Daisy Tate - The Happy Glampers

Emily made a show of assessing each of them before abruptly unleashing that sly-dog, hard-won smile of hers. ‘Well, thanks very much, ladies!’

‘For what?’ Charlotte looked perplexed.

‘For telling me we didn’t have to dress like Ray Mears.’

Laughing, Emily clapped her hands together with a decisive crack, then brandished two condensation-covered bottles of fizz that she’d pulled from her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s get this pre-party party started!’

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.