by Daisy Tate
‘What do you mean?’ Charlotte hovered above her usual perch, a rather fetching eggshell-blue courting chair, until it was indicated that she’d done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact.
‘I know the gehl will work out just fine, but it won’t be the same, will it?’
Charlotte tried to explain that Lucy was every bit as dab a hand at the cakes as she was, but Lady Venetia wasn’t having it.
‘She’s young and not terribly interesting.’ Lady V gave her fingers a bit of a flick as if the matter was settled. Poor Lucy. ‘She doesn’t seem to see things the way you do. It’s little wonder those Bristolians snapped you up for their new venture, precocious talent that you are.’ Lady V laughed, but there was no mistaking the strain it took her to do so.
Charlotte looked down at her lap, still shy of basking in the light of a well-deserved compliment. In all honesty, she was still in shock. And not a little terrified. She’d just signed a two-year contract with one of the country’s most prominent visual merchandizers. They were building seven brand-new motorway service stations, all modelled on the farm-to-fork aesthetic she’d developed at Sittingstone. Boutique rustique, they called her style. Loved it, apparently. Her new boss had been flexible about the start date, but the first shop would be opening in late September. In keeping with the harvest, said the man eating out-of-season raspberries at the morning meeting. Freya would’ve had him for breakfast.
Lady V tapped the side of her glass with an olive to draw Charlotte’s attention back to her. ‘I wanted you to know it’s been a comfort having you keeping an eye on things here. I shall miss our Sunday evening business chats. They save me from my increasingly tedious son.’
Charlotte smiled. Their ‘business chats’ were very rarely about business. Lady Venetia, she had long suspected, was actually just lonely.
Her mentor recrossed her legs and arched a solitary eyebrow. ‘You won’t forget me, will you darling?’
The lump in Charlotte’s throat quadrupled. ‘Of course not. You’re my mentor, my inspiration …’ She debated for a nanosecond over whether to say the next word then threw caution to the wind, ‘You’re my friend. I will never forget you.’
Mollified, Venetia threw her the most heartfelt smile they’d ever shared. ‘Darling, come.’ She patted the sofa. ‘Sit by me.’
Charlotte joined her, surprised at how papery and soft Lady Venetia’s hands were. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. Perfectly, it’s just that … saying goodbye to you is a bit like sending my favourite child out into the big wide world.’ She dropped Charlotte’s hand and drained her martini.
Charlotte couldn’t meet her eye. She didn’t know if she’d ever been paid such a high compliment.
Life, after all, had cornered her into choosing this new path.
Hazel the Lawyer had put it quite simply. Charlotte could either be entirely dependent upon Oliver until the children were eighteen (living in the house, bickering about which schools were right for which child, endlessly debating who cared for which child when), or she could take the reins of her own life right now and get on with things.
After a rather painful lunch with Oliver, she’d chosen the latter.
‘How’s your friend receiving the treatment getting on?’ Venetia’s tone suggested Izzy had been receiving weekly facials instead of chemotherapy. ‘And that fabulous child of hers?’
Charlotte didn’t take offence that Lady V never asked after her own children. Everyone had a child they adored, and in Lady V’s case it was most definitely Luna.
‘I think all of the skipping about with schools has been a bit much, but hopefully the move to Bristol for Izzy’s new treatment will be a good thing.’ It was strange to be breezily discussing an experimental treatment that could kill Izzy as easily as it could cure her. Then again, what choice did Izzy have? The first round of chemotherapy had had no impact on her tumour at all. It had taken some doing, but Emily had finally convinced her that moving to Bristol where they were trialling some intensive new treatments was the best course of action.
Lady V cut into her silent musings. ‘Did you know Izzy sold her surfing company to one of those child television stars? You know the one I mean. He played an adorable child prodigy lawyer but grew up to look like a thug and –’ she made a pinging noise – ‘career over.’
Charlotte did know that. She’d sold it to pay her hospital bills in Hawaii.
