You Make Me Feel Like Glamping

by Daisy Tate

  She let herself be tugged in close to Callum. Feel the steady thump thump of his heart against her back.

  Why hadn’t she just come out with it when she had the chance?

  Told them Callum was just a mate.

  Because. That’s what she did.

  Once she overcame thousands of years of Chinese tradition and told her parents …

  Ping!

  Swear to god her mother had a sixth sense. She tugged the phone across to her.

  ‘Listen. Mr Chang from next door has cousin visiting from China. Hunan Province. Tall. Good idea for you to come for Sunday dim sum.’

  She flipped the phone over and took a deep inhalation of cotton, canvas and earth. It was quite cosy, this. Snuggling with someone with all of that fresh air circulating around them.

  Good bed. Soft sheets.

  The quiet.

  It was really, really quiet.

  Almost quiet enough to hear the skittering of a field mouse.

  Instantly, Emily was wide awake again.

  God, she hated camping.

  As they hung their tea towels on the Aga, Freya got the sense Charlotte wasn’t quite ready to go.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes! Of course,’ Charlotte said unconvincingly. ‘Why do you ask?’ She swiped at the perfectly clean counter with a J-cloth.

  ‘Nothing really. I just … I kind of got the sense that everything might not be tickety-boo with Oli.’

  Charlotte looked physically ill. ‘What? No. Everything’s fine. I’m just being a bit funny about turning forty.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You look as young as you did the day you got married.’

  Charlotte’s smile faltered.

  Ah. It was definitely about Oli. Freya felt that bloom of solidarity that came from discovering she wasn’t the only one wading through the magical wilderness of a long-term relationship.

  Charlotte’s laugh fell flat. ‘Perhaps I’m just a bit worried about tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ohhh. You know …’ She threw Freya a quick glance then set about refolding all the tea towels. ‘My in-laws are coming and all of our friends. I mean … obviously you’re my friends, but these are more Oli and his family’s group. Some of the children’s friends and their parents. They can be a bit cliquey. High expectations always make me a bit edgy.’

  ‘Is this party meant to be for you or for Oli?’

  Charlotte threw her a sharp look. ‘For me, of course. We’d hardly be camping if it was Oli’s party.’

  ‘Well,’ Freya said, ‘I think this place is amazing. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a better venue.’

  ‘Oh, believe me they do.’ In a very un-Charlotte-like move, she began ticking things off on her fingers. ‘So far this year, we’ve been to all of the Soho House venues – private rooms. Babington House. Twice. A château in France. A snowmobile trek to see the Northern Lights with two nights in an ice hotel. Oh. And a weekend at a country estate in Ireland.’ She pulled a small handkerchief out of an invisible side pocket and fretted at its scalloped edging. ‘My children didn’t want to tell their friends. About the glamping. In truth, they didn’t want to come at all. Oli had to bribe them.’

  ‘Oh, Lotte.’ Freya pretended not to notice Charlotte swiping at her eyes.

  How awful.

  Sure. Freya sometimes had rich people envy, but at this moment? She wouldn’t trade places with Charlotte for anything.

  Freya felt an unexpected rush of love for Monty. He might be shit with money, living in a bit of a dream world most of the time with his harebrained schemes for their future (perhaps they would move to the Isle of Mull one day and set up a retreat for burned-out tech entrepreneurs, teaching them how to live mindfully), but he was an amazing father and her family loved each other. Not one of them would ever have to be bribed to spend time together. Monty always instilled respect into their kids. Years ago, when Regan was four, she’d had a particularly foul tantrum when Freya had been trying to get out of the house to work. Monty had made Regan FaceTime her on her way to the tube and sing ‘The Apology Song’. It wasn’t a real song. Monty had made it up. They’d also bought her a Tunnock’s Snowball and put it on her pillow after making her toad-in-the-hole for supper. Her faves from home.

  She couldn’t imagine Oliver ever doing the same for Charlotte. She made a silent vow to try and not kick Monty tonight when he began to snore.

