Freya

      Emms, you eejit! Didn’t u read the INVITE? IT’S GLAMPING (SOZ FOR THE SHOUTING … CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW TO TURN OFF ON THIS GERIATRIC BEASTIE!) CHARLOTTE? *WINCES* WLD U MIND IF I TOOK U UP ON THAT OFFER? CAN COLLECT ON UR BDAY IF TO-DO LIST ISN’T EPICALLY LONG. XOXOXOXF

      Charlotte:

      Oh, dear. Glamping’s not a problem is it, Emms? You’ve not got hay fever have you? I have been assured all of the yurts are done up to the highest level.

      Emily:

      Like, indoors, highest level? Or still outside but pretending to be inside? #chinesepeopledon’tcamp

      Freya:

      EMMS! SHOW SOME GRATITUDE. WE EXPECT NOTHING LESS THAN FULL SOPHISTICATion from you Charlotte. (Hey! Lower case!) x F

      Emily:

      Plus ça change.

      Freya:

      What’s with the Francais?

      Emily:

      Rien. Charlotte! I’ve been in touch with Izzy. Can she come too? She’s going to be here. (Praying you say yes as I already told her and she’s really excited.)

      Charlotte:

      Izzy!!!!!!!!! I haven’t seen her in years! Gosh. A proper Bristol Uni girls reunion. Absolutely. All welcome. xx Charlotte

      Freya

      Wait. What? Izzy’s here? *faints in disbelief* xF

      Charlotte

      There’s a bell tent that will be just perfect for her. Does anyone know if she’s eating meat again? Is there a plus one I should know about?

      Emily

      You know Izz. Expect the unexpected.

       Chapter 2

       Bunting.

      Charlotte could’ve kicked herself. How could she have forgotten the bunting? It definitely wasn’t in the car. She’d checked three times on the way to Sittingstone. The same three times she’d pulled into lay-bys to ‘check directions’. Her children hadn’t commented that the Land Rover’s sat-nav was in the front of the car rather than the boot. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice the slight edge of pink round her eyes. Yes, it was all there bar the bunting. The cool boxes, the wellies, the cake. The same placid smile, the same pale pink lipstick and, of course, the same sensible, ash-blonde mum do she’d had three hours earlier when Oliver had ripped her world in two.

      A real stalwart, her hairstyle. Not so much the husband.

      At least he’d offered to drive to West Sussex separately to give her some space to absorb his news. Not over-generous given the move was tactical. What better way to avoid seeing her normally composed exterior crack into fractals of disbelief? Absence worked a treat when Oliver wanted to prevent a scene.

      As if she’d ever cause a scene.

      He really should know her better by now. He should know a lot of things. As, she supposed, should she.

      So she started the car, followed the signs, and sped along the motorway as if she could outdrive the fact her marriage might not last the day.

      An hour later, as the Discovery crackled over the gravel at the entrance to the Sittingstone Estate, Charlotte’s heart lifted. The castle was every bit as wonderful as it looked on the internet. The stone structure soared up into the bright blue sky with full Tudor Gothic grandeur. The remains of the first castle – a fortress, really – was a stunning tumble of stone over by the lake, whilst this one – the family seat – dominated a small hill. A truly resplendent calendar house. One pane of glass for each day of the year, fifty-two rooms, seven entrances and four, very grand, storeys. There were sprawling lawns, a blooming rose garden and lashings of wisteria shifting in the light breeze like … bunting.

      With a home like this, thought Charlotte, the lord and lady of the manor must know their way around a bell tent.

      Her wedding ring caught the light as she turned the car down the long, shaded avenue signposted for the glampsite. Ridiculous, oversized thing. Had she been so blinded by its beauty all those years ago that she’d been unable to see what her future held? Worse perhaps. She hadn’t wanted to see it. If she’d just opened her eyes she would have noticed the horrid predictability of it all spooling out in front of her. Too many golfing weekends. A pied à terre in London. A keenness to slog it out over yet another client contract. An affair with a junior partner. It was all so obvious it was almost gauche. How could he? And to find out on this weekend. The one solitary weekend she’d hoped to show off her life to her dearest friends. Another fissure of humiliation cracked open as she thumbed the solitaire palmside.

      She glanced into the rear-view mirror to the back seat where her children remained blissfully unaware of any discord. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed with Oli when he’d decided, for the pair of them, that bothering the children with the ‘whole silly mess’ would be the wrong thing to do. Fair enough for the weekend, but they weren’t innocent babes in arms. They were young adults. Young adults who knew having an affair was the wrong thing to do.

      She looked into the mirror again. Two bent heads. Two sets of noise-cancelling headsets. Hardly a word passed between them the entire journey. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps, like Oli, they too had tired of her. Bundling them into the car today, you’d’ve thought she was slinging them into Guantanamo rather than putting them up in a five-star yurt. She was doubly horrified to catch Oli slipping them fifty quid each to play along. Perhaps falling completely to bits would add an element of surprise to their predictable parent–child relationship.

      Not that she’d know how. The one thing she could