‘And her little one will be staying at your new place in Bristol?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Izzy says she has some sort of job lined up in Devon come autumn, but it all sounded rather vague. I thought I’d check into getting Luna registered at Poppy’s new school just in case.’
‘She’s always welcome to rattle round Sittingstone with me. Especially if she learns how to make martinis as well as you do.’
Before Charlotte could come up with an appropriate response, Lady V rose from the sofa. ‘Be careful how you tread, darling. Make sure Izzy has some proper plans in place – legal forms and such – in case things don’t pan out for her. Some friends,’ her tone turned ominous, ‘remain a mystery on purpose.’
True, but, everyone had a set of cards they played close to their chest.
Charlotte thought of Rocco. The kiss they’d shared. The warmth that still flared inside her when she thought of the moment when he had held her in his arms. The scant contact they’d had since then. She’d sent a thank you card. He’d sent one back. She’d not come up with a reason to thank him for his thank you card without sounding ridiculous, so it appeared that was that.
He’d be letting the cows out to pasture soon. At least according to Countryfile. She’d taken to watching it on catch-up after her talks with Lady V. It was terribly informative.
‘What is it, darling? You look wistful.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘Don’t be obtuse. I can see with my wise old lady eyes you are lost in a romantic thought.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened.
Lady V gave a victorious laugh, then pulled Charlotte in for a brisk farewell hug and kiss at the door to the kennels where they always bade one another adieu. ‘Why don’t you stop torturing yourself and ring him … your farmer.’
Charlotte flushed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.’ Venetia mimicked Charlotte, ‘Freya’s brother would have had those shelves up in less than an hour. The milk Freya’s brother’s cows produce is superb. And the butter. Did you know he’s been selling kilo upon kilo of butter?’
Charlotte flushed. ‘Well.’
Lady V’s eyes glittered with delight. ‘Well, indeed.’
‘Where are the kids tonight?’
Freya handed Emily a small vase, which she dutifully rolled into a sheet of newspaper and stuffed into a box. The vase certainly didn’t spark any joy in her, but … she lived on a futon in her parents’ basement so it wasn’t as if she had much room to argue.
‘Staying overnight with friends. They’re binge-socializing. Felix has been out three nights on the trot.’ Freya almost sounded proud.
For some reason it made Emily cranky.
She’d thought of Felix as a kindred spirit. Someone who merely tolerated human company. It looked like everyone was changing apart from her.
Other than her weekends in Sussex to see Izzy through her chemo (utterly worthless), Emily’s life had fallen into that same, tedious, endless cycle of work, eat, sleep, repeat. The nine-to-five consultancy job meant far too much free time. Free time she’d slavishly applied to Netflix, volunteering for surgical shifts at the hospital, and a rather consumptive obsession with the bonsai crab-apple tree her father had given her for Chinese New Year. With any luck it would flower soon.
Freya handed her a screwdriver set. ‘Don’t bother packing this. Monty’ll want it straight away. D’you mind popping it in that box over there?’
Emily dumped the screwdrivers into the box, then d
ug into a bag of vegetable crisps Freya had unearthed then immediately wished she hadn’t. It was possible the crisps were potpourri. ‘Do you think Monty’s taking this whole carpenter thing a bit seriously?’
‘What do you mean?’ Freya snapped open another bin bag. Number thirty-nine by Emily’s last count.
‘You know. The whole falling on his sword thing.’ Freya tensed but Emily powered on. ‘Becoming a carpenter to show his love for you.’ She put on her earnest voice. ‘Moving into a church. It’s all a bit Jesus-y. Is he on a twelve-step programme or something?’
‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with twelve steps,’ Freya snapped defensively.
So, that was a yes, then. She said nothing as Freya ploughed on.
‘There’s a lot more going on than simply falling on a sword.’ She started ticking things off on her fingers. ‘A. He’s not sacrificing himself. He may have started working for his brother as a means of getting through this rough patch, but we made the decision to move as a family.’
‘I thought you said Cameron was a twat.’