  ‘Hey,’ Freya brightened at a memory. ‘I forgot to say, Rocco sends his best.’

  ‘Your brother?’ Charlotte’s features softened.

  ‘The one and only. We rang him on the drive down. I mentioned we were seeing you and he starting dredging up memories from the summer you came up and worked at the fruit farm with me. Remember that?’

  ‘Of course, I do. It was a brilliant summer.’

  Freya squawked, ‘Hardly! We worked our fingers to the bone … oh, wait. You got upgraded to the café, didn’t you?’

  ‘Farm shop. I did the displays,’ Charlotte said, as if it had happened yesterday. ‘And your brother dropped us off and picked us up every single day.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. He’s a good big brother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte looked lost in a world of her own. ‘Very nice.’

  Freya grabbed a couple of Charlotte’s brilliant homemade biscuits then took a torch out of the ‘general use’ box.

  Charlotte hadn’t moved.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Charlotte gave her hand a quick squeeze then shooed her on. ‘Never better.’

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Hmmmm? Hey, Booboo. What’re you doing in here?’ Izzy pulled her daughter into her arms, gave her a little tickle then melted back onto her pile of pillows. It was sumptuously comfortable in here. Most distinctly not the style she and her daughter were accustomed to.

  ‘Mommy?’ Luna crawled under the quilt, the covers tenting round her shoulders, pulled her mother’s hand into her own and began playing patty-cake with it. It was a relatively unsuccessful attempt. Izzy knew she should put a bit of oomph into it. Help her daughter out. But she was just so comfortable. Friends. Food. Wine. A telling-off from Emily. Would she ever be this comfortable again?

  An unexpected prickle of tears attacked the back of her throat. She swallowed it down. ‘Yes, my little flower queen? What is it?’

  ‘Can we go see Bonzer?’

  Bonzer. Of course. How could she forget Bonzer? She melted a bit deeper into her down pillows. It’d be easy to forget just about everything here, in the lap of luxury where people swept away problems with money. She could live here. All year round. An actual wood burner was not more than a metre away. That’d see them through the winter. Perhaps if she hid out here, all of the real-life things would go away.

  ‘Mom. Mom! He’s up at the castle, right?’

  ‘Sorry, Booboo.’ She swept her daughter’s billow of hair away from her perfect face. ‘I know you want to go see Bonzer, but I don’t think we’re allowed …’

  She stopped herself. She was about to say: ‘Allowed up at the big house.’

  Her mother would’ve had a field day with something like that. Told her off something wicked. She missed her mum. Missed her every bit as much as she did all those years ago when it took three hospice workers to pull her away from her mother’s bed. Time to go now, they’d said. Time to let your mother rest in peace.

  Peace? Her mother hadn’t wanted peace. She’d wanted justice. Beauty. The freedom to voice everything she felt without fear of being shut down. Her mother had parked herself on the lawn of the White House. Outside Downing Street. Inside student union buildings. Hell, no! We won’t go! And yet … she’d had to. Despite everything they’d done. All of the healthy food. The yoga. The meditation. The radiation. The drugs. The endless stream of drugs. In the end, her sweet, powerful, word warrior mother had had to go. Izzy looked at her daughter, the person who was her morning, her noon and her night. The thoug
ht that Luna would ever have to experience loss on that scale filled her heart with cold fear. There was no way she ever wanted Luna to go through that. Whatever she had to do, she’d do it.

  ‘Yes, Booboo.’ She pulled her daughter to her. ‘In the morning. Let’s go up to the castle.’

  Charlotte had nearly cracked. Told Freya everything. She’d virtually tasted the words her mouth.

  Oliver’s having an affair. He wants us to stay married. Push on through. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know what she wanted. Plenty of women forgave their husbands for indiscretions. Even Beyoncé. There were others, of course, who didn’t. But could you ever move on from betrayal?

  She had no money of her own. No job. Nowhere to go. No friends to turn to – not on her doorstep anyway.

