Читать книгу The Happy Glampers - Daisy Tate - Страница 10

When supper was finally ready, the children descended like locusts, making Charlotte’s efforts feel worthwhile. She’d always loved the hubbub of happy children. Even hers had cheered when Izzy revealed some genuine American marshmallows.

The children, having devoured most of the marshmallows, started to disappear from around the fire which, until food was put in front of him, Monty couldn’t seem to leave alone. Or Oli, for that matter. As if he who made the largest fire would come out as top man. Why on earth was Oliver still trying to prove he was the alpha male when he so obviously was? Charlotte’s concept of what made a real man snagged on the thought. Perhaps the fact Monty had enough pride and self-confidence to be a stay-at-home father did make him the stronger one of the two. She would bet any money in the world Monty wasn’t running around behind Freya’s back.

‘Oof! Charlotte.’ Izzy rubbed her flat-as-a-pancake belly. ‘That was amazing. Still hostess with the mostest!’

Hostess with the mostest secrets, Charlotte thought, giving herself an invisible pat on the back for not succumbing to the growing urge to tell her friends that her charming husband sought his carnal pleasures elsewhere. It had been on the tip of her tongue all evening.

‘Tomato sauce, Emily?’ Did you know I’ve not had sex with my husband since Christmas?

‘Pimm’s, Freya?’ The last time I tried to make love with him, he pushed me away.

‘Izzy, do have the last bit of burrata.’ How’s life as a single mum? Do you think I’d take to it?

‘Anyone care to finish these off?’ Charlotte held out the scant remains of their supper. A pair of odd-shaped sausages, a bit of over-charred potato with chorizo and some wilted salad leaves.

‘Would you look at that?’ Freya tipped her head towards the fire pit where Monty was now sound asleep on a broad slab of oak, tucked beneath one of the lovely National Trust rugs Whiffy had brought out. He was hugging his camera bag like a teddy bear. ‘Stamina of a gnat.’

Charlotte watched Freya examine her slumbering husband. It was difficult to read her expression. Half loving, half ‘oh, please’. Their banter was as bright as ever. Maybe a bit more bossy on Freya’s part, but … she was the breadwinner in the house, and if Charlotte’s home was anything to go by, the bill payer had free rein to comment on the failings of the non-earning person. Perhaps that was where she’d gone wrong. Literally making herself valueless.

‘He lasted longer than Callum.’ Emily flicked her eyes towards the yurt where her boyfriend had disappeared after announcing he was exhausted after a ‘savage week on the ward’. Mind you, Emily hadn’t actually introduced him as her boyfriend. Just said, ‘And this is Callum, the hospital’s answer to Dr Kildare.’ The two of them seemed to have a little joke at this, which was sweet … but he did seem a bit … theatrical. ‘He seems lovely. Your Callum.’ Charlotte pushed the remains of the cheese tray towards Emily.

‘Ha! He’s definitely not “mine”.’ Emily picked up a grape and stared at it. ‘The man does as he chooses.’ When she realized everyone was looking at her with raised eyebrows, she qualified. ‘As do I. Obviously.’

‘Amen to that.’ Freya sat up straight. ‘I find a lot of the mums at the school treat me very differently to the other mums, but that they simple adore Monty. Make a huge fanfare out of things he does – like getting the children to school on time – that the other mums get tuppence for. When I point it out? They all flock to his defence.’

Emily gave her a sideways look. ‘I was just saying we’re our own people. Open and honest. Nothing to make a big deal about.’

Izzy gave Emily a stagey nudge. ‘Yes. It’s good to be open and honest with the people we love, isn’t it?’

Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why, yes, Isabelle. It is good to be open and honest with the people we love.’

Freya snorted, then pretended she hadn’t. ‘Are you two still doing that weird “saying meaningful stuff in front of us without spelling it out” thing?’

‘No,’ they both said tightly.

Freya drained her wine glass and extracted herself from the picnic table, announcing an urgent need for more Sancerre.

Charlotte gave Emily and Izzy a curious look. Were they hiding things? Not that she was judging. She’d been hiding things all night.

As if on cue, Oli strode out of the kitchen tent where he’d been muttering away on his mobile.

