You Make Me Feel Like Glamping

by Daisy Tate

  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.

  ‘Brilliant idea with the champers, doll.’ A friend from Oli’s golf club purred into her ear as she went through the motions. Kiss. Kiss. Half hug. Smile. ‘Is that Zara? I have the same one! My goodness. It’s all very rustic out here, isn’t it?’

  ‘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.

  ‘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.

  ‘Ahi tuna tartare with a ginger wasabi crumble?’

  The moustachioed server held his tray out to Izzy, each of the canapés a tiny morsel of modern art.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do!’ Izzy downed the micro-bite in one then reached for another. The hipster server arced an imperious eyebrow and took his goods elsewhere. All righty, then.

  She picked the tiniest bit of wasabi crumble off her hastily bought Topshop summer dress then looked up at the group of not so casually dressed party-goers. Alice Archer, Anna Mason, Ganni. All sorts of labels she’d only ever seen in discarded copies of Vogue at the hairdresser’s were being worn as casually as she wore TK Maxx. She hadn’t been around this many posh people since her mother had been asked to host a salon at a baroness’s home in Chelsea about a squillion years ago. The surfing community didn’t really do Dodo Bar Or.

  Freya sidled up. She finished off a pancetta-wrapped baby scallop then nodded out to the meadow just beyond the picnic area. ‘Nice to see the children getting on so well.’

  Izzy’s smile softened as her daughter, who was doing pirouettes whilst waiting for her turn at Giant Jenga, caught her eye and waved. She loved that Luna still thought she was cool enough to wave to. Her little dancing mermaid. ‘We always found that once you had a certain amount of children, they didn’t need much looking after. Feeding, watering and plasters on the odd injury. Other than that? Self-contained fun fest.’

  ‘We?’ Freya’s eyebrows lifted in anticipation of gossip.

  ‘My staff at surf camp,’ Izzy explained.

  ‘Ah.’ Freya looked as though she was going to ask another question, then didn’t.

  They finished their canapés and stared at the crowd. Everyone seemed to know one another really well. Little groups of people laughing away, nibbling at canapés, calling everyone ‘darl’ and ‘lovely’ and ‘sweetie’ without a trace of irony. It felt like being in a rural Ab Fab episode.

  Izzy wondered if Charlotte liked it. All of this … loveliness. She suspected she did. Or, at least, had.

  She looked over to where a group were howling with laughter at some story Oli was telling, before collectively turning to Charlotte for confirmation that yes, her husband was absolutely brilliant. She looked up at him with a smile so full of generosity that Izzy thought her heart would break. There was no way Izzy could’ve done the same, knowing her man had dipped his wick elsewhere.

  ‘Nice to see Oli’s finally paying some attention to Charlotte.’ Izzy tipped her glass to clink Freya’s but Freya was taking a swig of hers.

  ‘Total arsehole. He doesn’t deserve her.’

  ‘I know, right? But I suppose it’s her choice.’

  ‘Cheaters shouldn’t get second chances,’ Freya snipped, eyes glued to Oli’s cluster of admirers. Izzy thought of her own father whom she’d never met. He was a cheater. He’d also been very generous to her. Maybe Freya should develop a bit of elasticity in her views. Perhaps there was something about Oli none of them knew. A health scare, perhaps. A bald patch. Things not going so well at work. Or maybe he was just an arse.

  As if he’d heard them, Oli whispered something to Charlotte, left her with the group then made a beeline for them via a tray of baby Jersey potatoes sandwiched between two minuscule cubes of chorizo on a bamboo skewer.

  ‘Hallo, girls!’ All six foot something of Oli wobbled for a moment.

  Someone looked as if they’d had too much champers.

  ‘Women, I should’ve said.’ Oli made a semi-remorseful apology face. ‘How’s the blood sugar going, Izzy? Here,’ he held out one of the two canapés he was holding. ‘Wouldn’t want to have to put Emily’s medical skills to the test, would
we?’

  Izzy, Freya and a newly arrived Emily stared at him. It was hard to make chitchat with someone you wanted to punch in the face.

  ‘Ooo. Tough crowd.’ Oli laughed, glancing over as Charlotte joined their group. ‘So! Freya. Enjoying the bevvies today? We’ve got plenty, so if you want to chug-a-lug like last night, it’s here for the taking.’ Oli had that same, slightly hysterical edge to him that Charlotte had had earlier by the bacon sandwiches. As if he too was feeling the strain.

  ‘Oli,’ Charlotte ran a hand on his arm. ‘Should I get you a bottle of fizzy water, darling?’

  He ignored her. Everyone bristled.

  ‘Come! Sit!’ Oli pointed at one of the cloth-covered picnic tables, sitting down so heavily that the table tipped a bit. ‘Charlotte’s not going to give me any pud if I don’t watch it!’ He waited for them to protest.

  They didn’t.

  Charlotte was going to feed him arsenic if he didn’t can it.

  ‘C’mon ladies. Let’s get to know each other a bit better.’ He patted the table. ‘We’ve not really had a chance to chat.’

  Izzy could’ve said that they’d had plenty of time to talk yesterday if he hadn’t been on his phone the whole time, but one look at Charlotte told them that indulging Oli was probably the best course of action.

  Fair enough. Her party. Her rules.

  Oli commandeered another potato chorizo combo from a server. ‘These things are bloody brilliant.’

  ‘It’s exactly what your wife made for dinner last night,’ Emily pointed out.

  ‘Who? Charlotte?’ He looked at his wife, as if just noticing she was sitting beside him. ‘No. We didn’t have this. We had—’

  ‘Chargrilled potatoes and chorizo,’ Emily reminded him, as if he were a very simple child. ‘But yours are on a stick.’

