for at least a decade and might not actually like any more.
Callum appeared behind her in the mirror. ‘Are you trying to picture your survival chances for the West Sussex version of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?’
She bumped her breathable-fabric-covered hip against his and whined, ‘I’m Chinese. I don’t do glamping. It’s all out of doors.’
‘The Chinese aren’t big North Face fans, then?’ He dangled the tags in front of her.
‘Oh, we love it. We just don’t get it dirty. Or bring it outside the city.’
‘Wait! We’re leaving Soho?’
She scowled at him as if it were his fault she’d accepted the invitation, then flopped down on the bed and tugged on one of the walking shoes she’d bought online. As if by magic a WhatsApp notification pinged in, accompanied by a very Charlotte-esque list of reminders:
1. Remember to bring sunblock suitable for your skin type. Don’t be shy about bringing factor 50! (Obviously for Freya, who turned into a large freckle the moment the sun appeared.)
2. Swimming costumes. There’s a wild swimming pool! (Errrrr. Nope. That one was for Izzy.)
3. Insect spray. (Bingo! Definitely for her. She was prepared to Deet the living daylights out of the little blighters.)
This, chased up with a cutesy request to ‘Pipe up with any special dietary requirements. We’re even prepared for all you barbecue-loving vegans!’
She had no idea who that one was for. Freya maybe? Emily couldn’t remember who’d been vegan, vegetarian or gnawing raw meat straight from the source last time they’d met. Bad friend.
She stood up and bounced on the soles of her new shoes. Springy.
Callum’s quirked eyebrow meant he was still waiting for an explanation about the Chinese distaste for outdoor activities.
‘Fifty years of enforced labour do that to a people.’
He laughed. ‘I suppose it’s the same as my people.’
Emily blinked and asked in her best innocent voice, ‘The people of Edinburgh don’t go camping?’
He pulled off his scrubs top, then basket-balled it into the laundry bin. ‘My mum is permanently scarred by childhood exposure to midges and my father prides himself on being the most immaculately dressed man Nigeria has ever produced. I think we can agree, Emms –’ he did his own version of a catwalk strut and twirl – ‘this apple did not fall far from the tree.’ He pulled a shirt out of the closet and held it up for Emily to inspect. ‘Will this impress?’
She nodded her approval. ‘Very Crocodile Dundee.’
He feigned disappointment. ‘I was going more for the Bear Grylls look.’
‘You look very rugged. Très SAS. Better?’
‘Much.’
She pulled her pager out of her pocket out of habit rather than an actual need. ‘This is weird.’
‘What?’
‘Not being at the hospital. D’you think we should pop in on the way out?’
‘Nope. We need a break. And what better way than a weekend communing with … who are we communing with again?’
She held up fingers to represent them. ‘Freya Burns-West. Scottish. Arty. Very woke. Husband is a living saint.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ She held up another finger. ‘Charlotte Mayfield. Organizer extraordinaire. Want your place to look picture perfect? She’s your woman. Two point four kids. House in the country. Amazing cake-maker. And Izzy Yeats.’
Emily stared as Callum wriggled into a pair of fitted, cream-coloured trousers that were entirely inappropriate for the great outdoors. Unlike her, she had zero doubt he’d throw himself into the weekend and come out spotless. Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to him. He just seemed so comfortable being him. The gayness. The braininess. The inability to pick a special someone and get on with life like the rest of the adult world.
Callum slid his belt on and nodded. ‘Right. So, we’ve got a happy homemaker and an arty tree-hugger. You’re the brainy, over-achieving, too narky for her own good because you’re actually very lovely wunderkind …’ Callum smiled when she punched him in the arm. ‘Which one’s Izzy?’
‘Another housemate.’ Emily paused, uncertain what to tell him about the woman she counted as her soul mate. ‘She ran a surf camp in Hawaii for the last ten years. Just moved back. C’mon. Move it. We’re going to be late.’
Eventually he’d tease more out of her. But for now? The fact she owned a skort should be proof enough these women meant the world to her.
‘Monty! Stop laughing. What does Charlotte want?’ Freya caught her husband’s giggles so badly she had to pull into a lay-by. The children, of course, were in a world of their own in the back seat. Ah, to be a Gen Z tween.
Monty put his fingers up in air quotes. ‘Last-minute bunting.’
Freya snorted. Bless her wee cotton socks. Only Charlotte Mayfield would answer an ‘anything we can pick up?’ text with a request for last-minute bunting.
‘C’mon then, woman,’ Monty commanded in his best imitation of her accent which always came out Braveheart-y. ‘It’s her party … If she wants bunting, she gets bunting.’
Still giggling, she pulled back onto the country lane winding towards Sittingstone lightly asking the question that always made both of their smiles freeze in place. ‘Have you got any dosh?’
Monty shot Freya a look. One that read, I thought you were the one bringing cash. Bloody great. Why was the overdraft always looming up at them?
She actually knew why. Sort of. Bringing home the bacon was her job. Allocating it was Monty’s. Lately, there hadn’t been quite so much bacon. You’d think with their backgrounds (working class) and their lifestyle (modestly aspirational), they’d be fine. From the expression on Monty’s face, they definitely weren’t.
‘I’ve got a bit in my bag,’ she rummaged around in her purse as they drove into the picture-postcard village. ‘I’ve got some cash, I was supposed to bank it after I shut the shop, but most of the actual banks are shut in Camden now, so—’
Her admission sucked another lungful of oxygen from the car. Money was neither of their favourite topics.
‘Well, I’m sure Charlotte will be eternally grateful,’ Monty deftly smoothed over what could have easily become a fight. ‘She’s always liked things just so, hasn’t she?’
Though she was loath to admit it – girlfriend loyalty – Monty did have a point.
