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. Trading in an old model for a new one. 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.
After the children reluctantly agreed to check out their bell tent, she scanned the kitchen area – artfully battered pans, flame-licked Le Creuset casseroles, towers of mismatched china – then pictured all of the washing up that fifty-odd people (forty of whom Oliver had invited ‘to make it feel like a real party’) would create. Perhaps having the caterers was a good idea. The hog roast, though. Wasn’t everybody a vegan now? Charlotte hadn’t been sure, but Oli had insisted, and with him footing the bill she hadn’t felt able to protest.
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: Uniqlo and Superdry had made a small fortune out of her. Cath Kidston courtesy of her mother. The latter, which came as pointed gifts, along with a list of social events where Emily might consider wearing them, lived on a high shelf just out of reach.
She grimaced at her reflection in the wall mirror. She owned a skort?
Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.
He glanced at the tag she’d unceremoniously ripped off. ‘Glad to see you’ve gone for fabric with a high breathability factor.’
‘Why?’ She sniffed. ‘Do I stink?’
‘You smell like a spring meadow.’
Somehow, she doubted that.
‘You do, however, 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 dishonest, she simply wasn’t big into girlie weekends. There was always so much talking. And feelings. Definitely not her thing.
But! These women were about as close to a crew as she had. Not that they’d been in each other’s pockets since uni. Apart from Izzy, she’d let the friendships … drift. Yes. Drifting would be a good way to describe it. She didn’t not want to be friends. She simply didn’t include any time in
