The Happy Glampers

Tomorrow, of course, was the big ‘do’, but tonight was her night. Simple, straightforward, outdoor fare with the small handful of friends she had invited. She looked out to where a handful of picnic tables were dotted round a huge fire pit.

How could she have forgotten the bunting?

She’d laid it out in the mud room along with … what had she laid it out with? The children’s wellies, Oliver’s linen jacket (the one without the red wine stain, yes, she’d double-checked). The same one in which she’d found the receipt for a lingerie set from Coco de Mer in a size ten (she was a twelve to fourteen), the pile of picnic rugs (with waterproofing because you never really could rely on the weather), Oli’s iPad. His new one, which had pinged with a message just as she’d set it down. Hello darling, just wondering if you’d managed to escape the horrid …

Another tendril of Charlotte’s confidence drifted off in the breeze.

Would she be able to play happy families all weekend?

She decanted some strawberries into a rather lovely china bowl. An antique from the looks of things. With a chip. Oli would hate it.

Anyway. The strawberries were perfect. And that counted for something.

‘How do I look?’

Emily did an awkward twirl in front of Callum. From the look on his face, he didn’t need to say a word. The khaki skort and plaid shirt combo exemplified the precise aesthetic she’d fastidiously avoided for some two decades, now. Earthy lesbian. Thank you very much outdoor wear.

Her normal attire was easy. Scrubs, or something black: Uniqlo and Superdry had made a small fortune out of her. Cath Kidston courtesy of her mother. The latter, which came as pointed gifts, along with a list of social events where Emily might consider wearing them, lived on a high shelf just out of reach.

She grimaced at her reflection in the wall mirror. She owned a skort?

Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.

He glanced at the tag she’d unceremoniously ripped off. ‘Glad to see you’ve gone for fabric with a high breathability factor.’

‘Why?’ She sniffed. ‘Do I stink?’

‘You smell like a spring meadow.’

Somehow, she doubted that.

‘You do, however, look like someone who’d rather do anything other than camping.’

If she were being really honest, it was little short of a miracle that Charlotte had managed to cleave her from the hospital. Not that she made a habit of being dishonest, she simply wasn’t big into girlie weekends. There was always so much talking. And feelings. Definitely not her thing.

But! These women were about as close to a crew as she had. Not that they’d been in each other’s pockets since uni. Apart from Izzy, she’d let the friendships … drift. Yes. Drifting would be a good way to describe it. She didn’t not want to be friends. She simply didn’t include any time in her life to have friends. Which was why Callum, a man gifted with actual social skills, was the perfect person to accompany her to a fortieth birthday party where she’d swat at insects, not flush loos, and eat carcinogen-covered food with friends she hadn’t seen for at least a decade and might not actually like any more.

Callum appeared behind her in the mirror. ‘Are you trying to picture your survival chances for the West Sussex version of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?’

She bumped her breathable-fabric-covered hip against his and whined, ‘I’m Chinese. I don’t do glamping. It’s all out of doors.’

‘The Chinese aren’t big North Face fans, then?’ He dangled the tags in front of her.

‘Oh, we love it. We just don’t get it dirty. Or bring it outside the city.’

‘Wait! We’re leaving Soho?’

She scowled at him as if it were his fault she’d accepted the invitation, then flopped down on the bed and tugged on one of the walking shoes she’d bought online. As if by magic a WhatsApp notification pinged in, accompanied by a very Charlotte-esque list of reminders:

1. Remember to bring sunblock suitable for your skin type. Don’t be shy about bringing factor 50! (Obviously for Freya, who turned into a large freckle the moment the sun appeared.)

2. Swimming costumes. There’s a wild swimming pool! (Errrrr. Nope. That one was for Izzy.)

3. Insect spray. (Bingo! Definitely for her. She was prepared to Deet the living daylights out of the little blighters.)

This, chased up with a cutesy request to ‘Pipe up with any special dietary requirements. We’re even prepared for all you barbecue-loving vegans!’

She had no idea who that one was for. Freya maybe? Emily couldn’t remember who’d been vegan, vegetarian or gnawing raw meat straight from the source last time they’d met. Bad friend.

She stood up and bounced on the soles of her new shoes. Springy.

Callum’s quirked eyebrow meant he was still waiting for an explanation about the Chinese distaste for outdoor activities.

‘Fifty years of enforced labour do that to a people.’

He laughed. ‘I suppose it’s the same as my people.’

Emily blinked and asked in her best innocent voice, ‘The people of Edinburgh don’t go camping?’

He pulled off his scrubs top, then basket-balled it into the laundry bin. ‘My mum is permanently scarred by childhood exposure to midges and my father prides himself on being the most immaculately dressed man Nigeria has ever produced. I think we can agree, Emms –’ he did his own version of a catwalk strut and twirl – ‘this apple did not fall far from the tree.’ He pulled a shirt out of the closet and held it up for Emily to inspect. ‘Will this impress?’

She nodded her approval. ‘Very Crocodile Dundee.’

He feigned disappointment. ‘I was going more for the Bear Grylls look.’

‘You look very rugged. Très SAS. Better?’

‘Much.’

She pulled her pager out of her pocket out of habit rather than an actual need. ‘This is weird.’

‘What?’

‘Not being at the hospital. D’you think we should pop in on the way out?’

‘Nope. We need a break. And what better way than a weekend communing with … who are we communing with again?’

She held up fingers to represent them. ‘Freya Burns-West. Scottish. Arty. Very woke. Husband is a living saint.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see.’ She held up another finger. ‘Charlotte Mayfield. Organizer extraordinaire. Want your place to look picture perfect? She’s your woman. Two point four kids. House in the country. Amazing cake-maker. And Izzy Yeats.’

Emily stared as Callum wriggled into a pair of fitted, cream-coloured trousers that were entirely inappropriate for the great outdoors. Unlike her, she had zero doubt he’d throw himself into the weekend and come out spotless. Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to him. He just seemed so comfortable being him. The gayness. The braininess. The inability to pick a special someone and get on with life like the rest of the adult world.

Callum slid his belt on and nodded. ‘Right. So, we’ve got a happy homemaker and an arty tree-hugger. You’re the brainy, over-achieving, too narky for her own good because you’re actually very lovely wunderkind …’ Callum smiled when she punched him in the arm. ‘Which one’s Izzy?’

‘Another housemate.’ Emily paused, uncertain what to tell him about the woman she counted as her soul mate. ‘She ran a surf camp in Hawaii for the last ten years. Just moved back. C’mon. Move it. We’re going to be late.’

Eventually he’d tease more out of her. But for now? The fact she owned a skort should be proof enough these women meant the world to her.

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