He shut off his phone and sauntered over towards the women. Charlotte noticed that his natural swagger was exaggerated to the point of outright arrogance by the amount of booze he’d put away, both at The Golden Goose and here.

‘Here she is, the birthday girl. Well done, darling. Did the meal transport you back to the good old days as expected? Burnt bangers and charred burgers hit the spot for everyone?’

Charlotte squirmed. What an odd way to make her feel good about herself. Mocking her Northern simplicity. She was certain the tzatziki had covered up any dryness the burgers might have suffered on the grill. And the griddled potato and chorizo had been devoured. Putting in that touch of sherry had made a difference.

‘Have you lot had Charlotte’s Yorkies? Best thing to come out of Yorkshire, if you ask me.’ Oli just missed covering up a belch. ‘Apart from Charlotte, of course.’

‘Your wife can rustle up a MasterChef meal on a hotplate. I’ve seen it.’ Freya gave him a curt nod and handed him the bottle and the corkscrew. ‘Here. Why don’t you make yourself useful?’

Charlotte caught the glint of a challenge in his eye. ‘Of course!’ He grunted as he deftly extracted the cork and handed Freya the bottle with a pointed, ‘The perfect little woman, my Charlotte. Maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen and whore in the bedroom, right love?’ He leant back and barked a solitary ha!, pleased with his own daring. Charlotte failed to hide her cringe, her eyes darting round the table, hoping no one noticed the sharp look Oli shot her when his joke fell flat. How quickly he must have forgotten how, just a few hours earlier, he had been pleading her, with actual tears in his eyes, to forgive him. Take him back. Continue to love him and keep their family whole. It was the only thing he wanted, he’d said. She was the only thing he wanted. Somehow, she wasn’t entirely convinced that was true.

‘You’re a lucky man to have your very own K-Midd,’ Emily said, holding out her glass for more wine. ‘The power behind the throne.’

‘And the brains.’ Izzy gave Oli one of those ‘just try and contradict me’ looks she’d learned from her mother. Charlotte had always been a bit intimidated by Izzy’s mother. As, she supposed, she had been of Oli. Which was an awful thing to realize. Maybe she should have refused his offer to try and work things out. Instead of accepting gratefully, she could have nodded benignly and said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve made your bed, Oliver. Now off you go. Lie in it.’ As if she’d ever have the courage.

Freya was about to say something else but Charlotte gave her head a quick ‘please don’t’ shake.

She knew she should be grateful to her friends for attempting to burst his little bubble, but all she could feel was the hot embarrassment of shame at the situation, at Oliver, and mostly at herself. How had she managed to end up like this? No self-esteem, no respect, and – potentially – no husband.

‘Well, this is all lovely, the old gang together, thick as thieves like always.’ Oliver put the emphasis on ‘thick’ and Charlotte felt the colour rise to her face. She’d never embarrass him in front of his friends.

Oli yawned and stretched. ‘Wonderful as all this is, how about some coffee, and possibly a nightcap, Charlotte?’ His request felt suspiciously like an order, but desperate to end this particular horror show, she was about to acquiesce when Freya made a ‘no you don’t’ cluck.

‘Sit back down, Lotts. It’s your birthday.’ She shot a look at Oli then said, ‘You’re to be waited on hand and foot this weekend. Sit.’ She climbed out of her spot on the picnic bench and playfully, but firmly, admonished Oli. ‘Lavish your wife with affection.’

Charlotte flushed again. Oli didn’t take to being told what to do, and getting him to lavish anything on her other than disapproval at this point was as likely as Elton John turning up and bashing out ‘Happy Birthday to You’.

A tinny-sounding tune vibrated in Oliver’s pocket. Charlotte thought it sounded a lot like Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’. He tugged his phone out, quickly silenced it, then shoved it back in again. Was it her? Was that their song? She almost wanted to laugh. Filthy and annoying. A bit like him.

He turned towards the tree house, mouthing, ‘Business. Sorry.’ Her friends stared at Oliver’s retreating figure with ill-disguised horror.

‘Not to worry,’ she said in too high a voice. ‘He’s always a bit like this when he’s working on a big deal.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘Besides,’ she tacked on as brightly as she could, ‘if he didn’t work so hard, I wouldn’t get lovely treats like this.’

