the Yorkshire-ism and landed on a rather garbled ‘darling’. ‘How about a biscuit?’ She opened up a tin of homemade custard creams. Poppy made a vomit face.
Always nice to know her efforts were appreciated.
She checked her watch. Nearly three o’clock and still no Ocado delivery. ‘Here.’ She rustled in one of the cool boxes. ‘Why don’t you have an apple?’
Jack made a face. ‘There’s a tuck shop or something by the car park. They’ll have something good.’
Charlotte protested as Poppy dived into her handbag. Hadn’t their father just given them bribe money? When her daughter unearthed a twenty and clapped her hands she looked away. At least she had the money to spare. But would she always?
What if she and Oli couldn’t iron everything out and carry on as normal? What if he chose this possibly pregnant lover over the family he claimed to adore? It was common enough. Trading in an old model for a new one. Regretting it when it was far too late to make amends. She had tacked on that last bit. It was nothing Oli had actually said, as such.
After the children reluctantly agreed to check out their bell tent, she scanned the kitchen area – artfully battered pans, flame-licked Le Creuset casseroles, towers of mismatched china – then pictured all of the washing up that fifty-odd people (forty of whom Oliver had invited ‘to make it feel like a real party’) would create. Perhaps having the caterers was a good idea. The hog roast, though. Wasn’t everybody a vegan now? Charlotte hadn’t been sure, but Oli had insisted, and with him footing the bill she hadn’t felt able to protest.
Tomorrow, of course, was the big ‘do’, but tonight was her night. Simple, straightforward, outdoor fare with the small handful of friends she had invited. She looked out to where a handful of picnic tables were dotted round a huge fire pit.
How could she have forgotten the bunting?
She’d laid it out in the mud room along with … what had she laid it out with? The children’s wellies, Oliver’s linen jacket (the one without the red wine stain, yes, she’d double-checked). The same one in which she’d found the receipt for a lingerie set from Coco de Mer in a size ten (she was a twelve to fourteen), the pile of picnic rugs (with waterproofing because you never really could rely on the weather), Oli’s iPad. His new one, which had pinged with a message just as she’d set it down. Hello darling, just wondering if you’d managed to escape the horrid …
Another tendril of Charlotte’s confidence drifted off in the breeze.
Would she be able to play happy families all weekend?
She decanted some strawberries into a rather lovely china bowl. An antique from the looks of things. With a chip. Oli would hate it.
Anyway. The strawberries were perfect. And that counted for something.
‘How do I look?’
Emily did an awkward twirl in front of Callum. From the look on his face, he didn’t need to say a word. The khaki skort and plaid shirt combo exemplified the precise aesthetic she’d fastidiously avoided for some two decades, now. Earthy lesbian. Thank you very much outdoor wear.
Her normal attire was easy. Scrubs, or something black: Uniqlo and Superdry had made a small fortune out of her. Cath Kidston courtesy of her mother. The latter, which came as pointed gifts, along with a list of social events where Emily might consider wearing them, lived on a high shelf just out of reach.
She grimaced at her reflection in the wall mirror. She owned a skort?
Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.
He glanced at the tag she’d unceremoniously ripped off. ‘Glad to see you’ve gone for fabric with a high breathability factor.’
‘Why?’ She sniffed. ‘Do I stink?’
‘You smell like a spring meadow.’
Somehow, she doubted that.
‘You do, however, look like someone who’d rather do anything other than camping.’
If she were being really honest, it was little short of a miracle that Charlotte had managed to cleave her from the hospital. Not that she made a habit of being dishonest, she simply wasn’t big into girlie weekends. There was always so much talking. And feelings. Definitely not her thing.
But! These women were about as close to a crew as she had. Not that they’d been in each other’s pockets since uni. Apart from Izzy, she’d let the friendships … drift. Yes. Drifting would be a good way to describe it. She didn’t not want to be friends. She simply didn’t include any time in her life to have friends. Which was why Callum, a man gifted with actual social skills, was the perfect person to accompany her to a fortieth birthday party where she’d swat at insects, not flush loos, and eat carcinogen-covered food with friends she hadn’t seen for at least a decade and might not actually like any more.
Callum appeared behind her in the mirror. ‘Are you trying to picture your survival chances for the West Sussex version of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?’
She bumped her breathable-fabric-covered hip against his and whined, ‘I’m Chinese. I don’t do glamping. It’s all out of doors.’
‘The Chinese aren’t big North Face fans, then?’ He dangled the tags in front of her.
‘Oh, we love it. We just don’t get it dirty. Or bring it outside the city.’
‘Wait! We’re leaving Soho?’
She scowled at him as if it were his fault she’d accepted the invitation, then flopped down on the bed and tugged on one of the walking shoes she’d bought online. As if by magic a WhatsApp notification pinged in, accompanied by a very Charlotte-esque list of reminders:
1. Remember to bring sunblock suitable for your skin type. Don’t be shy about bringing factor 50! (Obviously for Freya, who turned into a large freckle the moment the sun appeared.)
2. Swimming costumes. There’s a wild swimming pool! (Errrrr. Nope. That one was for Izzy.)
3. Insect spray. (Bingo! Definitely for her. She was prepared to Deet the living daylights out of the little blighters.)
This, chased up with a cutesy request to ‘Pipe up with any special dietary requirements. We’re even prepared for all you barbecue-loving vegans!’
She had no idea who that one was for. Freya maybe? Emily couldn’t remember who’d been vegan, vegetarian or gnawing raw meat straight from the source last time they’d met. Bad friend.
She stood up and bounced on the soles of her new shoes. Springy.
Callum’s quirked eyebrow meant he was still waiting for an explanation about the Chinese distaste for outdoor activities.
‘Fifty years of enforced labour do that to a people.’
He laughed. ‘I suppose it’s the same as my people.’
Emily blinked and asked in her best innocent voice, ‘The people of Edinburgh don’t go camping?’
He pulled off his scrubs top, then basket-balled it into the laundry bin. ‘My mum is permanently scarred by childhood exposure to midges and my father prides himself on being the most immaculately dressed man Nigeria has ever produced. I think we can agree, Emms –’ he did his own version of a catwalk strut and twirl – ‘this apple did not fall far from the tree.’ He pulled a shirt out of the closet and held it up for Emily to inspect. ‘Will this impress?’
She nodded her approval. ‘Very Crocodile Dundee.’
He feigned disappointment. ‘I was going more for the Bear Grylls look.’
‘You look very rugged. Très SAS. Better?’
‘Much.’
She pulled her pager out