Читать книгу You Make Me Feel Like Glamping - Daisy Tate - Страница 9

Bunting.

Charlotte could’ve kicked herself. How could she have forgotten the bunting? It definitely wasn’t in the car. She’d checked three times on the way to Sittingstone. The same three times she’d pulled into lay-bys to ‘check directions’. Her children hadn’t commented that the Land Rover’s sat-nav was in the front of the car rather than the boot. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice the slight edge of pink round her eyes. Yes, it was all there bar the bunting. The cool boxes, the wellies, the cake. The same placid smile, the same pale pink lipstick and, of course, the same sensible, ash-blonde mum do she’d had three hours earlier when Oliver had ripped her world in two.

A real stalwart, her hairstyle. Not so much the husband.

At least he’d offered to drive to West Sussex separately to give her some space to absorb his news. Not over-generous given the move was tactical. What better way to avoid seeing her normally composed exterior crack into fractals of disbelief? Absence worked a treat when Oliver wanted to prevent a scene.

As if she’d ever cause a scene.

He really should know her better by now. He should know a lot of things. As, she supposed, should she.

So she started the car, followed the signs, and sped along the motorway as if she could outdrive the fact her marriage might not last the day.

An hour later, as the Discovery crackled over the gravel at the entrance to the Sittingstone Estate, Charlotte’s heart lifted. The castle was every bit as wonderful as it looked on the internet. The stone structure soared up into the bright blue sky with full Tudor Gothic grandeur. The remains of the first castle – a fortress, really – was a stunning tumble of stone over by the lake, whilst this one – the family seat – dominated a small hill. A truly resplendent calendar house. One pane of glass for each day of the year, fifty-two rooms, seven entrances and four, very grand, storeys. There were sprawling lawns, a blooming rose garden and lashings of wisteria shifting in the light breeze like … bunting.

With a home like this, thought Charlotte, the lord and lady of the manor must know their way around a bell tent.

Her wedding ring caught the light as she turned the car down the long, shaded avenue signposted for the glampsite. Ridiculous, oversized thing. Had she been so blinded by its beauty all those years ago that she’d been unable to see what her future held? Worse perhaps. She hadn’t wanted to see it. If she’d just opened her eyes she would have noticed the horrid predictability of it all spooling out in front of her. Too many golfing weekends. A pied à terre in London. A keenness to slog it out over yet another client contract. An affair with a junior partner. It was all so obvious it was almost gauche. How could he? And to find out on this weekend. The one solitary weekend she’d hoped to show off her life to her dearest friends. Another fissure of humiliation cracked open as she thumbed the solitaire palmside.

She glanced into the rear-view mirror to the back seat where her children remained blissfully unaware of any discord. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed with Oli when he’d decided, for the pair of them, that bothering the children with the ‘whole silly mess’ would be the wrong thing to do. Fair enough for the weekend, but they weren’t innocent babes in arms. They were young adults. Young adults who knew having an affair was the wrong thing to do.

She looked into the mirror again. Two bent heads. Two sets of noise-cancelling headsets. Hardly a word passed between them the entire journey. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps, like Oli, they too had tired of her. Bundling them into the car today, you’d’ve thought she was slinging them into Guantanamo rather than putting them up in a five-star yurt. She was doubly horrified to catch Oli slipping them fifty quid each to play along. Perhaps falling completely to bits would add an element of surprise to their predictable parent–child relationship.

Not that she’d know how. The one thing she could confidently pride herself on was her control. And her ability to tidy up. So. Two things, really. Two things she liked about herself.

She glanced at her children again, completely oblivious to the estate’s glorious setting.

One weekend with her friend’s children rather than their mates, she silently groused. Was that so big an ask? To talk with someone for a change? Play a board game instead of devoting all of their attention to their phones?

She pulled into the empty car park, remembering the Easter holidays when she’d caught Poppy Snapchatting with a friend at the dinner table rather than actually speaking to one another. She’d applied the ‘no phones at dinner’ line but Oli had thought it hilarious, instantly undermining what little authority she clung to on that front. Yet another layer of parental failure to heap on all the others.

