The Happy Glampers. Daisy Tate
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lane winding towards Sittingstone lightly asking the question that always made both of their smiles freeze in place. ‘Have you got any dosh?’
Monty shot Freya a look. One that read, I thought you were the one bringing cash. Bloody great. Why was the overdraft always looming up at them?
She actually knew why. Sort of. Bringing home the bacon was her job. Allocating it was Monty’s. Lately, there hadn’t been quite so much bacon. You’d think with their backgrounds (working class) and their lifestyle (modestly aspirational), they’d be fine. From the expression on Monty’s face, they definitely weren’t.
‘I’ve got a bit in my bag,’ she rummaged around in her purse as they drove into the picture-postcard village. ‘I’ve got some cash, I was supposed to bank it after I shut the shop, but most of the actual banks are closed in Camden now, so—’
Her admission sucked another lungful of oxygen from the car. Money was neither of their favourite topics.
‘Well, I’m sure Charlotte will be eternally grateful,’ Monty deftly smoothed over what could have easily become a fight. ‘She’s always liked things just so, hasn’t she?’
Though she was loath to admit it – girlfriend loyalty – Monty did have a point. On their handful of weekends with the Mayfields, back when the children were actual children, Freya often felt as if they were participating in a tableau. Picnics on the lawn complete with china. Pony rides for the children when the apple blossom was at its fullest. Sunday lunch with Oli triumphantly entering their large dining room carrying a vast rib of beef, talking up Charlotte’s Yorkshire puddings as she hung up her polka-dotted pinafore and joined them. Beautiful visions to be sure, but … Freya had never been entirely convinced that Oli brought out the best in Charlotte. Gone were the dreams of running a café/gallery for up-and-coming artists that Charlotte had envisioned when they’d first moved to the country. In their place was a cardboard-cutout corporate wife and mother … och. She was being mean. Dreams changed. She should know.
At least Charlotte had her picture-perfect family. Even if it was with Oli. And tomorrow there’d be enough free, swish booze to make idle chitchat with the corporate-first, fox-hunting, Brexiteer, Telegraph-reading social set of theirs a bit easier to stomach. Not that she tarred everyone with the same brush, but …
‘There’s a spot, love.’ Monty pointed to a free space. His voice and body language were back to normal now.
Awww. Monty might not be Jeff Bezos, but his heart was always in the right place, and money wasn’t everything, right?
‘Right everyone!’ Freya pulled the car alongside the village green and prayed the double-yellow lines didn’t come with a lurking traffic warden. ‘Ten minutes to find bunting!’ They spread out – one child per adult – and scoured the village for bunting. There was an artisanal butcher’s, a baker’s, two charity shops with some rather sparkly frocks in the windows, about nineteen tearooms and a pub. No bunting. If Freya had her sewing machine she could make some, but … alas!
Just as they were about to pile back into the car, Monty spotted Oliver standing outside the picturesque pub, his phone to his ear in what appeared to be an agitated conversation. He looked up briefly and caught sight of them when Monty waved exaggeratedly at him. Freya didn’t think Charlotte’s husband looked very pleased to see them, but Oli briskly ended the call and headed over to them, his furtive look transformed into a broad, if not entirely sincere, smile.
‘Hallo, chaps! You’ve caught me bang to rights!’ Oli flicked his thumb towards The Golden Goose. ‘Told the wife I’d do a little recce. Wouldn’t be a trip to the countryside without an excursion to the pub, now would it! Lovely to see you both.’ Oliver gave Freya a kiss on both cheeks and clapped Monty in one of those bear hugs that ex-Sandhurst types like him were fond of giving.
‘Charlotte will be thrilled you’re here, Freya, and the … ah … children …’
Freya helped him out. ‘Felix and Regan.’ Monty’s hand slipped onto her shoulder and gave her one of those ‘here we go’ rubs.
‘Of course, how could I forget! Look, why don’t you pop in for a quick pint with me, Monty. Let the wives and sprogs get reacquainted, eh?’ Oli dropped Monty a conspiratorial wink.
‘Splendid idea!’ Monty beamed, as Freya popped on her own false smile. How lovely to nip back to the 1950s in the blink of an eye.
‘Frey, could you make sure when you unpack the car you’re extra careful with my camera equipment?’
Freya shrugged Monty’s hand off her shoulder. Traitor.
He dropped his voice as Oli tried to engage the children in an awkward ‘what have you been up to for the past five years’ conversation.
‘I should probably pop in for a swift one, shouldn’t I? Keep the old boy company.’
Old boy? Who kidnapped her husband and turned him into Boris Johnson?
‘Yes. Or …’ Even she could hear the passive-aggression as she continued, ‘You could come with your family to the glampsite where our hostess awaits and help unpack the car.’
‘Yes. Or …’ Cue Monty’s ‘I know it’s not ideal, but I’m with the kids all week and even though it’s Oli, it’d be nice to talk with a grown man once in a while’ voice. ‘You could see this as a thank-you for putting up the shelves in the shed and remembering to pack your onesie even though you forgot to put it on the list.’
She forced herself to acknowledge 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. 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