‘Well, if that’s the case, then maybe it’s better if we keep Bonzer. I’ve got the van and—’
‘Nope. No. Sorry, madam.’ Whiffy really did look sorry, but he took a step back from her all the same. ‘You really don’t want to see a longhorn cow protecting her calf against this little guy.’ Whiffy gave Bonzer’s head another scrub, then lifted him into the back of his utility truck. The women waved goodbye. Bonzer’s expression read as all of theirs had when their parents had left them to ‘get on with the magic of learning’ that first day of uni. Half bewildered, half ‘you can go now’.
Devoid of her puppy and child, Izzy gave the site a proper scan. It was lush. Stunning, really. That seemingly effortless combination of whimsy and class. The Brits were brilliant at baronial elegance.
Her eyes settled on a nearby yurt. The first time she’d ever gone camping was with these girlies. Emily had had a hissy fit after her first insect bite and had slept in Izzy’s van. Not that there had been much room in it. Charlotte had decanted near enough their whole house into the thing. Freya had been the truly useful one. Fire-starter. Tent putter-upper. Arbiter of just how long the five-second rule really lasted when a sausage dropped off a stick into the sand. (About thirty seconds if anyone was asking.)
‘Are you all right, Izzy?’ Charlotte reached out to take the backpack Izzy was holding looped on her arm.
‘Absolutely. More than.’ Izzy smiled. She wasn’t here to mope. She was here to party! ‘This place is amazing.’
Charlotte beamed. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’ She tucked her arm in Izzy’s and pointed towards a bell tent. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about what’s brought you back home.’
All in good time, Izzy thought. This was great. Being home again. She loved the UK. She loved her friends. She loved life. All in good time, but not tonight. First, she wanted absorb all of this. The fire pit, the kitchen tent, the smattering of benches and picnic rugs that were all so fabulously British. Everything was just so, except … ‘You know what would make this place absolutely perfect?’
Charlotte and Freya leaned in.
‘Bunting!’
‘Wait! Stop the car.’
‘I thought we were late.’
Emily pressed her hands to the dash. ‘Oh, gawd. Just look at it all.’ Emily thought she might throw up a little. It was all so twee! She loved kitsch, but she did not do twee. In fairness, she thought there’d be bunting. Bunting might’ve tipped her over the edge.
Emily arched an imperious eyebrow at Callum and did a refresher course. ‘Okay. Charlotte’s the hostess with the mostest and it’s her birthday.’
‘Am I right in guessing she’s also the world’s biggest fan of Emma Bridgewater?’
Emily shrugged. ‘Probably. She’s the nice one. The nicest.’ They were all nice.
‘Freya. Erm … She drummed her fingers on her lips. ‘Freya is our resident eco-politico-do-gooder. Married to Monty. Don’t recycle in front of her. You’ll get it wrong.’
‘She sounds a right barrel of laughs.’ Callum mimed turning the car around and making a break for it.
‘Less annoying than she sounds. She’s a weird mix of practicality and creative idealism. Or was anyway. It’s difficult to dislike someone who once made a dress entirely out of cornflakes then tried to donate it to a homeless shelter.’
Callum laughed appreciatively. ‘Sounds like the sort of person who should’ve stayed in Bristol.’
Emily shoved her chunky fringe out of her eyes. Good point. But London was a bit like Oz back in the day. Going to uni then moving to London was simply what you did. Their lot anyway. Except, of course, Izzy. ‘I think the plan was to be some sort of couture artist, but she has a shop in Camden now.’
‘Selling?’
Clothes that were a far cry from the unbelievably beautiful dresses she had once made out of flower petals, but … daisy-chain tutus weren’t exactly everyday wear. ‘Slogan T-shirts.’
Callum looked at her blankly.
‘You know. The kind that say “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m a Unicorn” or “hashtagI’mWithHer”.’
A smile lit up Callum’s face. ‘You should have one that says “Glamping Queen”.’
He laughed so hard the car lurched and ground to a halt.
‘Listen, mate, if I get the slightest hint that there are nasty insects or a compost loo anywhere near this so-called “glamorous” bell tent we’re in, you’re taking me to a Hilton.’
‘Well, someone’s certainly looking forward to seeing her nearest and dearest girlfriends of days gone by.’
She was. Oh, she definitely was. And she also really wasn’t.
‘Just as a point of interest, they might also think you’re my boyfriend. Just go with it.’
She ignored the pointed look and unfurled her index finger towards the glampsite. ‘Onward, James.’
Fuck it.
Was there nothing that would stop the hounds of insecurity baying at Freya’s door? At least Charlotte had finally given her a job. Chopping. Chopping was good. These would be the best carrot, pepper and celery batons the world had ever seen.
Tuning out Izzy’s oohing and aahing as she peered into all the cake tins, Freya selected a glossy red pepper and chopped it in half in one fluid, surgical move. It felt good. But not good enough. Were there enough crudités here to pound out the jealousy she was still feeling over Izzy and Monty?
Logic dictated she should be grateful. Logic seemed to be taking a bit of a holiday.
Sure. If Izzy hadn’t brought him home and had Very Loud Sex with him over that fortnight, she and Monty never would have met. He’d been unceremoniously dumped but had still popped up at the odd party because Izzy had pronounced him good fun if not boyfriend material. When their paths had crossed again at that massive anti-Gulf War march, kismet, Freya had thought. Kismet. But the truth was, fate had nothing to do with it. Her cupid was Izzy.
She chopped so hard she gave herself a crick in her neck. Idiot. Monty loved her. He’d chosen her. They had two chestnut-haired, blue-eyed children to prove it. Their lives were exactly what they’d hoped for. They didn’t need nods from the couture houses or an Amal Clooney-esque track record of human rights triumphs to know they were still in love. That had been the original plan, but … life. At least they were still doing their bit for the planet.
Chop.
Just because, unlike Charlotte, she and Monty had done everything the wrong way round, didn’t mean she needed to be insecure about it.
First came love. They’d got that part right. Then came the double-wide baby carriage. Then, once they’d given in to Monty’s father’s extremely unsubtle offer to pay for a reception at their local in Gloucestershire, marriage.
In the lead-up to their wedding, the twins had been toddlers. Two year olds into everything. It all began to flood back as if it were happening right now. The endless stream of nappies. The panic about primary schools. A ridiculous need to prove to all of their friends that they were still up for throwing one hell of a party. The bone-crushing fatigue.
Freya had had no energy beyond caring for her children, making on-trend T-shirts and getting her family’s bills paid. There hadn’t been