You Make Me Feel Like Glamping. Daisy Tate
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it wasn’t a dig. Monty was, after all, the son of a builder and home all day so he was the person to put up the shelves. And, yes. She’d promised to help with packing but she’d been late getting back from the shop. As usual.
He pulled her left hand into his and began to trace round her wedding ring, an antique emerald and diamond number they’d spotted on a rain-soaked walk during a weekend in Gloucestershire that ended up being more romantic than miserable. It was the night the twins had been conceived. Three years later, they managed to officially put the ring on her finger.
‘Just one quick pint.’ Monty said sincerely, then, ‘It’ll give you and Charlotte a chance to catch up properly.’ Puppy-dog eyes. Puppy-dog eyes pointedly dipping down to her handbag.
He always got her at moments like this. She wanted to be cross. She was cross! But … it wasn’t like he made habit of it, and they were on holiday … oh, hell. She dug one of the three twenties she’d earmarked for petrol out of her purse and gave it to him. ‘Go on then.’ Monty pulled her in for an untidy kiss, but was heading towards the pub with his back to her as she shouted after him.
‘Just the one! And don’t come back half-cut. We’ve got things to do!’ she said a bit too starchily. Particularly for someone who never got a telling off for coming home from work smelling just the tiniest bit of cheap pinot grigio.
She watched as he and Oliver clapped one another on the back as if they were actually long-lost friends, ducking one after the other beneath the rose-framed doorway of The Golden Goose. Humph. She believed they’d be back after one pint as much as she believed in the Tooth Fairy.
Right. Onwards and upwards.
After driving past the village, turning at the glampsite sign, and ogling the castle – a huge pile all but screaming ‘I’m impossible to heat!’ – Freya slowed the car to a crawl and scanned the fenceless fields. Longhorn cattle off in the distance. A red-tailed kite circling lazily in the sky. A smattering of Exmoor ponies looking up at them from alongside the slow-running river as if they’d been cued by David Attenborough himself.
It was perfect.
Of course it was. Charlotte had organized it.
As she drove on past a small herd of free-roaming, curly-horned sheep, Freya spotted Charlotte’s immaculate Land Rover. It was parked a few metres away from what looked like an open-sided circus tent. A very fancy circus tent. She did a quick scan for elephants.
Numpty. There aren’t going to be elephants.
This was glamping, not elephant polo in the days of the Raj. She flicked her eyes at the rear-view mirror.
‘All right, you lot. Phones in pockets. We’re here!’
The twins knew better than to grumble. They’d already been the recipients of a sharp earful last night when Freya had overheard them whinging to Monty that Charlotte’s children were prime candidates for Made in Chelsea. She’d put a quick stop to that. Even if there was a drop of truth to it. Principles and a moral core were worth more than a private education and a trust fund.
She caught herself smug-smiling as she steered the car into a spot marked by an old croquet mallet. When she looked beyond the car park and saw just how invitingly expensive the glampsite looked, her self-righteousness wilted.
Who was she kidding? She didn’t need to be minted, but a bit more money would help. Help to pay with the PGL trip that was coming up for Felix, in his last year at primary school. It would mean so much to him, but two hundred quid was a lot of money right now. Help fix the downstairs loo that never played ball despite (or because of) Monty’s efforts. Help them edge away from the relentless stream of bills that had them constantly teetering on the financial edge these days … and just like that she was choking against a fresh swarm of feelings bottlenecking in her throat.
Och away, darlin’. It’s no’ life and death, is it?
Her mother’s voice had a way of appearing at times like these. When things threatened to overwhelm her. Freya was having a bad year, was all. If her mum were still alive, she’d be the first to remind Freya that money wasn’t everything. That people don’t time their deaths. That fortieth birthday parties didn’t have to be all bells and whistles. Having her mum’s wake on the same day hadn’t been all bad. They’d plumped for St Andrews in the end as her mum had always joked that the wakes ‘up the road’ had much better sandwiches than the ones scrabbled together at the church hall, so … There’d be other birthdays. Other moments. This one, for instance. Freya shook her head, picturing as she did all of the negative thoughts physically leaving her head just as the grief counsellor had advised. Out of sight, out of mind.
This weekend was about Charlotte and friendship. Friendship she was certain Charlotte needed. As charmed as it looked on the outside, there was something off about her connection with Oli. Something off about Oli.
Freya thought back to his furtive behaviour outside the pub. Yep, definitely up to something. Maybe Monty would wheedle it out of him.
Anyway, a swish, catered reunion with her besties from the carefree days of uni was exactly what she needed. Cake and a campfire. What more could a girl ask for?
A husband who would dust off his law degree and do something with it.
Some actual free time to make art that mattered.
Children whose parents could afford school trips.
She thunked her head against the steering wheel.
It didn’t feel very progressive of her to make art no one would buy or for Monty to put on that old suit of his to go out and make some proper dosh at a city law firm knowing it would suck the very lifeblood out of him. She’d taken on the role of household earner long ago – by choice. The fact she was maybe, possibly, failing at it, wasn’t any fun to be around any more and was missing the bulk of her children’s actual childhood was … bleurgh. Maybe there was something to be said for the 1950s.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
Regan, her little worrier, stuck her head between the two front seats. Felix was still engrossed in one of those doorstop fantasy books of his.
‘Yes, darlin’. Just got a little something in my eye.’ She made a show of trying to extract an invisible speck before rubbing her hands together and singing out, ‘Right, my beloved offspring! Let’s get glamping!’
She breathed in a huge lungful of sun-saturated wildflower meadow and cow poo, ignoring the little twist in her heart that the scent always brought.
The wafty, pungent aroma of home.
She pictured her brother Rocco getting ‘the girls’ in for the afternoon milking session. Her dad still helped, but at seventy-something and just a wee bit more absent-minded than he’d been since Mum had died, Rocco had started filling in the gaps until, over the Easter hols, it had become very clear he was running the farm on his own. The fact that their small farm had yet to be eaten by some big nameless, faceless conglomerate or turned into so-called affordable housing, well … thank god for big brothers.
She gave her head another short, sharp shake, watched the negativity drift away like dandelion fluff, and went around to the back of the car. A hybrid they’d leased through the business because she’d thought they should practise what they preached. Sustainability. Ah, sweet illusion.
Delusion, more like.
She waved her foot in front of the rear sensor and watched the hatch open like some sort of Star Wars portal. Charlotte’s quirkily wrapped present sat atop a jumble of duffel bags, Monty’s camera bag and last-minute panic packing.
She carefully set the camera gear to the side, praying Monty’s latest craze, Instagram ‘portraiture’ would finally bring some cash in. More than likely, the equipment would end up in the loft with the rest of his ‘sure things’ when yet another inspiration hit. Sure. He was busy with the kids, juggling the household finances and being