‘He is, but …’ Freya glared at her then ticked off another finger. ‘B. Selling the house repays a substantial amount of Cameron’s generous assistance which means we only have to tolerate him lording it over Monty for another year or two rather than eternity. C? Monty’s working on the Hawkesbury development because he likes it. He’s an excellent carpenter. If you remember, he did most of the work on the kitchen.’ Freya flung her arm out and cracked her knuckles on a cupboard door that was sagging on its hinges. She shot Emily a look that dared her to say anything. ‘D, E, and F? They’ve deconsecrated the church, god is a myth created to bolster the patriarchal hierarchy and none of it matters anyway because you know as well as I do that Monty and I are agnostics.’
Emily tapped the side of her nose. ‘Best to keep that quiet when you move into the house of the lord.’
Freya scowled and swept some of her curls back from her forehead. Emily could see at least an inch of grey working its way into Freya’s hairline. It was the first time she’d known Freya not to have kept up with her appearance. Money must be extra tight if she was forgoing her trips to the hairdresser’s.
‘Anyway,’ Freya sniffed. ‘By doing the townhouses, Monty and Cam are preserving a “building at risk”, not a church.’
Oh, honestly.
‘When Prince went by a symbol and Kanye wanted to be Ye, they were still Prince and Kanye. It’s a church, Freya. You’re going to be living in an as-yet-to-be-built townhouse in a church. With a massive loan hanging over your head. It’s hardly the philanthropic preservation of an old building. It’s survival. I thought the whole point of the move was to start being honest.’
Freya gave the tiniest of nods, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she flicked her hair back into submission. Again.
‘Like I said, Monty’s working on the townhouses. The bulk of his salary will go towards the situation with his brother. I’ll be building up my business in the artist’s co-operative—’
Emily cut her off. ‘Freya! If this whole thing is the fresh start you claim it is, you may as well start calling things by their actual names. Debts. Loans. Churches. What Monty is doing is virtually indentured servitude. What you’re doing is … I don’t even know what the name of it is. Madness? Insanity? I know you love him, but letting Monty put you all at risk a second time? Bonkers.’
Freya lashed out. ‘I’ve taken over the finances again. I’m dealing with all of the paperwork. I’m finding schools for the children. Giving up my shop. I’m changing everything so that our family can find a way to work to the best of all our abilities. I’m not kicking him out the door just because he cocked up. We both did.’
Emily gave Freya her best ‘I’m saying this because I’m your friend’ face. ‘It seems to me, you’re the only one making sacrifices to fix what Monty’s done.’
Freya lost her cool. ‘I thought you came over here to help, not rip me to shreds. The house is sold! The deal’s been made. I’m trying to keep my fucking family together, all right?’
Emily stuffed the healthy crisps/potpourri into the bin bag. Freya was right. It was her decision to make. Even if it was completely mental. ‘Hey. As long as you’re happy.’
‘I am happy,’ Freya ground out. ‘I have my husband back. The children are looking forward to us all living together again …’ And then she burst into tears.
Uh-oh. This was unusual. There was obviously more going on here than Monty being an eejit with the joint account. Emily steeled herself and asked, ‘Want to talk about it?’
Freya sniffed and wiped her face on the sleeve of her T-shirt. A plain green one. ‘No.’ And then, ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t not pay the bills. Monty’s a lovely man, but the ball is in his court on this one, lady.’
‘No, seriously. It actually is my fault. Or a lot my fault,’ she acquiesced when Emily tried to interrupt her. In a steadier voice she explained, ‘The business hasn’t been going well for ages. Instead of facing up to it or changing tack I’ve just been barrelling on hoping it will all come good. Monty’s been struggling to pay whatever he could with less and less and I guess, in his own fucked-up way, taking out all those credit cards and ignoring the mountain of debt was his way of making sure I didn’t have to worry about it so I could focus on the business.’ She swiped away a fresh wash of tears. ‘I was going to talk to him about making some changes a while back but then Mum died and Felix needed braces and …’ she threw up her hands. ‘Life.’
