gin tasting at the pub, not her broke, wannabe portrait-photographer husband who had yet to pull his camera out of the very expensive case he’d begged her to buy him for Christmas.
Felix’s tummy growled.
Her son never asked for anything apart from books. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the screwy face she made when she was fighting off tears. This was ridiculous, having to count the pennies for a bloody pastry. How on earth had things become so bad she’d turned her own son into a modern-day Oliver Twist? Or, for that matter, flew into a rage because her husband was taking a bath.
‘Sorry, love. I … can you just hang on a few more minutes? Charlotte’s making bacon sandwiches. You won’t starve. First-world problems, remember!’
Rather than reply, Felix plopped down on the picnic bench, heaved his latest library book up onto his lap, threw a look of sheer longing in Charlotte’s direction, then cracked the book in half with a sigh and began to read.
Freya strode over to the bath-house and was about to bash the door in when her fresh-faced husband flung it open with a big old goofy smile on his face. The one that had won her over that very first time Izzy had brought him back to Holly House.
Monty wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Wanna get jiggy with it? I’ve not let the water out of the bath.’
Seriously? Was he mad?
‘Montgomery Burns-West. You are treading on remarkably thin ice.’
He feigned being hit in the heart with an arrow. ‘What? I can’t proposition my fair wife for a morning shag?’
‘Not when the overdraft police are riding my ass, no.’
Monty looked genuinely hurt. There was no glory in it. Why did she always have to be the bad cop? Unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, his wet chest saturating her top. ‘It’s all right, love. I know things are tough, but we’ll get there. Dreams are worth fighting for, right?’
They were, but … Freya thought of her Camden shop, and the oh-so-witty T-shirts that no one seemed to want; the dream of sustainable fashion that had now turned into an endless compromise of her ideals and lots of bounced cheques.
She found herself responding to his kiss until the butterflies began, then pulled away. A kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t fix the overdraft. Nor would fighting about it. She stuffed her tug-of-war mood into the darker recesses and told Monty she was going to help get breakfast ready. Today was about Charlotte. Tomorrow would be about facing facts.
‘Charlotte, you’ve converted me!’ Emily mooched up to the fire, a quilt slung over her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t slept this well in months. Years maybe. ‘That bacon smells amazing. Is there coffee as well?’
Charlotte turned around, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Shit. Crap. What is it? I don’t need coffee. I don’t need bacon. Fuck. Are you okay?’
Nice one, Emms. Yes. The weeping woman is perfectly fine.
‘Sorry, yes. No. There is coffee. I mean …’ Charlotte didn’t even bother swiping at her tears. ‘Oliver’s having an affair.’
Emily looked round in a panic. Where was the lemon drizzle crew when you needed them? She wasn’t equipped for this. There was the doctor’s bedside manner thing, but she’d had training for that. Professional distance came much more easily than the whole warm-and-fuzzy thing.
That. And Charlotte wasn’t a patient. Charlotte had held her hair up when she’d thrown up after an overzealous margarita night. Charlotte had helped her make models of organs out of jelly for her anatomy class. Charlotte still liked her enough to invite her to her fortieth birthday party, despite fifteen years of bunking off invitations to meet up.
‘Here.’ She grabbed an origami crane from the bunting and pushed it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Wipe your face. He’s coming.’
With the swiftness and expertise of a Hollywood actress, Charlotte snapped open the crane, swept the serviette across her face and turned to her husband with a soft, practised smile. ‘Hello, darling. Did you sleep well?’
Izzy fought the lure of sizzling bacon and waited until Oliver had walked out to the meadow, car keys jingling in his hand and phone to his ear, before joining Emily and Charlotte at the campfire. Her karma was off kilter enough without having to play along with more crap jokes and wife-belittlement. Maybe he was heading off to get Charlotte a present. A big one. ‘Hey, lay-deeez! Top of the morning to you!’
Emily jerked her head towards Charlotte who was weeping into the bacon sandwiches. ‘Izz. Do something. Say something.’
Oh, bums. Charlotte was crying. So why had Oliver just walked away as if nothing was going on?
‘Ummm … Happy birthday!?’
‘Thank you, Izzy. That is kind.’ Sniff. Wipe. Charlotte gave her head one of those quick shakes a person performed when they were hoping to look perfectly fine. It wasn’t entirely successful. ‘Bacon sandwich?’ She hastily loaded some bacon into a crusty roll then handed it to her.
Izzy took it and made a show of it being mmm-mmm, delicious, while Charlotte and Emily stared at her.
Wait a minute. Emily hadn’t spilled the beans about why she’d come back to the UK, had she? She’d promised.
‘Emily! Did you—’
‘No,’ Emily said through gritted teeth. ‘This is about Charlotte. Charlotte who’s got lots of feelings today.’
‘Charlotte Mayfield!’ Izzy planted her hands on her hips. ‘You aren’t being funny about turning forty, are you? You look amazing. Gorgeous. I want to be you when I grow up. Forty’s the new black.’ She kept spluttering platitudes until Emily cut her off.
‘Oliver’s cheating.’
Ah. She hadn’t expected that.
Then again, the man had felt her up at his own wedding.
‘Sorry. Sorry, girls.’ Charlotte swept away some tears then gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Honestly. It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but … I’m just going a bit mad is all. One minute I was frying bacon, happy as can be. The next I was bawling my eyes out and telling my least emotionally available friend – sorry Emily, you’re lovely, but we both know you’re not equipped for these sorts of histrionics, are you?’ Emily nodded. It was fine.
‘I’ve been like this for hours.’ Charlotte was on a roll. ‘All night actually. One minute I can’t bear the sight of him and the next I’m absolutely, positively sure I want nothing more than to devote my life to making our marriage better. He said he wants it to work. I want it to work. And then … all of a sudden … I don’t! It’s like being on one of those – those …’ She looked up to seek the best word, tears dripping off her chin.
‘Waltzers?’ offered Izzy. They’d once made Charlotte go on one and she’d never seen a human more pale.
‘Yes.’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Just like that.’
Clearly the memory hadn’t