  Oh, it was an impossible situation, and not one she’d imagined having to contend with on her birthday. Not anytime, really, but it did seem particularly unfair to find out now. Her mother would’ve wept with laughter. Shows you, Little Miss Fancy Britches. Always thought you were too good for your own kind.

  Yes. She had been shown. And now she needed to decide how to proceed.

  As per the glampsite’s safety guidelines, she checked that the campfire was completely out. Then the gas hob. After a completely ridiculous check to make sure no one was watching, she stuffed one of the moreish American marshmallows into her mouth as she did a final scan to see if any candles were still lit.

  There was one. Guttering away at the bottom of a jam jar. She looked out into the night, heard the whoosh and cry of a tawny owl sweeping past the tent, then blew out the light.

  She tiptoed up the curved stairwell to the tree house, even though the place was still blazing with light. Perhaps Oli hadn’t been taking a call from her after all.

  She quietly opened the door and looked across to the huge king-sized bed where Oli was skimming through messages on his phone, that telltale smile playing on his lips. The one that said he was in the mood. Her heart lifted. Maybe he really had meant it. About keeping things going. Wanting the best for their marriage. He looked up when she closed the door behind her with little more than a click, met her inquisitive gaze and said, ‘Oh. It’s you.’ As if he had been expecting someone else.

  ‘Hello, darling. Chilly out. Oh, good, you got your coffee.’

  His eyes flicked to the bedside table then back to his phone. ‘Your friends were pretty lairy tonight,’ he said. As if they’d trashed the place. ‘Especially … who is it? The Scottish one. She likes her sauce.’ He mimed glugging a bottle of wine, which was rich given the fumes he was emitting. ‘You’ll keep an eye on her tomorrow, right? Make sure the staff don’t top her up too often?’

  An instruction. So many of their conversations were actually lists of instructions. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even trying to be different. This wasn’t the behaviour of a repentant man. A husband desperate to make amends. All of her hopeful thoughts that they might be able to go through this marital … calamity … fluttered to her feet.

  She wondered if Oli’s lover was the same as she had once been. In complete awe of him. The power. His physical presence. The confidence. It was his confidence that had really swept her off her feet. He was still every bit as handsome. Every bit as charismatic. Every bit as much in love with her?

  With a possibly pregnant, possibly not younger model to hand, he could merely have been throwing Charlotte a line. Ensuring she stayed to keep up appearances until he blew her world completely apart. Or maybe, just maybe, this Xanthe wasn’t meant to have got pregnant. Perhaps she’d trapped him into making a decision. His wife or his lover. Maybe he was reeling inside every bit as much as she was, kicking himself over and over again for having been such a fool. Emily had compared her to Kate Middleton. Didn’t all men like Oli want a Kate Middleton by their side?

  She reached out to him, her heart lurching up into her throat as she asked, ‘Darling, do you think this will all work out?’

  ‘What? The party? So long as your mates behave themselves, I’ve got it all in hand. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.’

  Then he rolled over and turned out the light.

  In that moment, Charlotte resolved to tell her friends everything.

  Chapter 6

  Sleep might have helped. So would flinging her phone into the fire and watching it melt away into nothing.

  As things stood, Charlotte wasn’t in the best frame of mind to host a birthday party.

  Calling it off was out of the question. Too many wheels in motion. The caterers, for example, would be arriving any time now.

  Almost involuntarily, her thumb flicked her phone from the home page to Instagram. Cyber-stalking, it turned out, was rather addictive.

  Xanthe was terrifically young and beautiful. No surprise there.

  Xanthe had well over two thousand followers, could ski, scuba, and loved a quality organic facial.

  Xanthe – she thumbed a bit further down the page – also went out to nightclubs where her husband doled out kisses like lollipops. She looked happy and comfortable. As if it were perfectly normal to have another woman’s husband plant kisses on her dewy young cheek.

  Charlotte pocketed the phone and stared helplessly at the yurts where her friends peacefully slept away.

