’d pulled the grenade pin on her life.
She tried to channel her friends to see if that would help. Freya, Izzy and Emily were all so different but each of them seemed to possess a core strength she herself lacked.
If she had been more like Freya, she would’ve made a proper show of things. Thrown something. Strode out to the recently relaid stone patio after Oli announced his ‘slight’ change of heart and, one by one, dropped the rings into the well with some sort of pithy comment about how they were most likely blood diamonds anyway. Heaven knew he’d sucked her dry.
Emily would’ve quirked an eyebrow and said, ‘Get out your chequebook.’
Lady Venetia might very likely have done the same. Charlotte made a quick note to ring her to say she wouldn’t be coming into the shop this week. Part of her still couldn’t believe her birthday glamping trip that had reunited her with her besties from university had brought her the most unexpected of presents. A new friend and mentor, Lady V. It was a proper shop now. The Sittingstone Larder. There was a part of her that wanted to be there right now. Pour the mounting pressure-cooker of unspent emotion into making it even better, but in her heart she knew what she needed most was to see her friends.
After Oliver had finished his speech (rehearsed, from the sounds of it) she’d sat and nodded and, when he’d finished, offered to make up the guest room with fresh sheets, only to end up sleeping there herself as Oli found the room too draughty.
She scrubbed at a plate, suddenly furious with herself for not having left him on her birthday. After the whole mess with the cake it had taken Charlotte well over a fortnight to get back into his good books. As if a bit of wayward buttercream had wreaked more havoc in their marriage than the fact that her husband had impregnated his law firm’s most active Instagrammer, the ludicrously named Xanthe. CheekyLawGirl if she was going for full accuracy. Not that Charlotte had been cyber-stalking her. Much.
She stared at the wrinkled pads of her fingers, then turned them over. She would keep the eternity ring. That was for the children and it wasn’t their fault their father had a changeable heart.
Poppy had gone to the South of France (Cannes!) for language submersion, and Jack was in Namibia for she wasn’t entirely sure what sort of ‘formative cultural experience’. But would either trip prepare them for parents en route to a divorce? En route … Poppy’s français would definitely come in handy. A mother who sat listening to her husband devalue the last fifteen years of their lives together as ‘non-progressive’ would not.
A question she’d asked herself with increasingly regularity popped into her mind. What would Lady Venetia do?
She’d keep busy, Charlotte thought to herself. Exactly what she’d been trying to do in transforming The Sittingstone Larder. Once a bit of an eyesore, it was now the very first, bunting-clad piece of magic that visitors to Sittingstone Estate’s glampsite laid eyes on. Gone was the akimbo shed; in its place was a gently greying Sussex barn that Whiffy had found stacked up in bits in one of their much larger barns and carefully rebuilt. They still sold Lady V’s honey, of course. Charlotte had tweaked a few of her own recipes into ‘glampcakes’. There were other items – largely designed for forgetful packers or those who might want to bring a gift home to remember their weekend by. Jams, preserves, pickled onions, cheeses (hard and soft). The village bakery had started making some particularly delicious rolls (sausage and bacon), which the Londoners in particular seemed to be mad for.
Though it had all been a great success, Charlotte could see where she’d gone wrong now. Rather than truly seeing her time at the Larder as a means of expanding her own world, she’d used it as the perfect way to avoid the truth. Her marriage hadn’t stood a chance of weathering the storm.
Now, she supposed, it was time to find if she could.
Before her children returned home, she would need to acquire a spine. Particularly for her poor little Poppy, still stinging from a rather bruising year settling in at boarding school. Oli had brushed Charlotte off when she’d suggested, perhaps, taking Poppy out of the school and keeping her home for another year. As usual she’d demurred, but perhaps now they were getting divorced she would get a bit more say in these things. Or less. She supposed it was up to her how that worked.
She would love to see an end to Poppy’s almost permanently locked bedroom door for endless hours on social media. She hoped she wasn’t being bullied on one of those … what did they call them? Platforms. A shudder jolted through her. Sounded too much like the setting for a public hanging.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have waited for Poppy to come to her. Since when did a child ever volunteer information? It was down to the parent to chisel it out of them. Charlotte had let Oli take the lead in so many things, she’d virtually forgotten it was completely possible to act of her own free will.
Either way, she supposed Oli did have a point regarding the timing of his announcement that he was destroying her life. Breaking his news whilst the children were away gave her time to ‘draw up a party line’. (His suggestion.) There was still the August holiday in Italy with the Pickerings to consider. They’d pre-paid a breathtaking sum for the villa. He wouldn’t want her to miss out on their last holiday as a family, he’d said.
His thoughtfulness knew no bounds.
