You Make Me Feel Like Glamping

by Daisy Tate

  Freya hadn’t remembered just how long the drive was.

  As the torchlight swept across the open fields – they were such huge, empty fields – Freya was gripped by a deep, urgent need to buy those plastic coily things people clipped onto their children.

  She’d howled with derisive laughter when she’d seen a family in Leicester Square – tourists – reeling and unreeling their children from extendable dog leads repackaged as child minders.

  Now she wanted to buy some. In bulk.

  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. Though she’d never say anything to Charlotte, those children of hers could do with pulling up their bootstraps. Learn to respect their mother a bit more. Only Poppy had come into the kitchen and given her mum a sort of half-hug after Cake-gate. Jack, like his father, was medically attached to his phone.

  ‘Come here, darlin’.’ She took off her gilet and handed it to Felix who had grabbed his head torch but no jacket and insisted on coming. She reached out and took her daughter’s hand. More for her comfort than Regan’s, she supposed.

  ‘Mum?’ Regan whispered.

  ‘Yes, darlin’?’

  ‘Is this my fault? I mean … I was with her last.’

  A protective fire flared in her chest. There was no way she was letting her little worrier accept responsibility for this. They all should’ve been keeping a more careful eye on the children. If it was anyone’s fault it was hers. If she hadn’t thrown that blasted cake …

  ‘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.

  Monty, who’d been walking on the other side of the road, reached out in the closing darkness and found Freya’s hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. Freya felt a twinge of guilt, mildly regretting biting his head off earlier. Not that it mattered. No one was going for a pub meal now. She should try to cut Monty some slack. On the finances front. The job front. No matter what, he was always there for her. Her emotional rock when she was all shifting tectonic plates. Like now. Angry, knowing Monty was an easy target when her frustrations went much deeper.

  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 9

  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 competitiveness. 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 a
t 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-peddled. 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 his 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 needle full of poison.

  ‘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.’

  To a chorus of hear-hears, Freya drank deeply. It wasn’t often she was the one being put in her place. But Lady Venetia was right. Friends supported friends. Even if it meant watching them return to a philandering, pompous ass. He was Charlotte’s philandering, pompous ass and it was her decision to make. She shot a guilty look in Monty’s direction. She would definitely try to be more supportive about the Instagram-portraiture phase. Particularly if it took the edge off their overdraft.

  ‘Night Mum.’ Poppy gave Charlotte a quick, fierce hug then scuttled off to her yurt.
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  ‘Night, night darling,’ Charlotte called after her, her heart warming as, for the first time in what felt like for ever, Poppy acknowledged her with a little wave.

  ‘Night, Mum.’ Jack whacked an arm round her shoulders and planted a kiss on top of her head. ‘Glamping’s pretty cool. Nice one.’

  She smiled up at her son and wiped an invisible bit of toastie off his chin. He’d be shaving soon. Her little boy.

  He wished her a good night and ambled off to bed in that leggy, easy-natured manner of his. He was so very much like his father.

  Now that Whiffy had safely returned them to the glampsite (with two spare bottles of fizz from Venetia ‘just in case’), Charlotte was quite persuaded that she didn’t need a plan. Not yet anyway.

  After the toast (which really had made it feel as though it was her birthday), Venetia had steered everyone to the huge kitchen and put Freya in charge of a production line making piles of toasties. Poor Freya. She probably would’ve mopped the entire mansion if she’d been asked. Venetia had then taken Charlotte on a turn round the fairy-light-bedecked rose garden and chirpily explained that she too had been stepped out on by her dearly departed husband. A man against whom she seemed to hold no grudge.

  Amid the budding roses, Lady Venetia had turned to her and said, ‘Love comes in many forms. It’s not all about fidelity so long as there is respect. My husband dallied on more than one occasion. But he would never, ever embarrass me in public. That was our agreement. I loved him, I supported him, I also made sure I lived the life I wanted to. The same as any other marriage, just slightly more … complex. And that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it darling? Making decisions about the life or lifestyle we’d like – then living it without remorse or shame.’

  For the first time in years, Charlotte felt as though she had been seen. She hadn’t married for money. She’d married for love. But she did wonder how her life would’ve turned out if she’d fallen in love with Freya’s brother, say. Rocco. Tall, strong, a smile that lit a girl up from the inside out, but a man who would never woo her in Michelin restaurants, take her on city breaks in Barcelona … go on golfing weekends.