  As certain as she’d been that she must tell them what was really going on, morning brought with it the dawning realization that if she were to veer off script now she might lose what little traction she had in her marriage. Putting on ‘a good show’ was paramount to the Mayfields. And today, which came complete with the full complement of in-laws, would be no different.

  It wasn’t as if Charlotte would ever go completely mad. Not like Marcy Cunningham had at last year’s sports day. Imagine! Putting her husband’s entire Dr Who collection in for the tombola. No. She wouldn’t corral their guests together only to announce she planned to take Oliver for all he was worth. Wouldn’t show up at his office and make a scene, demand to meet The Other Woman. Wouldn’t shrivel up and die.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Mostly because everything seemed one step removed from reality. As if discovering her husband was a cheat had dropped triple-glazing between her and the life she thought she’d been living.

  She remembered the advice that some of the older wives at the law firm had given her in the early days of their marriage; giving her the lowdown on what being a ‘seasoned wife’ meant, and what was in store for Charlotte when Oliver became the youngest partner in his firm. Don’t complain about supper drying out in the oven. It will happen frequently. Never moan about the long days. Those billable hours were keeping her in Chloé and Stella McCartney. And most importantly, don’t fight about the affairs. It was simply how it worked. That will never happen to me, she had thought.

  The affairs, she’d learnt that night, had tiers. The secretaries slept with the junior partners. The junior partners slept with the senior partners. The librarian slept with everyone.

  She took a sip of her tea and watched, through the steam, as the morning sun edged its way from the woodland into the large meadowscape where, soon enough, she’d be celebrating her birthday.

  Forty years old. She’d got her first party-planning job the year her mum had turned forty. They’d not celebrated. Quelle surprise. Forty. So much more grown-up sounding than thirty. Thirty had sounded full of possibility. Forty sounded … forty sounded a bit flat, if she were being perfectly honest. A crossroads. This way for a life of spiced honey interiors. (Evie Tonks had already had her children’s ‘media room’ redone in spiced honey in anticipation of them no longer spilling squash everywhere. A bit naive on her part, but … Evie Tonk’s husband was still very much in love with her.)

  Charlotte’s gaze shifted. Freya’s makeshift bunting had grown dewy in the night, causing quite a few of the cranes’ wings to droop, but, if the weather report was anything to go by, the string of ori
gami serviettes would be shifting in a light, sun-soaked breeze by the time the party was under way.

  The whole idea that she was throwing a birthday party suddenly seemed completely ridiculous.

  This morning when she’d come down to put on the coffee, she’d foolishly looked around expecting something, anything, to be sitting out in the kitchen waiting for her. A card. A simply wrapped gift. A flower. But no. There had been nothing except a list of chores written in her own hand.

  For all she knew, Oli had had to bribe the rest of their friends to come as he had the children. Veuve Cliquot and Michelin-starred amuse-bouches standing in for fifty-pound notes.

  … deep breath in …

  All she had to do was get through the next twelve hours. Twelve hours of smiling, greeting, nodding and, perhaps, if she dared, testing just how strong the bonds of her old friendships were.

  Charlotte smoothed her hand across her spreadsheet, willing the detailed layout to act as a balm. Here was her day, laid out before her in black and white, with the odd yellow highlight (she really would have to stay on top of the Watlington boy’s peanut allergy, seeing as how Oli had insisted on a satay-based canapé and there was no guarantee his mother would remember his epi pen or that the catering staff would make an announcement).

  Welcome drinks.

  Nibbles.

  Games for the children.

  The hog roast.

  Cake.

  She pored over the sheet until she could see it with her eyes closed, then, as if someone had flicked a switch, the day began.

  Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Oli. ‘Bacon sarnies ready soon? Need to run into town to get something.’

  Someone, more like.

  Well, she thought, her thumb hovering above the Instagram app, happy birthday to me.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Felix glanced nervously over his shoulder. Felix didn’t do conflict. ‘Ummm … Dad’s taking a bath so he told me to ask you?’

  Freya was in danger of turning into a bobble head she was nodding so violently. ‘A bath. I see. Well, that’s bloody rich, isn’t it?’