Daisy Tate - The Happy Glampers

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. 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.

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. Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.

‘You, 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 dis honest, she simply wasn’t big into girlie weekends. There was always so much talking . And feelings . Definitely not her thing.