Emily gave her a sideways look. ‘I was just saying we’re our own people. Open and honest. Nothing to make a big deal about.’
Izzy gave Emily a stagey nudge. ‘Yes. It’s good to be open and honest with the people we love, isn’t it?’
Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why, yes, Isabelle. It is good to be open and honest with the people we love.’
Freya snorted, then pretended she hadn’t. ‘Are you two still doing that weird “saying meaningful stuff in front of us without spelling it out” thing?’
‘No,’ they both said tightly.
Freya drained her wine glass and extracted herself from the picnic table, announcing an urgent need for more Sancerre.
Charlotte gave Emily and Izzy a curious look. Were they hiding things? Not that she was judging. She’d been hiding things all night.
As if on cue, Oli strode out of the kitchen tent where he’d been muttering away on his mobile.
He shut off his phone and sauntered over towards the women. Charlotte noticed that his natural swagger was exaggerated to the point of outright arrogance by the amount of booze he’d put away, both at The Golden Goose and here.
‘Here she is, the birthday girl. Well done, darling. Did the meal transport you back to the good old days as expected? Burnt bangers and charred burgers hit the spot for everyone?’
Charlotte squirmed. What an odd way to make her feel good about herself. Mocking her Northern simplicity. She was certain the tzatziki had covered up any dryness the burgers might have suffered on the grill. And the griddled potato and chorizo had been devoured. Putting in that touch of sherry had made a difference.
‘Have you lot had Charlotte’s Yorkies? Best thing to come out of Yorkshire, if you ask me.’ Oli just missed covering up a belch. ‘Apart from Charlotte, of course.’
‘Your wife can rustle up a MasterChef meal on a hotplate. I’ve seen it.’ Freya gave him a curt nod and handed him the bottle and the corkscrew. ‘Here. Why don’t you make yourself useful?’
Charlotte caught the glint of a challenge in his eye. ‘Of course!’ He grunted as he deftly extracted the cork and handed Freya the bottle with a pointed, ‘The perfect little woman, my Charlotte. Maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen and whore in the bedroom, right love?’ He leant back and barked a solitary ha!, pleased with his own daring. Charlotte failed to hide her cringe, her eyes darting round the table, hoping no one noticed the sharp look Oli shot her when his joke fell flat. How quickly he must have forgotten how, just a few hours earlier, he had been pleading her, with actual tears in his eyes, to forgive him. Take him back. Continue to love him and keep their family whole. It was the only thing he wanted, he’d said. She was the only thing he wanted. Somehow, she wasn’t entirely convinced that was true.
‘You’re a lucky man to have your very own K-Midd,’ Emily said, holding out her glass for more wine. ‘The power behind the throne.’
‘And the brains.’ Izzy gave Oli one of those ‘just try and contradict me’ looks she’d learned from her mother. Charlotte had always been a bit intimidated by Izzy’s mother. As, she supposed, she had been of Oli. Which was an awful thing to realize. Maybe she should have refused his offer to try and work things out. Instead of accepting gratefully, she could have nodded benignly and said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve made your bed, Oliver. Now off you go. Lie in it.’ As if she’d ever have the courage.
Freya was about to say something else but Charlotte gave her head a quick ‘please don’t’ shake.
She knew she should be grateful to her friends for attempting to burst his little bubble, but all she could feel was the hot embarrassment of shame at the situation, at Oliver, and mostly at herself. How had she managed to end up like this? No self-esteem, no respect, and – potentially – no husband.
‘Well, this is all lovely, the old gang together, thick as thieves like always.’ Oliver put the emphasis on ‘thick’ and Charlotte felt the colour rise to her face. She’d never embarrass him in front of his friends.
Oli yawned and stretched. ‘Wonderful as all this is, how about some coffee, and possibly a nightcap, Charlotte?’ His request felt suspiciously like an order, but desperate to end this particular horror show, she was about to acquiesce when Freya made a ‘no you don’t’ cluck.
‘Sit back down, Lotts. It’s your birthday.’ She shot a look at Oli then said, ‘You’re to be waited on hand and foot this weekend. Sit.’ She climbed out of her spot on the picnic bench and playfully, but firmly, admonished Oli. ‘Lavish your wife with affection.’
Charlotte flushed again. Oli didn’t take to being told what to do, and getting him to lavish anything on her other than disapproval at this point was as likely as Elton John turning up and bashing out ‘Happy Birthday to You’.
A tinny-sounding tune vibrated in Oliver’s pocket. Charlotte thought it sounded a lot like Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’. He tugged his phone out, quickly silenced it, then shoved it back in again. Was it her? Was that their song? She almost wanted to laugh. Filthy and annoying. A bit like him.
He turned towards the tree house, mouthing, ‘Business. Sorry.’ Her friends stared at Oliver’s retreating figure with ill-disguised horror.
‘Not to worry,’ she said in too high a voice. ‘He’s always a bit like this when he’s working on a big deal.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘Besides,’ she tacked on as brightly as she could, ‘if he didn’t work so hard, I wouldn’t get lovely treats like this.’
She waved her hands expansively at the scene around them, at the detritus from the evening; then, as if Oli had snipped the marionette strings that held up her wrists, her hands dropped to the table top with a small thud.
Freya caught eyes with Izzy. For once they could agree on something. Oli was being an arse. The splinters of hurt splicing through Charlotte’s cheery demeanour as her husband disappeared up into the tree house were painful to watch.
It was a super-big ‘ouch’ in an evening that had been increasingly filled with Awkward Oliver Moments. Not that he’d been anything less than charming in his trademark way. A bit of locker-room humour, a bit of bantz and teasing in that slightly juvenile, slightly bullying public-schoolboy way of his.
Everyone’s awkwardness spoke volumes. None of them had ever really taken to Oli. Apart from Charlotte, obviously, so they’d all made allowances. Laughed at his terrible jokes and tried to ignore his privileged egotism. When he’d proposed, they’d all figured if the nicest human in the world loved him, then he couldn’t be all that bad. Hidden depths and all that. But this time there was something else at play, something more … cutting.
‘Guess I’d best clear up for the big day, then.’ Charlotte half stood. ‘Perhaps bring Oli up a coffee.’
The three women exchanged brief ‘WTF’ looks with each other and all rose to help.
Izzy picked up the stray food platter while Emily cleared up the unused cutlery. Freya shooed Charlotte away from the stovetop coffee percolator and made a show of topping up Charlotte’s wine glass whilst lavishing her with praise about the glampsite, the meal, her outfit. When the coffee was ready, Freya ran it up to Oli but didn’t bother waiting for him to answer the door. The soft murmuring tones she’d heard before she’d knocked hadn’t sounded anything like a business call.
Once they’d sat back round the picnic table, an awkward silence settled around them, which Freya was the first to break.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, hen?’ she asked Charlotte quietly. When Freya reached out to touch her hand, Charlotte looked as if she was about to break. A kind word or a hug could push her over the edge. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Oli’s just had a few too many, that’s all.’ She popped on a bright smile.
Freya