Before climbing down from the car, she guiltily closed the search engine on her own phone. Googling her husband’s not-so-new fancy woman in lay-bys probably hadn’t been the best way to salve her wounds.

After one more scan in the boot for the bunting, Charlotte’s eyes fell on the shiny new shoebox. A ridiculous pair of cream-coloured canvas Diors that Oli had given her for ‘being so reasonable.’ She hadn’t been able to bring herself to put them on. In all honesty, she didn’t want a pair of completely impractical shoes, even if it was her fortieth. Technically, she’d tick that box tomorrow, but he’d suggested she treat the entire weekend as her birthday, seeing as he’d cast a shadow on things.

Shadow? More like an apocalypse, obliterating sixteen years of her very nearly perfect life. Other than that? He was right. A jolly birthday weekend was exactly what she needed. What else could crush the urge to lash out at him with his pointless shoes and ask him over and over again, Why? Why, when I’ve been so true to you?

She left the shoes untouched. The Charlotte Mayfield she’d taught herself to be kept the peace, put on a brave face, and didn’t – wouldn’t – spoil it for anyone else. Later, quietly and privately, she’d sift through the wreckage and see what was left. Then, perhaps, she’d wear the Diors through a particularly fetid puddle.

She tapped on the side door and gestured for her son, Jack, to open the window.

‘Darlings. How ’bout you pop out and give me a hand unpacking the boot?’

Charlotte’s blonde, blue-eyed son – a picture of his father if ever there was one – looked at her with a stony expression. ‘Mum. I’m knackered. I’ve been at school. All. Week.’ He abruptly changed tack (another Oli trick). ‘You do it best anyway. We’d only get it wrong.’ She looked across to where her daughter Poppy sat staring out of the opposite window, avoiding her gaze and looking glum. Nothing.

‘You’re right. It’ll be easier on my own,’ she chirped, too brightly. ‘You two can have a wander around the site, how about that?’ Jack rolled his eyes and Poppy continued to ignore her. Charlotte pushed down the knot of anxiety in her stomach. She’d absolutely adored being a mother when they were little. The only time she’d felt pure, unconditional love. She’d thought she’d felt it when she and Oli were first married, but she’d been wrong. It was being a mum that had felt right. A chance to give her children the childhood she’d only dreamt of having. Teens, it turned out, were harder to please. Yes, better and quicker to do this bit herself. Her family had never really understood her systems. Her family, she was beginning to fear, had never really understood her at all.

Charlotte felt the knot surge up into her throat where it threatened to erupt into a sob. She took a deep breath, easing it back down into place. There was a party to organize. Something she was very good at, despite the lack of bunting.

So! She began loading up her arms. Anytime now her friends would be arriving and she’d be taking her first stab at behaving as if everything was perfectly perfect. Friends she’d admittedly lost touch with over the years but, if she was being really honest, Freya, Emily and Izzy were the closest friends she’d ever had. And they were her friends rather than the guests who came with Oli’s stamp of approval. That was a bridge she wasn’t quite ready to cross.

Cake tins up to her chin, she headed towards the ‘Starlight Tucker Tent’. The vast open-sided kitchen and lounge area didn’t, as advertised, have a view of the sky, but she supposed landed gentry could call their idyllic glampsite features whatever they fancied. The plus side, she supposed, of being born to ‘shoulder the burden of their forebears’.

Burden or not, the Sittingstone Glampsite was everything she’d hoped it would be. Three yurts, a pair of bell tents, and the tree house. The air smelt of warm meadow grass. The sky was a pure, deep blue. She couldn’t have asked for a better bank holiday weekend. Apart from the whole adulterous-husband thing.

Relishing the unexpected cool under the canvas-roofed structure, she unloaded her tins onto the butcher’s block made out of an old cable spool. If they’d been alive, or invited, her parents would’ve howled with derision. Cast-offs from the sparky? Get off!