  ‘Bamboo spear,’ Oli corrected. ‘No. This is more refined. It’s—’

  ‘Potato on a stick,’ Emily said pointedly.

  Izzy choked her squawk of laughter into submission as Freya thumped her on the back. Charlotte tipped her head into her hands.

  Oli stood up, bowed an apology to his wife then slurred, ‘My apologies, darling.’ He lifted her hand to his strangely sensual lips and kissed it. He was a very handsome man. Thick, wavy blond hair. Striking light blue eyes. Like a husky’s. Long, dark lashes. No wonder he got away with being such a plonker. He was a Viking fairy king.

  Oli plopped down again, having cleared his conscience. ‘Come! Sit. Tell me. So uni, eh? Which one of you girls was the slutty one?’

  Wow. Just … wow.

  Emily blinked away the urge to give Oliver a proper slap. Did the man have no boundaries? No respect at all for Charlotte? And what a time for Freya to go mute! Maybe she was as shell-shocked as the rest of them, but back at uni Freya would’ve been in there like bulldog. It was one of the reasons Emily liked her. Never one to back down from an argument if she knew she was in the right. All ‘how dare you’ this and ‘feminism is about rights not sex’ that. Emily squinted at her. Either the pragmatics of real life had muted her stridency or she was drunk. Freya had a not-so-private rule about keeping shtoom when she’d had one too many. Too much booze made her say and do things she regretted.

  Freya’s spine straightened a bit when Monty appeared. As if having a doting house-husband on site would help balance out the horror show of Oli and Charlotte’s marriage disintegrating in front of them.

  ‘Hello, love. Kids all right?’ Freya asked to cover the awkward silence.

  ‘Grand. Having a ball. So!’ Monty rubbed his hands together excitedly. ‘What’d I miss?’

  Emily resisted patting Monty on the head. A puppy could read a crowd better than he could. Then again, perhaps Monty was exactly who they needed in this scenario. A man who could cheerfully interact with life’s more irritating humans (soz, Freya) and shake it off.

  ‘Just trying to figure out which one of your girls here was the slutty one back in the day,’ Oli chuckled.

  It seemed such a middle-aged thing to do. Chuckling.

  ‘Ah.’ Monty nodded as if Oliver had just asked him how to make cheese on toast. ‘That’s easy. Me.’ He winked at Freya, ‘Isn’t that right, love?’

  Freya wrinkled her nose, flagged down a waiter and asked if they could get some more fizz.

  ‘Oh, c’mon.’ Oli was like a dog with a bone. As if extracting their indiscretions from uni days would make up for stepping out on his wife. Not that he knew they knew, but, unlike Monty, he could read a crowd.

  ‘All right then, I’ll guess!’ Oli said when none of them volunteered anything. ‘Charlotte here most likely stayed a virgin. Uni boys would’ve been too messy for her.’ He tucked his hands up like a prissy unicorn and squeezed his lips tight.

  Wrong. She’d had a very nice boyfriend who studied French.

  ‘You.’ He swung his index finger round to Izzy, ‘Bit of a goer, I’d heard, or aren’t I allowed to say that any more?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer, but lifted up two fingers on each hand to indicate inverted commas and mouthed the words ‘Me Too’.

  She returned the gesture instead, mouthing the words ‘Fuck you’ but he didn’t seem to notice, already moving on.

  ‘Freya … Let’s see. I’m guessing you were in with the environmental studies chaps. Saving the whales and all that?’ He made a remarkably passable whale call.

  Nope. She openly hated patchouli.

  ‘And you.’ He aimed a finger at Emily as he gave his chin a thoughtful stroke. ‘I reckon it might have been you. Am I right? A few drinks and then ready for a bit of a wild ride, if you know what I mean?’ He mimed slapping a horse’s rump then twirled an invisible lasso over his head.

  Emily pressed her fingers between her eyebrows and massaged up and away, willing the images to squirt out of her brain never to return. Oli was losing the plot. No wonder she’d chosen surgery. Everyone she interacted with was anaesthetized.

  ‘Oli, darling. These are our guests.’ Charlotte laughed nervously, glanced at him, then looked away when he hiccoughed.

  Poor Charlotte. This must be torture.

  ‘Right!’ Emily climbed out of the picnic table and clapped her hands together. ‘This is a birthday party, isn’t it? How ’bout we let the birthday girl open her presents?’

  ‘Apologies, darling. How neglectful of me.’

  Impressive. Oli made an art of slathering over his gaffes with strangely believable apologies. He was the type of person you’d buy anything from. An overpriced house. A ridiculous sports car. A lie.

  ‘Lovely idea, Emily, but we’ve got some more circulating to do, haven’t we, Charlotte? Then the hog roast.’

  Charlotte gave a microscopic smile.

  ‘Cake after?’ Izzy rubbed her hands together like a little kid.

  Oli glanced down at his wife then answered for her. ‘Charlotte and I agreed we’re all a bit old for cake and ice cream at a birthday party. The caterers have organized some sweets for the children. There’ll be cheeses for the adults. A bit of chocolate for you girls, I think. Isn’t that right, darling?’

  Charlotte nodded and smiled, the light utterly faded from her eyes.

  Emily, who rarely let herself feel anything for anyone, only just managed to hold herself back from screaming, ‘It’s not your fucking party, you dominating plonker!’ But she did. Mostly because Izzy quietly took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  After they’d left, Emily excused herself on the pretence of getting a soft drink. She took no solace in seeing that she wasn’t the only one living a lie.

  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 autu
mn. 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.