Daisy Tate - The Happy Glampers

Callum laughed appreciatively. ‘Sounds like the sort of person who should’ve stayed in Bristol.’

Emily shoved her chunky fringe out of her eyes. Good point. But London was a bit like Oz back in the day. Going to uni then moving to London was simply what you did. Their lot anyway. Except, of course, Izzy. ‘I think the plan was to be some sort of couture artist, but she has a shop in Camden now.’

‘Selling?’

Clothes that were a far cry from the unbelievably beautiful dresses she had once made out of flower petals, but … daisy-chain tutus weren’t exactly everyday wear. ‘Slogan T-shirts.’

Callum looked at her blankly.

‘You know. The kind that say “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m a Unicorn” or “hashtagI’mWithHer”.’

A smile lit up Callum’s face. ‘You should have one that says “Glamping Queen”.’

He laughed so hard the car lurched and ground to a halt.

‘Listen, mate, if I get the slightest hint that there are nasty insects or a compost loo anywhere near this so-called “glamorous” bell tent we’re in, you’re taking me to a Hilton.’

‘Well, someone’s certainly looking forward to seeing her nearest and dearest girlfriends of days gone by.’

She was. Oh, she definitely was. And she also really wasn’t.

‘Just as a point of interest, they might also think you’re my boyfriend. Just go with it.’

She ignored the pointed look and unfurled her index finger towards the glampsite. ‘Onward, James.’

Fuck it.

Was there nothing that would stop the hounds of insecurity baying at Freya’s door? At least Charlotte had finally given her a job. Chopping. Chopping was good. These would be the best carrot, pepper and celery batons the world had ever seen.

Tuning out Izzy’s oohing and aahing as she peered into all the cake tins, Freya selected a glossy red pepper and chopped it in half in one fluid, surgical move. It felt good. But not good enough. Were there enough crudités here to pound out the jealousy she was still feeling over Izzy and Monty?

Logic dictated she should be grateful. Logic seemed to be taking a bit of a holiday.

Sure. If Izzy hadn’t brought him home and had Very Loud Sex with him over that fortnight, she and Monty never would have met. He’d been unceremoniously dumped but had still popped up at the odd party because Izzy had pronounced him good fun if not boyfriend material. When their paths had crossed again at that massive anti-Gulf War march, kismet , Freya had thought. Kismet. But the truth was, fate had nothing to do with it. Her cupid was Izzy.

She chopped so hard she gave herself a crick in her neck. Idiot. Monty loved her . He’d chosen her . They had two chestnut-haired, blue-eyed children to prove it. Their lives were exactly what they’d hoped for. They didn’t need nods from the couture houses or an Amal Clooney-esque track record of human rights triumphs to know they were still in love. That had been the original plan, but … life. At least they were still doing their bit for the planet.

Chop.

Just because, unlike Charlotte, she and Monty had done everything the wrong way round, didn’t mean she needed to be insecure about it.

First came love. They’d got that part right. Then came the double-wide baby carriage. Then, once they’d given in to Monty’s father’s extremely unsubtle offer to pay for a reception at their local in Gloucestershire, marriage.

In the lead-up to their wedding, the twins had been toddlers. Two year olds into everything. It all began to flood back as if it were happening right now. The endless stream of nappies. The panic about primary schools. A ridiculous need to prove to all of their friends that they were still up for throwing one hell of a party. The bone-crushing fatigue.

Freya had had no energy beyond caring for her children, making on-trend T-shirts and getting her family’s bills paid. There hadn’t been extra energy for rolls in the hay. Or money for a nursery or a nanny. Monty had told her it didn’t matter. The job at Human Rights Watch would’ve paid less than it would’ve cost to hire someone to look after the kids, so … Looking after them at that juncture hadn’t meant to be permanent, more … a means to an end. Only there didn’t seem to be an end. Maybe Izzy’s reappearance was a sign that change was afoot. Of good things to come? Or a harbinger of doom?

Chop.

It came to her clear as day. Monty was going to leave her. No wonder he’d run off to have a pint with Oliver. She’d hollered instructions after him as if he were a teenaged boy, not a man. If she were in his shoes, she’d run away. With Izzy, for example. Now that she was back. Izzy was beautiful. Carefree. Freya was the opposite of carefree. She was … pernickety. A bossy, pernickety, purveyor of so-so unicorn T-shirts.

Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop.

‘All right there, woman?’ Izzy sidled up to Freya and hip-bumped her at just the wrong moment. Freya was about to snap at her when Izzy leant in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘So good to see you. You look bloody brilliant. Still keeping Monty on his toes?’

… and breathe.

‘Brilliant T-shirt, Frey.’ Izzy pointed at it with a slice of red pepper. ‘Love the skunk and grenade motif. Is that a Banksy-inspired take on conflict? A “war stinks” kind of thing?’

Prickles of frustration crackled through her. The T-shirt was one of her favourites. And, yes, it was inspired by Banksy. Not that she would ever admit as much. ‘I thought it was a bit more subtle than that. More along the lines that the artist’s role in nonviolent protest is critical to bringing about change.’ She sniffed.

‘It’s cute.’ Izzy plopped the dips into a pair of glossy green bowls without waiting for Charlotte’s decision.

Typical Izzy. Just ploughing ahead and doing whatever she wants, no matter the consequences!

‘It’s very … evocative,’ Charlotte said. Which was kind, but not really the ego boost it was meant to be because, in a million-zillion years, Charlotte would never be caught dead wearing one of Freya’s T-shirts. Except, perhaps, the unicorn range and even then—

‘ Emily! ’ Izzy’s scream brought Freya’s maniacal chopping to an abrupt halt.

Charlotte clapped her hands. ‘Oh, good! I was beginning to think she wouldn’t make it.’

Izzy took off like a gazelle, arms wide open, as Emily peeled away from the fancy convertible she’d arrived in, instantly falling into her role as The Girl Who Hates Group Hugs.

Freya followed Izzy, noticing – as she left the tent – Charlotte swiftly rearranging the dips before she, too, headed towards the car park.

‘Enough!’ Emily wailed as they surrounded her and bombarded her with the very things she hated most, kisses and hugs. ‘Get off! ’

Through her cries of protest, they all vied to be heard, ‘You look amazing!’ tangled up with, ‘How long was the drive?’ ‘Who’s the hottie emptying the boot?’ And ‘ Jesus wept , are you wearing a skort ?’

The familiarity of this, the silliness of it, stripped a layer of defensiveness from Freya’s heart. Her insecurities were obviously playing silly buggers with her. Everything was as it appeared. Izzy was no threat to her marriage. Oli was as good a husband as any. And Emily was secretly loving this.

‘ Get off me you heathens! ’

See? Nothing had changed at all.

Once she’d shaken everyone off, bar Izzy, who was draping her arm over Emily like a feather boa, Freya got a proper look at her.

‘Crikey, Emms. You’ve not aged a day!’

Emily gave a nonchalant shrug. She looked like Lucy Liu with a fringe. Long, inky-black hair. Pitch-black eyes. Not a line in sight, nor a lick of make-up. The women all beamed at each other and, for a moment, the years fell away and they were all twenty-one again, the world at their feet.