Charlotte gave her head a little shake. Her parents had been masters of mocking the haves on behalf of the have-nots. Though they’d been gone some five years now – her father from a heart attack, her mother not long after when pneumonia forced her to pick between alcohol and antibiotics – she could still hear their commentary about her own life choices, the thick Sheffield accent piercing right through to the quick of things. Serves you bloody right for thinking you were better than everyone else. Which, of course, stopped her from pulling out her iPhone and triple-checking the status on her Ocado delivery.

Instead she marched purposefully back to the Land Rover after commandeering a rather fetching lavender-coloured wheelbarrow called ‘Felicity’ and continued to unload the car.

A while later, Jack sloped into the kitchen and waved his phone at her. ‘Muuuum. Dad’s texted.’

‘Oh?’ She’d thought he might back out entirely. Leave her to save face on her own.

‘He’s checking out the pub up in the village. “Taste-testing the local brew”.’

‘Oh! Right. Well.’ That was something. She popped the sausages she’d picked up from her favourite farm shop in the pristine, empty refrigerator.

‘Muuuum. There’s nothing to do here.’

‘Of course there is, Jack.’ She reached out to give him a hug, but he’d already walked away to examine some board games tucked up on a high shelf. He’d outgrow his father in a year or so.

He dropped the boxes onto a table with a despondent groan. Monopoly and the like had clearly outgrown their lustre. Goodness. If Charlotte had been brought to a place like this for a bank holiday weekend at their age she would’ve thought she’d died and gone to heaven! Her children were behaving as if they’d been asked to weekend in the bowels of purgatory.

‘How about going down to the river?’

‘Pffft.’ The ‘no clue what fifteen-year-old boys liked to do’ variety. ‘I wish this place had clay shooting. Or quad bikes. Why didn’t you pick the Alps or something interesting for your birthday? Did you know Jago’s mum and dad booked, like, a whole island in the Caribbean for their wedding anniversary?’

‘How lovely.’ Perhaps Jago’s mum and dad were happily married and not bothered about silly messes like mistresses who may or may not be pregnant. That little gem had slipped out in the end. When Oli was telling her just how little the affair had meant and how much he’d like for them to find a way to make their marriage work despite the pregnancy.

Despite the pregnancy!

He’d back-pedalled. Said he wasn’t sure, really. Or was it that Xanthe didn’t know if she was going to keep it? The roar of blood in her brain had made it difficult to hear.

Xanthe.

The name tasted of bile. And inexplicably gave her the giggles.

‘Mum! I’m starving.’

Charlotte’s daughter Poppy, the definition of a blossoming English rose, dramatically collapsed onto one of the benches at the far end of the tent, clutching her stomach. ‘This place is like, a total wilderness! Can you make me a toastie?’ Her eyes lit on the tins. ‘Is that cake?’

‘Cake’s for tomorrow, duck—’ she tripped over the Yorkshire-ism and landed on a rather garbled ‘darling’. ‘How about a biscuit?’ She opened up a tin of homemade custard creams. Poppy made a vomit face.

Always nice to know her efforts were appreciated.

She checked her watch. Nearly three o’clock and still no Ocado delivery. ‘Here.’ She rustled in one of the cool boxes. ‘Why don’t you have an apple?’

Jack made a face. ‘There’s a tuck shop or something by the car park. They’ll have something good.’

Charlotte protested as Poppy dived into her handbag. Hadn’t their father just given them bribe money? When her daughter unearthed a twenty and clapped her hands she looked away. At least she had the money to spare. But would she always?

What if she and Oli couldn’t iron everything out and carry on as normal? What if he chose this possibly pregnant lover over the family he claimed to adore? It was common enough. Trading in an old model for a new one. Regretting it when it was far too late to make amends. She had tacked on that last bit. It was nothing Oli had actually said, as such.

After the children reluctantly agreed to check out their bell tent, she scanned the kitchen area – artfully battered pans, flame-licked Le Creuset casseroles, towers of mismatched china – then pictured all of the washing up that fifty-odd people (forty of whom Oliver had invited ‘to make it feel like a real party’) would create. Perhaps having the caterers was a good idea. The hog roast, though. Wasn’t everybody a vegan now? Charlotte hadn’t been sure, but Oli had insisted, and with him footing the bill she hadn’t felt able to protest.

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.