Emily nodded. It made more sense now. She still wasn’t sure miring them in massive debt was something she’d forgive quite so easily, but even with her heart of stone, she could see that the pair of them had been trying to do what they thought best. Poor Freya. And, she supposed, poor Monty. The phrase ‘clouded judgement’ sprang to mind. A mental pea-souper more like. ‘Is Monty still seeing the counsellor?’
Freya shook her head. ‘It took a couple of goes to find one who was a good fit. I’m seeing one too and, of course, we’ve still got a few more sessions with the debt therapist, but …’ Freya made a noise that was hard to read. Did she actually want out but felt duty bound to stand by her man?
‘A lot of people would’ve left him.’
‘I’m not a lot of people.’ Freya knotted the bin bag tightly and marched off towards the hallway.
Emily looked round the large open-plan kitchen/living space she knew Freya loved and tried to see things from her perspective. If she stayed in London she’d be facing a life of endless penury and, most likely, bankruptcy. Being a single mother would be exhausting. Freya’s art embodied joy and whimsy. She wouldn’t feel either of those things if she tried to press on through. She supposed she could always move back to Scotland. Her brother and father would be over the moon if she moved back.
Freya slammed the door shut then stomped back into the room.
Uh-oh. She had her lecture face on. Emily took a swig of lukewarm wine. It too had a tang of potpourri.
‘Monty is brilliant.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t make that face! He loves the kids. He loves me!’ Freya poked herself in the chest. Too hard from the looks of things.
‘No one’s saying he doesn’t love you.’
Freya took in a deep breath. Then another. After the third she began in a more measured tone, ‘I was every bit as responsible for this mess as Monty was.’
‘Fine. You were an idiot, too, but that doesn’t mean you have to tie yourself to Monty for the rest of your life. So he’s doing some work for his brother. Fab. Don’t forget that that work is to pay back debts he accrued. Not you. And how is working and micro-managing the family finances going to work out? Will Monty love being on the end of a string for every penny he spends? Will it give you more time with the children? I doubt it. And don’t tell me that’s what the counselling is for because what he’s done – what you’ve both done since you’re so keen to
share the blame – is break the foundations of your trust in one another. Is that something that can really be fixed by moving?’
‘It’s something that can be fixed by talking.’
Emily barked a laugh. ‘What? Because the pair of you have been doing that so brilliantly.’
Freya glared at her then spat out, ‘You’re just jealous everyone is moving to Bristol without you.’
The words hung between them like little razors. Little razors of truth.
Izzy needed the treatment, so her move was a no-brainer.
Monty had work there.
Charlotte did too.
Everyone was moving onwards and upwards, apart from Emily. Well. She was a Sultan Osteopath. That was something.
Before she could respond, Freya began backtracking. ‘I was superimposing a patriarchal system on Monty that spoke to a preconceived and archaic notion about marital expectations.’
Right.
‘Oh. My. Fucking god, Freya! Drop the lingo will you? Speak-a da English!’
‘You can be such a bitch sometimes, Emily.’
‘So can you, you sanctimonious granola-eating do-gooder.’
They glared at one another. Emily pushed the bottle of wine across the counter. This was possibly the most honest they had ever been with one another. ‘Drink. Speak normal words to me.’
Freya defensively crossed her arms. ‘You know what your problem is, Emily?’
Oh, this would be rich. ‘No, Freya. I don’t know what my problem is, but I bet you’re going to tell me.’
‘You’re jealous. And I’m not just talking about Bristol.’
Pah! ‘Of what?’
‘The fresh start Monty and I have chosen to take. Together.’
All right. No need to freaking rub it in. So she was married. Whatevs. Not everybody needed a cottage with roses bedecking the door.
‘You’re unable to trust people and you’re jealous because we do trust one another. Trust each other enough to take a risk. Follow our hearts. You are so risk averse it’s no wonder you’re stuck living in your parents’ basement. Just like they’d always planned.’