She waved her hands expansively at the scene around them, at the detritus from the evening; then, as if Oli had snipped the marionette strings that held up her wrists, her hands dropped to the table top with a small thud.

Freya caught eyes with Izzy. For once they could agree on something. Oli was being an arse. The splinters of hurt splicing through Charlotte’s cheery demeanour as her husband disappeared up into the tree house were painful to watch.

It was a super-big ‘ouch’ in an evening that had been increasingly filled with Awkward Oliver Moments. Not that he’d been anything less than charming in his trademark way. A bit of locker-room humour, a bit of bantz and teasing in that slightly juvenile, slightly bullying public-schoolboy way of his.

Everyone’s awkwardness spoke volumes. None of them had ever really taken to Oli. Apart from Charlotte, obviously, so they’d all made allowances. Laughed at his terrible jokes and tried to ignore his privileged egotism. When he’d proposed, they’d all figured if the nicest human in the world loved him, then he couldn’t be all that bad. Hidden depths and all that. But this time there was something else at play, something more … cutting.

‘Guess I’d best clear up for the big day, then.’ Charlotte half stood. ‘Perhaps bring Oli up a coffee.’

The three women exchanged brief ‘WTF’ looks with each other and all rose to help.

Izzy picked up the stray food platter while Emily cleared up the unused cutlery. Freya shooed Charlotte away from the stovetop coffee percolator and made a show of topping up Charlotte’s wine glass whilst lavishing her with praise about the glampsite, the meal, her outfit. When the coffee was ready, Freya ran it up to Oli but didn’t bother waiting for him to answer the door. The soft murmuring tones she’d heard before she’d knocked hadn’t sounded anything like a business call.

Once they’d sat back round the picnic table, an awkward silence settled around them, which Freya was the first to break.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, hen?’ she asked Charlotte quietly. When Freya reached out to touch her hand, Charlotte looked as if she was about to break. A kind word or a hug could push her over the edge. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Oli’s just had a few too many, that’s all.’ She popped on a bright smile.

Freya wasn’t convinced, but! As Monty would say, it was her party, so no point pressing if she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Let’s sort out this bunting crisis, shall we?’ Freya started folding little 3D dresses, robins and hearts out of the unused serviettes.

Izzy plucked a serviette off the pile. ‘Show me?’

‘Give us a stack.’ Emily made pincing movements with her hand until Charlotte handed her some of the polka-dotted napkins, then took some for herself.

Under Freya’s instruction, the women listened, learnt, folded. ‘I’m just going to nip out and find some twine or string for these,’ Charlotte said. When she came back from the car where she had indeed found a ball of green twine, her eyes were rimmed red.

Izzy was officially fuming on Charlotte’s behalf. What a bastard. How dare he make Charlotte feel small? Her mother’s poet voice came to her, rich and strong: The instinct of man is to oppress. It was why Izzy’s mum had never married. She’d always said she didn’t care if the caged bird sang. The free one did, too. And without fear of a blanket being thrown over its head.

Izzy looked up to the tree house where a battery-powered lantern lit up the windows.

How had Oli gone from the husband she’d last seen at Freya and Monty’s wedding – a bit grabby, but still proudly boastful of Charlotte and their little ones – to a man who barely bothered disguising his lack of respect for her. And her mates, for that matter. As if they were B-grade guests versus the A-listers invited for ‘the real do’ tomorrow.

Charlotte had been so ridiculously in love when they’d married. A true Cinderella story, with Jimmy Choos standing in for glass slippers. They’d all been thrilled for her, if not slightly perplexed that she wanted them to be her bridesmaids in lieu of her new set of friends. Except for Freya, they’d not really stayed in touch. Either way, they’d all been excited. Perhaps it had been the promise of a swanky reception. It definitely hadn’t been the dreadful, flouncy, lavender bridesmaid dresses. Freya had tried her best to zshuzsh them up, but Charlotte’s mother-in-law had put a shockingly swift end to ‘those shenanigans’. Charlotte’s mother-in-law was a society girl from a bygone era. There were rules. They were meant to be obeyed.

Perhaps that was what had happened. Too many rules.

