Daisy Tate - The Happy Glampers

‘Darling!’ Verity swept in. ‘Don’t you look sweet in that little … that’s not Zara, is it? I’m sure I saw one of the other girls wearing the exact same one. My goodness .’ Verity gave her a dry peck on the cheek then pursed her taupe lips as she scanned the area, her eyes stopping and stalling at Freya’s serviette bunting. ‘It all looks so—’

‘Wonderful!’ Charlotte’s father-in-law, Nigel, bustled his wife out of the way, planting the obligatory kisses first on one cheek and then the other. He always smelled of pipe tobacco and leather, though she’d never seen him come in contact with either. ‘The place looks ripping. Hope you don’t mind, love, but Verity didn’t want to mess with the hoi polloi on the bus so we’ve got a driver in tow. You wouldn’t mind sparing him a sandwich or something, would you?’

Charlotte didn’t get a chance to answer as a second stream of guests from the Sussex Schooner, as Oli insisted on calling it, arrived from the car park. They all seemed quite jolly for so early in the day. It was only just noon.

‘Brilliant idea with the champers, doll.’ A friend from Oli’s golf club purred into her ear as she went through the motions. Kiss. Kiss. Half hug. Smile. ‘Is that Zara? I have the same one! My goodness. It’s all very rustic out here, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what I was saying, darling!’ Verity had a knack for pouncing on moments to prove she’d been right. ‘Look at you! Now, that’s what I call a party frock.’

Whether Charlotte wanted it to or not, the flow of people coming off the bus swept her into the role of hostess for a party she’d not entirely wanted to have.

She looked up and smiled at the long strings of decoration above her. At least she had her bunting.

An hour later she felt as if her head was spinning. Perhaps she should’ve eaten something before letting all of those leather-aproned serving staff fill up her glass. She went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and escape the sun for a moment, only to find Poppy curled up in a corner of a sofa, thumbing away at her phone.

‘Hello, darling. Everything all right?’

Poppy’s eyes shot out to a crowd of teens playing Giant Jenga. Jack was clearly the ringleader, egging everyone on to have a go. Freya’s two were a short way off showing Luna how to play Connect Four.

Poppy looked back at her phone and shrugged.

Charlotte examined the group a bit more closely. She was sure she recognized a couple of girls from the children’s boarding school. Ella and Maisie, was it? She’d definitely seen Maisie’s mum. A rather brisk woman who never bored of letting everyone know how terrifically busy she was with her organic energy ball business now that Nestlé were interested in snapping it up.

‘Isn’t that Maisie out there? And Ella? Don’t you want to be with the group?’

Poppy’s mouth screwed up tight to the left-hand side of her mouth. A nervous habit that Verity regularly tried to discourage. Charlotte preferred not to mention it as she’d always found her own mother’s rebukes doubled her humiliation and her need to seek comfort from it. Nail biting had been hers.

‘They’re having enough fun without me there to ruin it.’

Oh. Now this didn’t sound good.

Charlotte sat down beside her, resisting the urge to pull her into one of the cuddles they’d so enjoyed when she was a little girl. Poppy had become a big fan of space since she’d started at this new boarding school that Oli had insisted would be the making of them.

‘I thought the three of you were friends.’

‘No, Mum!’ Poppy spat. ‘We’re not friends. Typical you. Seeing what you want to see instead of seeing exactly what’s in front of your face! Can’t you see they’re only nice to me because of Jack?’

When she saw the dismay on Charlotte’s face, she crumpled as quickly as she’d roared. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I don’t mean to shout at you on your birthday.’

This time Charlotte did put her arms round her daughter. Stiff shoulders and all. The poor love. Feeling she was playing second fiddle to her brother. How awful. Who knew if it was true? Girls could be so difficult at that age. So complex.

She’d hated being a teen. All of the changes that had come with it. And not just the physical ones. The new schools. New cliques. New friends to invent when she needed to escape her parents’ flat. She’d been so dreadfully shy and her school had been particularly awful. Bullies. Truants. Gangs. Charlotte had always thought of the life they gave their children as a godsend. Not a well-heeled copy of her own.

Poppy eventually ducked out of the hug, loosening yet more hair out of her thick, fishtail plait. She looked more little girl than blossoming thirteen-year-old. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry. I’ve probably got my period coming or something.’

She tried to protest, but Poppy held up a hand that distinctly said No , grabbed a couple of canapés off the counter and slipped away into the crowd. She was right. Now wasn’t the time. Just as it wasn’t the time to tell Oli she was up to the challenge. She wanted to raise their children together. For their marriage to work. She wanted her family. Even if it meant constantly treading water to keep it.

Charlotte cringed as the calls for a speech grew louder. It had been mortifying enough opening her presents in front of everyone. The gifts had been lovely, of course. Freya’s lace-edged serviettes made from Irish linen were beautiful. There’d been no need to confess they were seconds. Izzy had bought her a delicate necklace with a starfish on it. Her favourite sea animal. And Emily had given her a Brora cardigan she already had plans to move into for the autumn. Together they had bought her membership to the Royal Academy of Arts. She’d nearly wept at the thoughtfulness. It had been so long since she’d been to a gallery. Oli found art appreciation tedious at best.

Amazing to think how many years it had been since they’d properly seen one another and yet how perfectly her friends still knew her.

She stared at the gifts on the table. The children had given her a handbag she knew for a fact her mother-in-law had selected because it was bright blue, a colour Charlotte had never favoured. Poppy had tucked a couple of her favourite sanitizing gels into the side pocket, which was thoughtful. The rest of the gifts were … nice. She wasn’t ungrateful, but couldn’t help feeling that the guests had been generous in the way one might be to a maiden aunt who only came down from her poky cottage in the Lake District for Christmas. A spiralizer. A leather-bound journal. Quite a few organic soaps and lotions. She already had the book on hygge and was fairly certain she’d seen the Christmas ornaments at one of the school’s silent auctions a year or so back.

It was extraordinary how little the people she saw every day of her life knew her. Was it because there wasn’t much to know? She always agreed with Oli. Rarely put her foot down about anything as one of the school governors. She was the tea-maker, really. Had no opinion on current events. What little news she was aware of she read in Waitrose Weekend . Not exactly a paper with its finger on the world’s political pulse.

Perhaps it was her fault Oliver had strayed. Xanthe did seem terrifically interesting, if her Instagram posts were anything to go by.

Her eyes moved over to the small velvet box placed in prime position on the gift table. It was from the jeweller’s in Sittingstone village, so his errand this morning must have been to collect it. She didn’t know whether to feel hurt it had been so last minute or pleased he’d remembered at all.