‘Why do you ask?’ She swiped at the perfectly clean counter with a J-cloth.
‘Nothing really. I just … I kind of got the sense that everything might not be tickety-boo with Oli.’
Charlotte looked physically ill. ‘What? No. Everything’s fine. I’m just being a bit funny about turning forty.’
‘Don’t be daft. You look as young as you did the day you got married.’
Charlotte’s smile faltered.
Ah. It was definitely about Oli. Freya felt that bloom of solidarity that came from discovering she wasn’t the only one wading through the magical wilderness of a long-term relationship.
Charlotte’s laugh fell flat. ‘Perhaps I’m just a bit worried about tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Ohhh. You know …’ She threw Freya a quick glance then set about refolding all the tea towels. ‘My in-laws are coming and all of our friends. I mean … obviously you’re my friends, but these are more Oli and his family’s group. Some of the children’s friends and their parents. They can be a bit cliquey. High expectations always make me a bit edgy.’
‘Is this party meant to be for you or for Oli?’
Charlotte threw her a sharp look. ‘For me, of course. We’d hardly be camping if it was Oli’s party.’
‘Well,’ Freya said, ‘I think this place is amazing. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a better venue.’
‘Oh, believe me they do.’ In a very un-Charlotte-like move, she began ticking things off on her fingers. ‘So far this year, we’ve been to all of the Soho House venues – private rooms. Babington House. Twice. A château in France. A snowmobile trek to see the Northern Lights with two nights in an ice hotel. Oh. And a weekend at a country estate in Ireland.’ She pulled a small handkerchief out of an invisible side pocket and fretted at its scalloped edging. ‘My children didn’t want to tell their friends. About the glamping. In truth, they didn’t want to come at all. Oli had to bribe them.’
‘Oh, Lotte.’ Freya pretended not to notice Charlotte swiping at her eyes.
How awful.
Sure. Freya sometimes had rich people envy, but at this moment? She wouldn’t trade places with Charlotte for anything.
Freya felt an unexpected rush of love for Monty. He might be shit with money, living in a bit of a dream world most of the time with his harebrained schemes for their future (perhaps they should move to the Isle of Mull one day and set up a retreat for burned-out tech entrepreneurs and teach them how to live mindfully), but he was an amazing father and her family loved each other. Not one of them would ever have to be bribed to spend time together. Monty always instilled respect into their kids. Years ago, when Regan was four, she’d had a particularly foul tantrum when Freya had been trying to get out of the house to work. Monty had made Regan FaceTime her on her way to the tube and sing ‘The Apology Song’. It wasn’t a real song. Monty had made it up. They’d also bought her a Tunnock’s Snowball and put it on her pillow after making her toad-in-the-hole for supper. Her faves from home.
She couldn’t imagine Oliver ever doing the same for Charlotte. She made a silent vow to try and not kick Monty tonight when he began to snore.
‘Hey,’ Freya brightened at a memory. ‘I forgot to say, Rocco sends his best.’
‘Your brother?’ Charlotte’s features softened.
‘The one and only. We rang him on the drive down. I mentioned we were seeing you and he starting dredging up memories from the summer you came up and worked at the fruit farm with me. Remember that?’
‘Of course, I do. It was a brilliant summer.’
Freya squawked, ‘Hardly! We worked our fingers to the bone … oh, wait. You got upgraded to the café, didn’t you?’
‘Farm shop. I did the displays,’ Charlotte said, as if it had happened yesterday. ‘And your brother dropped us off and picked us up every single day.’
‘Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. He’s a good big brother.’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte looked lost in a world of her own. ‘Very nice.’
Freya grabbed a couple of Charlotte’s brilliant homemade biscuits then took a torch out of the ‘general use’ box.
Charlotte hadn’t moved.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Perfect.’ Charlotte gave her hand a quick squeeze then shooed her on. ‘Never better.’
Charlotte had nearly cracked. Told Freya everything. She’d virtually tasted the words in her mouth.
Oliver’s having an affair. He wants us to stay married. Push on through. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know what she wanted. Plenty of women forgave their husbands for indiscretions. Even Beyoncé. There were others, of course, who didn’t. But could you ever move on from betrayal?
She had no money of her own. No job. Nowhere to go. No friends to turn to – not on her doorstep anyway.
Oh, it was an impossible situation, and not one she’d imagined having to contend with on her birthday. Not anytime, really, but it did seem particularly unfair to find out now. Her mother would’ve wept with laughter. Shows you, Little Miss Fancy Britches. Always thought you were too good for your own kind.
Yes. She had been shown. And now she needed to decide how to proceed. She tiptoed up the curved stairwell to the tree house, even though the place was still blazing with light. Perhaps Oli hadn’t been taking a call from her after all.
She quietly opened the door and looked across to the huge king-sized bed where Oli was skimming through messages on his phone, that telltale smile playing on his lips. The one that said he was in the mood. Her heart lifted. Maybe he really had meant it. About keeping things going. Wanting the best for their marriage. He looked up when she closed the door behind her with little more than a click, met her inquisitive gaze and said, ‘Oh. It’s you.’ As if he had been expecting someone else.
‘Hello, darling. Chilly out. Oh, good, you got your coffee.’
His eyes flicked to the bedside table then back to his phone. ‘Your friends were pretty lairy tonight,’ he said. As if they’d trashed the place. ‘Especially … who is it? The Scottish one. She likes her sauce.’ He mimed glugging a bottle of wine, which was rich given the fumes he was emitting. ‘You’ll keep an eye on her tomorrow, right? Make sure the staff don’t top her up too often?’
An instruction. So many of their conversations were actually lists of instructions. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even trying to be different. This wasn’t the behaviour of a repentant man. A husband desperate to make amends. All of her hopeful thoughts that they might be able to go through this marital … calamity … fluttered to her feet.
She wondered if Oli’s lover was the same as she had once been. In complete awe of
