The Happy Glampers

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 should move to the Isle of Mull one day and set up a retreat for burned-out tech entrepreneurs and teach 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.’

Charlotte had nearly cracked. Told Freya everything. She’d virtually tasted the words in 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. 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?

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 Six

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.

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.

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 origami 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 Clicquot 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?’

‘I suppose so?’ Felix had never known a bath to be an activity of conflict before. ‘Ummm … can I have some money?’

Freya felt the hot rise of anger at her throat. ‘And he told you to ask me for money?’

Why did Monty do this? Send the children to her for money so she’d have to be the one to say no. She’d told him she only had forty quid and that they needed it to fill the car seeing as they’d already used the electric charge on the hybrid. Bloody London traffic!

‘Jack says there’s a shop and they’ve just put out scones and sausage rolls.’ Felix scuffed the dirt with his trainer. ‘I’m hungry.’

Freya did a quick calculation of the change that might’ve fallen to the bottom of her handbag and came up empty. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’. Charlotte’s making breakfast. We can’t afford fancy extras.’

Felix looked crestfallen, but tough cheddar. Waking up to not one but two ‘You’ve exceeded your overdraft’ texts from the bank hadn’t set the morning off in quite the whimsical, escape-to-the-country vein she’d been hoping for. Bloody Monty and his bloody largesse. Oli should’ve been the one footing the micro-distillery gin tasting at the pub, not her broke, wannabe portrait-photographer husband who had yet to pull his camera out of the very expensive case he’d begged her to buy him for Christmas.

Felix’s tummy growled.

Her son never asked for anything apart from books. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the screwy face she made when she was fighting off tears. This was ridiculous, having to count the pennies for a bloody pastry. How on earth had things become so bad she’d turned her own son into a modern-day Oliver Twist? Or, for that matter, flew into a rage because her husband was taking a bath.

‘Sorry, love. I … can you just hang on a few more minutes? Charlotte’s making bacon sandwiches. You won’t starve. First-world problems, remember!’

Rather than reply, Felix plopped down on the picnic bench, heaved his latest library book up onto his lap, threw a look of sheer longing in Charlotte’s direction, then cracked the book in half with a sigh and began to read.

Freya strode over to the bath-house and was about to bash the door in when her fresh-faced husband flung it open with a big old goofy smile on his face. The one that had won her over that very first time Izzy had brought him back to Holly House.

Monty wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Wanna get jiggy with it? I’ve not let the water out of the bath.’

Seriously? Was he mad?

‘Montgomery Burns-West. You are treading on remarkably thin ice.’

He feigned being hit in the heart with an arrow. ‘What? I can’t proposition my fair wife for a morning shag?’

‘Not when the overdraft police are riding my ass, no.’

Monty looked genuinely hurt. There was no glory in it. Why did she always have to be the bad cop? Unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, his wet chest saturating her top. ‘It’s all right, love. I know things are tough, but we’ll get there. Dreams are worth fighting for, right?’

They were, but … Freya thought of her Camden shop, and the oh-so-witty T-shirts that no one seemed to want; the dream of sustainable fashion that had now turned into an endless compromise of her ideals and lots of bounced cheques.

She found herself responding to his kiss until the butterflies began, then pulled away. A kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t fix the overdraft. Nor would fighting about it. She stuffed her tug-of-war mood into the darker recesses and told Monty she was going to help get breakfast ready. Today was about Charlotte. Tomorrow would be about facing facts.

‘Charlotte, you’ve converted me!’ Emily mooched up to the fire, a quilt slung over her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t slept this well in months. Years maybe. ‘That bacon smells amazing. Is there coffee as well?’

Charlotte turned around, tears pouring down her cheeks.

‘Shit. Crap. What is it? I don’t need coffee. I don’t need bacon. Fuck. Are you okay?’

Nice one, Emms. Yes. The weeping woman is perfectly fine.

‘Sorry, yes. No. There is coffee. I mean …’ Charlotte didn’t even bother swiping at her tears. ‘Oliver’s having an affair.’

Emily looked round in a panic. Where was the lemon drizzle crew when you needed them? She wasn’t equipped for this. There was the doctor’s bedside manner thing, but she’d had training for that. Professional distance came much more easily than the whole warm-and-fuzzy thing.

That. And Charlotte wasn’t a patient. Charlotte had held her hair up when she’d thrown up after an overzealous margarita night. Charlotte had helped her make models of organs out of jelly for her anatomy class. Charlotte still liked her enough to invite her to her fortieth birthday party, despite fifteen years of bunking off invitations to meet up.

‘Here.’ She grabbed an origami crane from the bunting and pushed it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Wipe your face. He’s coming.’

With the swiftness and expertise of a Hollywood actress, Charlotte snapped open the crane, swept the serviette across her face and turned to her husband with a soft, practised smile. ‘Hello, darling. Did you sleep well?’

Izzy fought the lure of sizzling bacon and waited until Oliver had walked out to the meadow, car keys jingling in his hand and phone to his ear, before joining Emily and Charlotte at the campfire. Her karma was off kilter enough without having to play along with more crap jokes and wife-belittlement. Maybe he was heading off to get Charlotte a present. A big one. ‘Hey, lay-deeez! Top of the morning to you!’

Emily jerked her head towards Charlotte who was weeping into the bacon sandwiches. ‘Izz. Do something. Say something.’

Oh, bums. Charlotte was crying. So why had Oliver just walked away as if nothing was going on?

‘Ummm … Happy birthday!?’