Her rings glinted under the LED lighting they’d installed over the sink. Oli had thought the one tiny window would be sufficient, though this particular corner of the kitchen was always a bit of a cave, even on a bright summer’s day like today. When his mother had deigned to wash a teacup a few y
ears back and deemed the area a black hole, workmen had appeared the next day.
She put away last night’s wine glasses. Delicate crystal stemware matched to the wine. A Chablis that Oli had been given by a grateful client. He’d picked it out for them last night because he hadn’t been convinced it was ‘up to’ sharing with guests, even though it had had excellent reviews. Back at the sink she stared at last night’s dinner plates, this morning’s breakfast plates, the egg and coffee cups. All roosting on top of the drying rack. It looked like an Instagram photo.
In one swift move she swept the entire lot onto the hard, unforgiving floor.
So, this was what Old Mother Hubbard felt like.
Freya shook the contactless payment device as if it were one of her children’s piggy banks. This, in lieu of closing the shop, going home and murdering her husband. Seriously? Monty couldn’t find one measly pound to put in the shopping trolley so he wanted her to go to the shops? She was at work. That thing that kept them out of debtors’ prison?
She tapped out a text. Sofa cushions. Trouser pockets. Bottom of the laundry basket. Felix’s bed. The spotty mug with the pens in it. When she finished she slammed the phone down so hard her solitary customer yelped.
‘Sorry.’ She made a lame flexing gesture. ‘Didn’t know my own strength. Anything I can help you find? Unicorns are just over there.’ She pointed at her most popular line, as if the woman couldn’t actually make her own way around the shop. It was hardly vast.
When she’d signed the lease some fifteen years ago, it had felt huge. Like a dreamy, brick-lined Aladdin’s cave. Her very own blank canvas, glowing with limitless possibility.
‘Are there any of the raccoon T-shirts left?’
Freya’s mouth stretched back into an apologetic wince. ‘Sorry. We’re off camping tomorrow and I didn’t get another run in.’
The young woman hauled her dreadlocks over her shoulder, interested. ‘What festival are you going to?’
Freya laughed. As if. Buying tickets for her entire family to go to a festival was not an option. ‘Just camping.’
The woman’s half-hearted smile faded before it’d had a chance to catch purchase.
Freya soldiered on. ‘Sorry about the shirts. You know how it is. End of term. Sports days. Flute concerts.’ She’d actually missed both. Monty had taken videos. ‘Anyway, we love camping, with or without the face painting.’ She was losing the girl fast. ‘Any interest in the unicorn range?’
The woman glanced at the door as if targeting an emergency exit. ‘Not really.’
She took her chance to flee when a gaggle of Japanese tourists bundled in. They looked as if they were from one of those futuristic films that Felix adored, all candy-floss-coloured hair in quirky ponytails and jet-black, razor-sharp bobs. Giggly and raving about something one minute, dismissively silent the next.
They looked at the walls more than the T-shirts, which was a shame.
The previous lessee, a joss-stick vendor who’d decided she’d rather live in Bali where ‘the energy just spoke to her’, had painted the interior gold. When Freya had finally got some time and money together a few years later, they’d all bundled in on a Monday and got to work. The exacting plan Freya had drawn up – immaculate white walls with painted anthropomorphized animals ‘wearing’ the T-shirts – had almost instantly degenerated into one of those wacky painting scenes reserved for rom-coms. Dabbing one another on the nose. The ear. The hair. Until, inevitably, it had ended up as a paint fight. She’d been furious at first then, as ever, Monty had made it fun and she’d decided to keep the paint-splattered interior. When Monty had taken the children to the zoo the following day, she had tactically accented an area or two to heighten the Pollack-esque effect.
She didn’t need to know Japanese to absorb the fact that the shop needed rejuvenating. Fresh paint. A new presentation style. Gallery lighting rather than the filament bulbs they’d all been obsessed with back in the day. Lighting she should have installed in the first place because she had always hoped, one day, to ease out the money-spinning T-shirts and start showing her own more high-end designs. Designs she simply didn’t have the resources to make any more.
The Japanese squad headed towards the door. ‘The #Impeach hoodies are half price!’ Freya called out.
They left without a second glance.
She should’ve moved to the shop opposite the Amy Winehouse statue when she’d had the chance. The rent was astronomical, but the footfall would’ve had her back in the black in no time.
She stared at her empty shop, then dropped her head into her hands and moaned as another ‘where is …?’ text popped through from Monty.
One week. It was all she was asking for. One week without being responsible for anything other than enjoying her family. Lazing about by the seaside. Eating burnt sausages. Foraging for seafood suppers. Board games in the tent if it poured down with rain. They were, after all, going to Wales.
