they’d sat back round the picnic table, an awkward silence settled around them, which Freya was the first to break.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, hen?’ she asked Charlotte quietly. When Freya reached out to touch her hand, Charlotte looked as if she was about to break. A kind word or a hug could push her over the edge. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Oli’s just had a few too many, that’s all.’ She popped on a bright smile.
Freya wasn’t convinced, but! As Monty would say, it was her party, so no point pressing if she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Let’s sort out this bunting crisis, shall we?’ Freya started folding little 3D dresses, robins and hearts out of the unused serviettes.
Izzy plucked a serviette off the pile. ‘Show me?’
‘Give us a stack.’ Emily made pincing movements with her hand until Charlotte handed her some of the polka-dotted napkins, then took some for herself.
Under Freya’s instruction, the women listened, learnt, folded. ‘I’m just going to nip out and find some twine or string for these,’ Charlotte said. When she came back from the car where she had indeed found a ball of green twine, her eyes were rimmed red.
Izzy was officially fuming on Charlotte’s behalf. What a bastard. How dare he make Charlotte feel small? Her mother’s poet voice came to her, rich and strong: The instinct of man is to oppress. It was why Izzy’s mum had never married. She’d always said she didn’t care if the caged bird sang. The free one did, too. And without fear of a blanket being thrown over its head.
Izzy looked up to the tree house where a battery-powered lantern lit up the windows.
How had Oli gone from the husband she’d last seen at Freya and Monty’s wedding – a bit grabby, but still proudly boastful of Charlotte and their little ones – to a man who barely bothered disguising his lack of respect for her. And her mates, for that matter. As if they were B-grade guests versus the A-listers invited for ‘the real do’ tomorrow.
Charlotte had been so ridiculously in love when they’d married. A true Cinderella story, with Jimmy Choos standing in for glass slippers. They’d all been thrilled for her, if not slightly perplexed that she wanted them to be her bridesmaids in lieu of her new set of friends. Except for Freya, they’d not really stayed in touch. Either way, they’d all been excited. Perhaps it had been the promise of a swanky reception. It definitely hadn’t been the dreadful, flouncy, lavender bridesmaid dresses. Freya had tried her best to zshuzsh them up, but Charlotte’s mother-in-law had put a shockingly swift end to ‘those shenanigans’. Charlotte’s mother-in-law was a society girl from a bygone era. There were rules. They were meant to be obeyed.
Perhaps that was what had happened. Too many rules.
Izzy wasn’t very good with rules. But she was good with loyalty, and she wanted to put a smile back on Charlotte’s face.
Freya moved the huge pile of serviette bunting to the side, throwing a quick glance over at Monty who was still sound asleep. ‘And you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing we can do to help tonight?’
‘Honestly, most of it’s taken care of,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘Oli’s booked caterers, servers, everything. We’ve even sorted things for the vegans.’ She gasped and paled. ‘Oh, Freya. I didn’t force you into eating meat tonight, did I? I know we did a few vegetable kebabs, but I kept pushing everyone to eat the sausages.’
‘Not to worry.’ Freya gave one of her Mother Earth smiles. ‘We did go veggie for a bit, but now we get boxes from an organic farm out in Berkshire. Grass fed, free range, massaged on a daily basis. That sort of thing.’
Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘It really was lovely of you all to make the effort to come early. The big do was Oli’s idea, but mostly I wanted to see you girls. Catch up on your news.’
‘Which perfectly leads us to the question on everybody’s mind,’ Freya said, rather grandly.
Emily glanced behind her, as if the question was tiptoeing in from the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. ‘What question?’
Poor Emms. She hated questions. Her mother relentlessly peppered her with them. It had been the only reason Emily had been allowed a phone at uni. So that her mother could send texts demanding updates on her daughter’s academic progress and promises of sexual abstinence. Polar opposite to her mum. There’d been times Izzy had been quite jealous of Emily and her mum. There’d been times when she’d been jealous of each and every one of them. Even Little Miss I’m Still Jelly That You Shagged My Husband sitting across from her. Freya topped up her glass again. Maybe she should slow down on her one-woman attempt to drink all of Oli’s fancy wine.
‘Right! What’s this question of yours then, Freya?’
Freya sat up straighter, as if psyching herself up, then asked in one of those ‘not at all casual but meant to be’ tones, ‘How did Luna come into your life, Izz?’
‘The usual way.’ She almost pointed to her lady garden, but as Charlotte was there she made a bulging tummy gesture instead.
‘And the father is?’ Freya’s eyes jumped between hers and Emily’s, rightly suspecting that Emily already knew.
Emily shrugged. She was the best liar.
Izzy was less gifted, so she threw Freya a smattering of facts. ‘He was a surfer. Surprise surprise. We met in Morocco. He was a bit of a player. I found out I was pregnant after he’d left to chase some waves in Bali and … that’s about it.’
Freya, strangely, looked rather relieved. As if the fact that Luna was the product of a one-night stand in Morocco had settled a bet she’d made with herself.
‘Do you know his name?’ Charlotte asked, just a tiny bit horrified.
‘Course! It’s a bit dorky, though. Sounds much better in his accent.’
‘Oh!’ Charlotte clapped, her eyes softening. ‘He’s foreign. I always thought that would be so exotic. To have a husband with an accent.’
‘And his name is …?’
‘Alfred.’
‘Oh!’
The table fell silent. Like she’d said. Dorky.
‘Did you ever see him again? The father?’
She shook her head no. She had actually. From a distance. At a surfing festival on Maui, where pretty much everyone but her and Alf had been in their twenties and high as a kite. He hadn’t seen her. Or Luna. One look at those eyes and he would’ve known. They were his. All his. If she’d known then what she knew today, she just might have braved it, but … regrets and all that.
‘I think he’s back in Denmark. Not a hundred per cent sure.’
She was. She’d googled him. Once a year she let herself, on Luna’s birthday. Her way of checking in. It had taken a few years, but he was back in Denmark, behaving like a responsible adult. Just as her own father had when her mother had shooed him out the door to return to his wife and children in Sweden. Anyhoo …
She faked a massive yawn. ‘Ladies, I am afraid I am going to have to turn in. I still
