by Daisy Tate
Perhaps that was where she’d gone wrong. She’d been so blinded by the perfect aesthetics of the life she and Oli shared, she’d forgotten to examine the man with whom she’d be spending it. Little wonder when her own upbringing had been so … small. Parents trudging through life as if they were its prisoners. A cramped council flat. No appreciation for … anything really, other than Corrie and a cheap takeaway. When she’d left home she’d been desperate to create a beautiful, calm, conflict-free life and give her children the same. It was why she’d never once invited any of the girls home with her over the holidays. She’d been too ashamed. How perfectly ironic that the weekend should culminate in her friend smashing cake into her husband’s face.
Izzy waved a hand in front of Charlotte and grinned. ‘So. Tell us everything.’ She wanted all the details of the rose garden stroll.
‘What? About Lady V?’
‘Oh, it’s Lady V now, is it?’ Emily put out her fist.
Charlotte patted it and said, ‘Oh, it was nothing really. I’m most likely too far away to consider it, but …’
‘Consider what?’ Izzy pinched a single crisp out of the big bowl Freya had put out for everyone (mostly Monty) in a last-ditch effort to sop up Lady V’s largesse. He’d wandered off for some star-gazing with one of the bottles instead of taking the hint.
‘Well, she seemed very keen on the ideas I gave her for her honey.’
‘Her honey?’ Emily looked confused. And a little grossed out.
‘She’s got bees.’ Izzy made a buzz-buzz noise.
Charlotte smiled at her then explained, ‘I suggested a better way to present it in the shop.’
‘Shop?’
Had Emily actually seen anything of the glampsite?
Izzy pointed out into the darkness. ‘The one in the car park? The thing that looks like a wooden bus shelter with weird local artwork and, like, two pots of honey with labels from the 1970s? Horrid store-bought sausage rolls on the first morning? No? No memory?’
‘She suggested I have a go at redesigning it,’ Charlotte said after Emily gave them all a blank look.
‘You should go for it, Lotts,’ Freya called from the refrigerator, a bit more timorously than normal. ‘You were brilliant that summer up in Scotland at the fruit farm.’
Before Charlotte could say she actually quite liked the idea of building the tiny little shack into a micro-business (that’s what Lady V had suggested calling the venture, a micro-business of her own), the conversation veered off to a madcap story Callum had heard about a beekeeper in the centre of London, but Charlotte didn’t mind. Being given the compliment about her ideas for packaging the Sittingstone honey was every bit as good as coming along and ‘consulting’. Imagine! Charlotte Mayfield: micro-shop stylist.
It might not be her café/gallery dream, but it wasn’t as if she’d added anything to her CV in the past fifteen years. At the very least, it was a chance to make good on her promise to try and do something for herself, even if it would involve a bit of a commute.
She wove her fingers together and stared at them, her engagement ring occasionally glinting against the fairy lights. No matter how appealing the idea of making her own money was, she was simply too busy being CEO of her own family to take on anything more. Particularly if she and Oliver were going to stick to their guns about putting their marriage back on track.
Either way. It was nice to have been asked.
She selected a couple of crisps and watched as her friends listened to Callum’s story, then belly-laughed when he hit the inevitable punch line. Callum didn’t seem to have stories without one.
This was what she had wanted. What she had pictured. Being part of something, even if she felt, as she had back in uni, a bit on the periphery.
Seeing Izzy so closely bonded with her daughter, watching Freya claim Monty as her own, even though he was still incredibly, embarrassingly drunk and then, of course, the ever-chivalrous Callum taking off his coat and draping it across Emily’s shoulders when he saw she was shivering. This, when her own husband had stormed off over a bit of cake in the face.
Freya scooched in beside her and whispered, ‘You all right, girlie?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte.
‘Forgive me?’
‘Of course!’ Now that a bit of time had passed, she was actually a tiny bit grateful. It wasn’t as if she would ever have been brave enough to fling a cake at Oli, but … They squeezed hands beneath the table. It was so comforting to have real friends of her own.
‘I can’t believe we just had champagne with a dowager countess.’ Emily laughed. ‘At a glampsite.’
‘You mean the castle at the glampsite,’ Izzy corrected, as she drew her fingers through Emily’s long dark hair. Twenty years on and Izzy still couldn’t keep her fingers out of it. She was the only one Emily never batted away.
‘Did you see the way she dragged that chair across the drawing room so Regan could see that painting of a hare?’ Freya had shifted gears. ‘I was praying she wouldn’t put her foot through it. It must’ve cost a fortune!’
‘I’m sure she could afford a replacement,’ Callum said lightly. He dropped a kiss on Emily’s head then wished everyone goodnight.
They all waved him off.
‘We still have some cake left. Shall we eat it, too?’ Charlotte was gratified when everyone dissolved into fits of giggles. Jokes had never been her forte.
Freya hunted down some candles. Emily found a knife and Izzy kept throwing protective glances in Luna’s direction, though she’d long been fast asleep on the sofa. Bless. Charlotte would’ve most likely done the same.