The empty shop was soul-destroying. Particularly after Charlotte’s text from last week. How, after only two months of ‘dabbling’, Charlotte had managed to turn Lady V’s ‘micro-business’ into the talk of West Sussex … Charlotte was glowing in the Waitrose Weekend article, even if it did look as though Venetia had forced her into posing alongside her. If Freya had any money, she’d ask Charlotte to her shop and get her consultancy advice. Wonder Woman sleeveless vests weren’t really bringing home the bacon any more. Had she lost sight of her customer base? Had she lost sight of everything?
Blanking the piles of T-shirts that needed stock-taking, the invoices that needed tending to and the lack of customers, Freya glared at her mobile, willing Monty to make good on something – for both of their sakes. She knew he did a lot of juggling between looking after the kids and her and, of course, the finances, but maybe it was time they had a proper sit-down and talked about moving on from Instagram portraiture. It had yet to reel in a solitary pound coin with which he might then be able to do the ruddy shopping.
Just last night, Freya had pulled Monty down to the bottom of the garden and not so subtly suggested he start pulling his discarded projects out of the loft and putting them on eBay. Regan could benefit from extra violin tuition judging by the last week’s concert, Felix’s school trip kept rearing its ugly head on the ParentPay website. She didn’t want her children to go without because their father might fancy making probiotic yoghurt again. Or because you can’t face up to things either, whispered the little voice in her head.
He’d started to say something about his parents and she’d cut him short. No loans. He was a grown man. It was time to start behaving like one.
Her assistant Fallon flounced into the shop in a cloud of tonka bean and myrrh, fresh from a flirting session with the chap who sold upcycled ‘art’ a few shops up the cobbled lane.
‘OMG. Total tomb in here. It’s buzzing everywhere else.’
Freya resisted making a narky comment about hubcap sconces. ‘Just nipping out for a second.’
‘I thought you wanted to stock-take.’
‘Back in a mo.’
She wove her way through the crowds, past the four-hundred-odd competing vendors, and made a quick stop at her guilty pleasure, the Himalayan Coffee Man stall. (Guilty, because she’d given Monty a right earful about spending money on ridiculously overpriced coffees the other day.) Her pace slowed as she reached Camden Canal, found a bench and pulled out her phone and started bashing out an email. They were off camping tomorrow and they would have fun if it killed her.
M – if you can’t find pound, please could you finishing packing? Most stuff in roof box already … These for back of the car. NB: leave room for dog.
Sleeping bags (airing in Regan’s room)
Inflater thingy that plugs into car (shed)
Tent pegs (Think they somehow got mixed up with Christmas decorations, check red box by tree stand)
Ground cloth
Fly sheet (the waterproof thing that goes on top)
Folding c
amping chairs (not the blue one, it’s broken)
Playing cards
Spatula (the one that gets right under the pancakes)
Cool boxes (air please, and if there’s mould in them make sure you wipe with the non-toxic spray not bleach)
Get children to pack BEFORE they hit Netflix otherwise no bargaining chip.
One onesie each – but not the ones Nanna B gave them this last Christmas. xxF
Freya stared at the email before pressing send. It didn’t read quite as jauntily as she’d hoped. Frankly it was downright bossy, but she knew how Monty’s brain worked. Attention span of a gnat when it came to things like packing. Her mind drifted to her feminista tank-top collection. One slogan in particular pinged out. I’m not with him, he’s with me. It hadn’t been selling all that well either. Was she crushing Monty with the weight of her dreams at the expense of his? She looked at the phone again and tacked on a quick:
PS – make sure you take a portrait of yourself! Fxx
‘I don’t want to go to school!’ Luna pushed her bowl of cereal away, her accompanying wail leaving no doubt as to how she felt about the matter.
‘C’mon Booboo. There’s rules about this sort of thing.’ Izzy shifted tack. ‘Can’t have you turning out a surf bum like your old moms, eh? Anyway, I’ve gotta go out and find a new way to keep you in Honey Nut Loops, yeah?’
Luna pulled Bonzer up onto her lap, her little eyebrows scrunching up tight. ‘I liked our old life.’
Izzy had too. Once.
‘I know Looney. But life comes in all different shapes and sizes and we’re trying on a new one. C’mon. Bonzer loves walking to school.’
‘No he doesn’t! He hates it too.’ Izzy’s daughter blinked away her tears, the tightly cuddled, increasingly large Bonzer masking the bulk of her expression. ‘The other kids won’t make friends with me.’
Izzy’s heart contracted. Sugar.
She knew that feeling. Thanks to her own mother’s wandering ways, she’d been in more than her share of new schools. She’d played the chameleon to make things easier, hence the weird accent. It had worked to an extent, but she hadn’t wanted that life for Luna. It was one of the reasons why she’d set up the surf school. Best-laid plans and all that.