at peace was when she was playing with Luna. Izzy’s ten year old absolutely adored her. Followed her around the same way Bonzer, the not-so-puppy-sized puppy, loped after Luna. She was always trying to copy her hair, giddily accepting hand-me-downs, absolutely loved being experimented on with Poppy’s increasingly large eyeliner collection. The genuine smiles and occasional laughs that Luna elicited were just one of the many pluses of having Izzy and Luna living in the granny flat above the garage.
They were just the injection of energy she’d needed to keep the huge family home from feeling like a mausoleum to a failed marriage. Selling the place and moving closer to the children’s boarding school had occurred to her more than once, but Jack hadn’t spoken to her for a week when she’d suggested as much. Poppy had given a world-weary shrug and said, ‘Whatever. It isn’t like we actually have a choice, is it?’
At this point, there was an element of truth to it. The past few months had been lived in limbo as the lawyers dug their claws into Charlotte and Oliver’s marital history. It was just the sort of thing Charlotte abhorred. Luckily, Emily had found Charlotte an extremely confident lawyer called Hazel Pryce – a quirkily dressed, rainbow-haired woman – whose sole remit seemed to be nailing Oli to the cross. All good things come at a Pryce!
The intensity of her crusade against Oli made Charlotte squeamish. She was, after all, entitled to stay in the house until the children were eighteen. She was earning some money of her own (who knew so many farm shops would pay her for her advice?). And there was the monthly direct debit Oli continued to pay into the household account. (His lawyers probably told him to do that so we couldn’t take him to the cleaners, Charlotte. Stay tough. Stay focused. We won’t stop until the Pryce is right.)
Normally she found speaking with someone who regularly referred to herself in the third person tricky terrain, but on days when her daughter was falling to bits in front of her? She was a card-carrying Hazel fan.
‘Darling,’ Charlotte rubbed Poppy’s back and gently wiggled the tissues in front of her. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Look!’ Poppy grabbed her phone and virtually flung it at Charlotte before hurling herself across the room onto her bed and curling into a small, weeping ball. Charlotte’s favourite cushion, one Freya had given her years ago, absorbed her daughter’s tears.
When Charlotte looked at the phone, her frustration with not being able to stem her daughter’s histrionics instantly shifted to pain.
CheekyLawGirl’s Instagram page.
Charlotte ran her tongue along her upper teeth as she flicked through the images. She wasn’t a vain woman, but she certainly wasn’t succumbing to lip wrinkles because of her husband’s pregnant lover.
Ah.
The chronicles of ‘Bump in the City’ had gone on holiday. ‘Le Bump dans Les Montagnes’ was the latest instalment. A swish chalet in France or Switzerland, from the looks of the gooey cheese she was selflessly forgoing. They must’ve taken the train as Xanthe wouldn’t be allowed to fly this late into her pregnancy. Honestly. Did the world really care if Xanthe and Oli were ‘seeing out the rest of the year à la française’? Charlotte wasn’t even sure that was a thing. Unless, of course, you were talking about peas.
As she absorbed the picture, the comments, the time, the date, the penny dropped.
Poppy and Jack were meant to be skiing with their father. Tomorrow. In Austria.
The plan had been to drop the children off at the airport with Oli before she, Izzy and Luna headed up to Scotland.
It was the one bit of normal the children had planned for the holidays. The annual Mayfield Family ski trip: new country, new pistes, new year. Oli’s parents, sister and her family went every year and had done so since the children were little.
They hired a huge chalet. The children took overpriced lessons, chased up by insanely priced cake and hot chocolate sessions. The adults had ridiculously boozy lunches. Everyone ate too much, drank too much, stayed up too late and annually declared New Year’s Eve the best time ever. Charlotte had never really taken to skiing, or the pressure of having the best time ever, so was ‘given a few days off to pamper herself at home’ every year. No one ever noticed that the house was always immaculate when they returned. Regardless, it was the one thing Oli had vowed would stay the same.
It appeared Oli had lied.
Charlotte scrolled down and saw yet another post.
Xanthe gazing thoughtfully out into the middle-distance. A mountainscape at sunset glowed beyond the gauzily curtained window, her diamond-ringed finger held just so … Her hair was down, she didn’t have on make-up and she was … oh … she was wearing a hospital gown.
And then the telephone rang.
EMMS: Happy Après Christmas from Ward Seven. Feasted on Twiglets and Christmas cake that tasted of old boot. Lotte: I would’ve paid handsomely for some of yours. Next year can you do mail order? How boozy are they? #Askingforafriend
IZZ: Hey woman! I’ll see if I can bring one up to Scotland with us tommoz. I’m sure there’s one kicking around Charlotte’s mahooosive pantry. You still taking the train?
EMMS: Yup. Surgeries through the rest of today and tomorrow, then off midday on the 27th. See you at cocktail o’clock?
IZZ: Deffo. Total chaos at Charlotte’s. Looney and I are hiding in the granny flat. ()£&%)ing Oli’s bit on the side has gone into labour! In FRANCE!
FREYA: Wot??????
EMMS: Way to bury the freaking lead! More deets please, Detective Yeats.
CHARLOTTE: Poppy and I are at Sittingstone delivering cakes. Will hold one back for you Emily. Izzy … perhaps it’s best to let the dust settle a bit before we air the details on Oliver’s situation?
IZZ: Sorry, Lotts! My bad! I just thought as skiing was off and we’re bringing Pops and Jack up to Scotland it was open news. *zips lips until further notice*
FREYA: WOT?????????
Freya put her phone down with a weary sigh. She’d been so excited for Izzy, Loons, Charlotte and Emily to arrive, but Charlotte’s children as well? Obviously it wasn’t nice to dislike other people’s children but plfffttt … they were just so … bleurgh.
She started making a mental list for extra bedding, pillows, hot-water bottles and whatever else the over-privileged little so-and-sos would be used to at their fancy boarding school. Chocolates on their pillows at night? A butler?
Freya caught her sourpuss expression as she passed the entrance hall mirror, backtracked then stuck her tongue out at herself. She was being envious, spiteful and ungracious. The perfect trilogy of holiday cheer!
Not.
Her shoulders sagged as the last twenty-four hours swept through her afresh. This wasn’t her. She loved huge, boisterous, holiday get-togethers. She loved Christmas! More to the point, she loved coming home. Her annual top-up of ‘Burns juju.’ Her mum had always made these sorts of unexpected arrivals an adventure, not a burden. Besides. What were a couple of bratty teens when the whole rest of her life was a shambles? She absolved herself with a sign of the cross then pressed her head to the cool front-door window.
She