Izzy wasn’t very good with rules. But she was good with loyalty, and she wanted to put a smile back on Charlotte’s face.

Freya moved the huge pile of serviette bunting to the side, throwing a quick glance over at Monty who was still sound asleep. ‘And you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing we can do to help tonight?’

‘Honestly, most of it’s taken care of,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘Oli’s booked caterers, servers, everything. We’ve even sorted things for the vegans.’ She gasped and paled. ‘Oh, Freya. I didn’t force you into eating meat tonight, did I? I know we did a few vegetable kebabs, but I kept pushing everyone to eat the sausages.’

‘Not to worry.’ Freya gave one of her Mother Earth smiles. ‘We did go veggie for a bit, but now we get boxes from an organic farm out in Berkshire. Grass fed, free range, massaged on a daily basis. That sort of thing.’

Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘It really was lovely of you all to make the effort to come early. The big do was Oli’s idea, but mostly I wanted to see you girls. Catch up on your news.’

‘Which perfectly leads us to the question on everybody’s mind,’ Freya said, rather grandly.

Emily glanced behind her, as if the question was tiptoeing in from the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. ‘What question?’

Poor Emms. She hated questions. Her mother relentlessly peppered her with them. It had been the only reason Emily had been allowed a phone at uni. So that her mother could send texts demanding updates on her daughter’s academic progress and promises of sexual abstinence. Polar opposite to her mum. There’d been times Izzy had been quite jealous of Emily and her mum. There’d been times when she’d been jealous of each and every one of them. Even Little Miss I’m Still Jelly That You Shagged My Husband sitting across from her. Freya topped up her glass again. Maybe she should slow down on her one-woman attempt to drink all of Oli’s fancy wine.

‘Right! What’s this question of yours then, Freya?’

Freya sat up straighter, as if psyching herself up, then asked in one of those ‘not at all casual but meant to be’ tones, ‘How did Luna come into your life, Izz?’

‘The usual way.’ She almost pointed to her lady garden, but as Charlotte was there she made a bulging tummy gesture instead.

‘And the father is?’ Freya’s eyes jumped between hers and Emily’s, rightly suspecting that Emily already knew.

Emily shrugged. She was the best liar.

Izzy was less gifted, so she threw Freya a smattering of facts. ‘He was a surfer. Surprise surprise. We met in Morocco. He was a bit of a player. I found out I was pregnant after he’d left to chase some waves in Bali and … that’s about it.’

Freya, strangely, looked rather relieved. As if the fact that Luna was the product of a one-night stand in Morocco had settled a bet she’d made with herself.

‘Do you know his name?’ Charlotte asked, just a tiny bit horrified.

‘Course! It’s a bit dorky, though. Sounds much better in his accent.’

‘Oh!’ Charlotte clapped, her eyes softening. ‘He’s foreign. I always thought that would be so exotic. To have a husband with an accent.’

‘And his name is …?’

‘Alfred.’

‘Oh!’

The table fell silent. Like she’d said. Dorky.

‘Did you ever see him again? The father?’

She shook her head no. She had actually. From a distance. At a surfing festival on Maui, where pretty much everyone but her and Alf had been in their twenties and high as a kite. He hadn’t seen her. Or Luna. One look at those eyes and he would’ve known. They were his. All his. If she’d known then what she knew today, she just might have braved it, but … regrets and all that.

‘I think he’s back in Denmark. Not a hundred per cent sure.’

She was. She’d googled him. Once a year she let herself, on Luna’s birthday. Her way of checking in. It had taken a few years, but he was back in Denmark, behaving like a responsible adult. Just as her own father had when her mother had shooed him out the door to return to his wife and children in Sweden. Anyhoo …

She faked a massive yawn. ‘Ladies, I am afraid I am going to have to turn in. I still haven’t shaken the jet lag, so if you don’t mind?’

They all said they didn’t, though it was easy to see Charlotte and Freya wished she’d told them more. Just before she got up, she felt Emily’s hand creep into her lap and grab her hand for a quick squeeze.

The gesture spoke volumes. I love you. I’m glad you’re here. One day you’re going to have to tell them.

Soon enough she’d tell them, but tonight? Tonight she was totally happy to let everyone think she was the same ol’ Dizzy Izzy.