‘Thank you, Izzy. That is kind.’ Sniff. Wipe. Charlotte gave her head one of those quick shakes a person performed when they were hoping to look perfectly fine. It wasn’t entirely successful. ‘Bacon sandwich?’ She hastily loaded some bacon into a crusty roll then handed it to her.

Izzy took it and made a show of it being mmm-mmm, delicious, while Charlotte and Emily stared at her.

Wait a minute. Emily hadn’t spilled the beans about why she’d come back to the UK, had she? She’d promised.

‘Emily! Did you—’

‘No,’ Emily said through gritted teeth. ‘This is about Charlotte. Charlotte who’s got lots of feelings today.’

‘Charlotte Mayfield!’ Izzy planted her hands on her hips. ‘You aren’t being funny about turning forty, are you? You look amazing. Gorgeous. I want to be you when I grow up. Forty’s the new black.’ She kept spluttering platitudes until Emily cut her off.

‘Oliver’s cheating.’

Ah. She hadn’t expected that.

Then again, the man had felt her up at his own wedding.

‘Sorry. Sorry, girls.’ Charlotte swept away some tears then gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Honestly. It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but … I’m just going a bit mad is all. One minute I was frying bacon, happy as can be. The next I was bawling my eyes out and telling my least emotionally available friend – sorry Emily, you’re lovely, but we both know you’re not equipped for these sorts of histrionics, are you?’ Emily nodded. It was fine.

‘I’ve been like this for hours.’ Charlotte was on a roll. ‘All night actually. One minute I can’t bear the sight of him and the next I’m absolutely, positively sure I want nothing more than to devote my life to making our marriage better. He said he wants it to work. I want it to work. And then … all of a sudden … I don’t! It’s like being on one of those – those …’ She looked up to seek the best word, tears dripping off her chin.

‘Waltzers?’ offered Izzy. They’d once made Charlotte go on one and she’d never seen a human more pale.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Just like that.’

Clearly the memory hadn’t faded.

‘Okay. Right. Well, first of all, the man’s an idiot.’

Charlotte offered Izzy a forlorn smile through her tears. ‘Her name’s Xanthe.’

Izzy scoffed. ‘That’s a stupid name.’

‘It’s Greek, actually. She’s a junior partner at his law firm.’ Charlotte almost sounded wistful.

‘So? Anyone can become a lawyer. Monty’s a lawyer.’ They threw each other guilty looks. ‘No offence to Monty.’

‘She’s very pretty. Especially in a bikini.’

‘You’ve seen her poolside?’ Emily looked appalled.

‘Instagram,’ explained Charlotte.

They all nodded and quietly thought on the complex world of cyber-stalking.

‘She also might be pregnant.’

‘Oh!’ Izzy said in her upper register. That made things more complicated. ‘Ummm … Is there a plan?’

‘No, you na-na. She’s only just found out,’ Emily said.

‘Muuuuum! I’m starving.’

Charlotte’s son dropped onto a bench where he was clearly expecting to be served as Charlotte hastily wiped her face with … was that Freya’s origami bunting?

‘I’ll get a tray of sandwiches up in a minute, darling. Why don’t you go over to the kitchen tent and see if you can’t find the ketchup and brown sauce?’ Charlotte looked and sounded like a modern Doris Day. How did she do that?

‘Brown sauce?’ Jack made a vomit face. ‘Mother.’ He shuddered.

Charming.

He pointed at Izzy. ‘Why’s she got one then?’

Doubly charmed. Izzy resisted giving him a slap round the back of his head and telling him to pull his socks up because his mother had just found out his dad was a lying, cheating bastard.

‘Because she’s a guest, darling.’ Charlotte gave Izzy a sorrowful look. ‘With low blood sugar. It’s a condition.’

Gosh. Charlotte told a fib! Izzy tried to figure out the best way to look as if she had a condition when Emily cut in. ‘Go. Ketchup. Brown sauce. It’s your mother’s birthday.’

Wow. Guess no one had given Emily the memo about telling other people’s children what to do. Even so … Jack obeyed her.

‘Okay, Lotte. What do you want us to do?’ Izzy whispered as soon as he was out of earshot, noting that Oli, the bastard, still hadn’t left yet.

Charlotte ran her index fingers under her eyes to swipe away invisible mascara stains.

‘Well, there’s no plan really. Yes,’ she said abruptly straightening her spine. ‘There is a plan. It is to do nothing. Oliver reckons we’ll get through this. Just an early morning wobble is all. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m being a silly goose.’

‘What? About your husband having an affair?’

Charlotte nearly lost her composure.

‘No, of course not. He’s said he’s put a halt to it. That the pregnancy isn’t for sure. Most likely a lie to get him to choose between the two of us. That’s what all of these phone calls are for.’ She vaguely gestured out towards the meadow where Oli was, once again, jabbering away on his mobile. He caught Charlotte’s eye, pointed at Izzy’s sandwich, then at himself.

Dickhead.

‘It’ll be just a moment, darling. Izzy’s got low blood sugar!’

Izzy did a little wobbly knee move to make it look true.

‘Is that what you want? To carry on?’ Emily asked her.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte clapped her hands together decisively. ‘Now. If you two wouldn’t mind keeping this under your hats, I’d really appreciate it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to create such a fuss—’

Freya marched up to their group, mouth already open in ‘I’m about to give a speech’ mode. One of the children had probably messed up the recycling bins or some equally heinous crime.

Emily’s eyes silenced her.