‘Here we go.’ Freya carefully slid the lemon drizzle on to the cable-spool table top … candles in place, already alight. Everyone did that little inhale and shoulder-jiggle thing that meant they were excited to eat cake.
Charlotte looked at her friends. Emily, righting one of the askew candles. Izzy, sticking her finger in another one and covering the tip of her finger in melted wax. Freya, adjusting a bit of frosting with a knife so that the cake looked just so.
‘I’m so happy you’ve come to my birthday party! You really are wonderful.’ It was out before Charlotte could stop it. Sugar. Why did she say things like that? Set herself up for disappointment.
‘We’re happy, too, Lotts,’ Izzy said, with a solid, yes-it’s-true nod, her mouth parting into that wide, open smile of hers.
The others nodded. Smiled. Bumped against her shoulder.
It felt like one of the birthday candles had lit up deep inside her heart. They cared about her. She hoped they’d meet again. She doubted they’d meet again. But something very lonely inside of her knew that staying in touch with these women was essential if she were going to, in the words of Lady V, ‘live her life without remorse or shame.’
‘Shall we blow out the candles?’
‘Only if you’ve made your wish.’ Izzy dipped another fingertip into the wax then pressed them together.
‘Let’s all make a wish,’ Charlotte suggested. ‘Just like in the old days.’
‘Great idea.’ Freya crossed her fingers and looked up to the heavens. ‘I could do with a bit of Lady Luck.’
Truthfully? Charlotte didn’t have to wish. Everything she wanted was right here round the table.
‘Ready? On, one … two … threeeee!’
Chapter 10
And just like that the long weekend was over.
Emily cradled the tin of vegan carrot cake that Charlotte had insisted she take.
‘You’re sure you’re going to be all right?’ Emily asked.
‘Of course. And all the better for seeing you.’
‘Thanks for this.’ Emily tapped the cake tin. ‘I’ll bring it to the nurses’ station tomorrow. They’ll die of shock. I never do anything nice.’
‘The glamping wasn’t too awful?’ Charlotte clearly knew what a stretch it was.
‘I complained the whole way here.’ Now that she’d survived it, she might as well confess.
‘And now I own a skort!’
Charlotte gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Thanks for coming. It meant a lot.’
‘Right. Ummm … if you ever need to escape to the big smoke … uhhhh …’ She lived in a box room, it wasn’t as if she could have guests.
‘I know you’re busy.’
Charlotte had always been good at absolving her. They finished off their goodbyes with a quick peck on either cheek.
‘Ready to hit the road, woman?’
Emily nodded and followed Callum to the car park, wondering whether she might, one day, be truly honest with her friends. Her heart did a little flip as she caught a last glimpse of Izzy and Luna trickling flower petals from one of Charlotte’s birthday bouquets into one another’s hair. They were the obvious reason she’d come, but seeing Freya and Charlotte again had been more of a bonus than she’d anticipated. She should stop being such an ice queen. Being nice had its benefits.
Her phone buzzed. The hospital?
Mother.
Detailing her humiliation about Emily’s no-show for dim sum with the neighbour’s cousin. For a woman who’d not entirely embraced the English language, she certainly had taken to emoji-shaming like a duck to water.
‘C’mon, Emms. There’s a long, hot shower, a face mask and a new box set of Grey’s calling my name.’
‘You big girl!’
‘It’s why you love me.’ He gave her a knuckle-duster then ducked into the car. ‘That and my impeccable taste in flatmates.’
She grinned. He was, of course, spot on.
‘Call if you need to,’ Freya said meaningfully. ‘Anytime.’
‘All right.’ Charlotte gave the counter a swipe.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Now give me a hug. It looks like Monty’s ready to hit the road.’
Freya gave Charlotte a big hug and a kiss. ‘Call me.’
Charlotte blew her a kiss then headed off to find her children.
Leaving Charlotte without a pragmatic solution had been tough, but she’d insisted she needed time to think. Make up her mind on her own. Poor love. Oli had her well and truly brainwashed. Freya gave Monty’s shoulder a kiss before inching the car back onto the motorway.
‘What was that for?’
‘Just because.’
‘Ha!’ Monty barked. But he left off the usual retort. There’s always something.
The weekend had been great in the end. Okay. They’d spent too much money, eaten like pigs, drunk too much, and seeing Izzy again had unleashed the green-eyed monster a bit too ferociously, but … everyone had their wobbles.
She genuinely did hope they’d meet again. Another ten years would be way too long. Maybe she should invite the gang camping for their annual foray to Wales this summer.
She smiled as she pictured Emily swatting away a fly as if it were an incoming land mine. Maybe Wales could wait. Besides. Living up to the high thread count, the open-air Aga, the endless supply of champers versus a grassy field on the Welsh coast where there was no escaping the sea fleas? She didn’t fancy her chances.
‘Right everyone, homeward bound!’
‘All right pumpkin?’ Izzy waved a final goodbye to Charlotte then reached across to give Luna’s knee a pit-pat. She was touching her more than she usually did, pulling her in for slightly claustrophobic hugs … she knew they were too tight because Luna would push her away and look at her like she’d lost the plot. Last night had scared the hell out of her. Izzy had lived her entire adult life without her mother, and the thought of missing so much as a single day with Luna … bah. She couldn’t go there. Not now.
‘Can Bonzer get a wetsuit when we get to Wales?’
‘Sure, baby. We’ll get Bonzer a suit, too.’
Izzy swallowed back the prickings of tears that seemed to be creeping up on her more frequently these days. There was so much Luna might have to handle on her own.
You could always call the baby-daddy.
No. She wasn’t ready to hand over the reins just yet.
At least she was back in the friend-loop now.
Maybe not so much with Freya. She’d been friendly enough, but it was pretty obvious she still wasn’t over the fact that Izzy had seen Monty’s scrawny-ass eighteen-year-old body in the buff. She should’ve cleared the air. Told her she’d always been jealous of Freya’s upbringing. The loving family. The cool older brother dropping her off at term time in his beat-up old Land Rover and picking her up again at the end with a tin of shortbread from her mum. They all seemed to love each so easily. Like breathing. She thought of her mother’s last, exhausted breaths. Maybe breathing wasn’t so easy after all. She should’ve cornered Lady Venetia. Asked for some words of wisdom.
‘Mom! Are you going to sit there or drive?’
‘Drive, baby.’ She swept the back of her hand along her daughter’s cheek. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
Charlotte waved them all off, one by one, giving a different reason to each as to why she was hanging back. The truth was, she wasn’t entirely ready to go home.
It had been so lovely being surrounded by friends whose only purpose in coming was to wish her a happy birthday.
She sat at one of the picnic tables, ignoring the wheelbarrow-loads of things, piled just outside the kitchen, that she still had to pack into the car. A text pinged on to her phone. No doubt another appeal from her children to Leave now, Mum that they had been sending from the Land Rover where they were embroiled in a fight for the front seat.
The site was free of most of the signs that they’d been there. The fire pit was cleared. All of the picnic tables back in place. Woollen blankets all tightly rolled and nestled into the large willow whip basket.
The girls had helped her with a final swoop, eventually popping the dew-soaked serviette bunting into the recycling bin now that it had served its purpose.
She scanned the site again, soaking it all up. Superimposing the bunting she could now picture sitting on the worktop in the boot room as clearly as if she were looking right at it. Suddenly the bunting didn’t seem very important at all.
It was friendship that mattered. Not things.
She gave herself a bit of a hug, willing the gesture to keep that tiny flicker of possibility alight in her heart.
They would meet again, she promised herself. They would definitely meet again.
[END PART ONE]
Are the friends finished with the outdoors for good, or are they ready for another weekend of secrets and unfinished business …? Find out in the next glamptabulous instalments available to buy now!
Acknowledgements
If this was a pop-up book, at this juncture a very long scroll would unfurl with a squillion names on it going back to primary school. Earlier. Birth. Thank you mum and dad for having me. And thank you for bringing us camping. A lot. What a fecund pool of material to draw from. This book has been such a great joy to write for many reasons, not least of which because it rekindled a fabulous friendship with the glorious Jackie N. Thank you for all of your honest insight. Lady W – muchos gracias for the fashion advice. You are, and shall forever be, my Coco. Netts – you are, as ever, a wonder. You are made of kindness and all of the other lovely things. Beth – you read the earliest, most painful drafts of this and still had nice things to say, so thank you. Darcy – again, thank you for your honesty and insight. You iz most helpful. JP and Mich - your friendship, that chicken soup and those pickles were a godsend. Never before has shampoo been more gratefully received. Natasha, bless you for the Zencils. They made all the difference. James – thank you for the insight into the amorous tiers of lawful luvvin’. Most interesting. Christine and Pam - you’re tremendous cheerleaders. Mwah. Sue and Stu! You made real-life glamping extra fun. Sarah L – thank you for lunch and illuminating me on just what it takes to pack a large family up for a weekend under canvas. Exhausting. To my agent, Jo Bell who is not only marvellous at reading small print, but who is tremendously talented at reminding me about which small stuff to swea
t and which big stuff to get on with and achieve. A heartfelt thanks to you. To the team at Harper Collins for making this twinkle of an idea a reality, especially that transcendentally superpowered Kate Bradley, my amazing faith-filled, patient, inspirational and acutely insightful editor. Thank you for believing in me. Great love to Grissom and Jorja who began this journey with me and to Skye who picked up their batons. And, of course, to my sweet beloved husband. Without you … well … that’s not really worth thinking about is it? Bring on the marshmallows!
About the Author
Daisy Tate loves telling stories. Telling them in books is even better. When not writing, she raises stripey, Scottish cows, performs in Amateur Dramatics, pretends her life is a musical and bakes cakes that will never win her a place on a television baking show. She was born in the USA but has never met Bruce Springsteen. She now calls East Sussex home.
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