old. She’d got her first party-planning job the year her mum had turned forty. They’d not celebrated. Quelle surprise. Forty. So much more grown-up sounding than thirty. Thirty had sounded full of possibility. Forty sounded … forty sounded a bit flat, if she were being perfectly honest. A crossroads.
Charlotte’s gaze shifted. Freya’s makeshift bunting had grown dewy in the night, causing quite a few of the cranes’ wings to droop, but, if the weather report was anything to go by, the string of origami serviettes would be shifting in a light, sun-soaked breeze by the time the party was under way.
The whole idea that she was throwing a birthday party suddenly seemed completely ridiculous.
This morning when she’d come down to put on the coffee, she’d foolishly looked around expecting something, anything, to be sitting out in the kitchen waiting for her. A card. A simply wrapped gift. A flower. But no. There had been nothing except a list of chores written in her own hand.
For all she knew, Oli had had to bribe the rest of their friends to come as he had the children. Veuve Clicquot and Michelin-starred amuse-bouches standing in for fifty-pound notes.
… deep breath in …
All she had to do was get through the next twelve hours. Twelve hours of smiling, greeting, nodding and, perhaps, if she dared, testing just how strong the bonds of her old friendships were.
Charlotte smoothed her hand across her spreadsheet, willing the detailed layout to act as a balm. Here was her day, laid out before her in black and white, with the odd yellow highlight (she really would have to stay on top of the Watlington boy’s peanut allergy, seeing as how Oli had insisted on a satay-based canapé and there was no guarantee his mother would remember his epi pen or that the catering staff would make an announcement).
Welcome drinks.
Nibbles.
Games for the children.
The hog roast.
Cake.
She pored over the sheet until she could see it with her eyes closed, then, as if someone had flicked a switch, the day began.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Oli. Bacon sarnies ready soon? Need to run into town to get something.
Someone, more like.
Well, she thought, her thumb hovering above the Instagram app, happy birthday to me.
‘What did you say?’
Felix glanced nervously over his shoulder. Felix didn’t do conflict. ‘Ummm … Dad’s taking a bath so he told me to ask you?’
Freya was in danger of turning into a bobble head she was nodding so violently. ‘A bath. I see. Well, that’s bloody rich, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so?’ Felix had never known a bath to be an activity of conflict before. ‘Ummm … can I have some money?’
Freya felt the hot rise of anger at her throat. ‘And he told you to ask me for money?’
Why did Monty do this? Send the children to her for money so she’d have to be the one to say no. She’d told him she only had forty quid and that they needed it to fill the car seeing as they’d already used the electric charge on the hybrid. Bloody London traffic!
‘Jack says there’s a shop and they’ve just put out scones and sausage rolls.’ Felix scuffed the dirt with his trainer. ‘I’m hungry.’
Freya did a quick calculation of the change that might’ve fallen to the bottom of her handbag and came up empty. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’. Charlotte’s making breakfast. We can’t afford fancy extras.’
Felix looked crestfallen, but tough cheddar. Waking up to not one but two ‘You’ve exceeded your overdraft’ texts from the bank hadn’t set the morning off in quite the whimsical, escape-to-the-country vein she’d been hoping for. Bloody Monty and his bloody largesse. Oli should’ve been the one footing the micro-distillery gin tasting at the pub, not her broke, wannabe portrait-photographer husband who had yet to pull his camera out of the very expensive case he’d begged her to buy him for Christmas.
Felix’s tummy growled.
Her son never asked for anything apart from books. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the screwy face she made when she was fighting off tears. This was ridiculous, having to count the pennies for a bloody pastry. How on earth had things become so bad she’d turned her own son into a modern-day Oliver Twist? Or, for that matter, flew into a rage because her husband was taking a bath.
‘Sorry, love. I … can you just hang on a few more minutes? Charlotte’s making bacon sandwiches. You won’t starve. First-world problems, remember!’
Rather than reply, Felix plopped down on the picnic bench, heaved his latest library book up onto his lap, threw a look of sheer longing in Charlotte’s direction, then cracked the book in half with a sigh and began to read.
Freya strode over to the bath-house and was about to bash the door in when her fresh-faced husband flung it open with a big old goofy smile on his face. The one that had won her over that very first time Izzy had brought him back to Holly House.
Monty wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Wanna get jiggy with it? I’ve not let the water out of the bath.’
Seriously? Was he mad?
‘Montgomery Burns-West. You are treading on remarkably thin ice.’
He feigned being hit in the heart with an arrow. ‘What? I can’t proposition my fair wife for a morning shag?’
‘Not when the overdraft police are riding my ass, no.’
Monty looked genuinely hurt. There was no glory in it. Why did she always have to be the bad cop? Unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, his wet chest saturating her top. ‘It’s all right, love. I know things are tough, but we’ll get there. Dreams are worth fighting for, right?’
They were, but … Freya thought of her Camden shop, and the oh-so-witty T-shirts that no one seemed to want; the dream of sustainable fashion that had now turned into an endless compromise of her ideals and lots of bounced cheques.
She found herself responding to his kiss until the butterflies began, then pulled away. A kiss and a cuddle wouldn’t fix the overdraft. Nor would fighting about it. She stuffed her tug-of-war mood into the darker recesses and told Monty she was going to help get breakfast ready. Today was about Charlotte. Tomorrow would be about facing facts.
‘Charlotte, you’ve converted me!’ Emily mooched up to the fire, a quilt slung over her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t slept this well in months. Years maybe. ‘That bacon smells amazing. Is there coffee as well?’
Charlotte turned around, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Shit. Crap. What is it? I don’t need coffee. I don’t need bacon. Fuck. Are you okay?’
Nice one, Emms. Yes. The weeping woman is perfectly fine.
‘Sorry, yes. No. There is coffee. I mean …’ Charlotte didn’t even bother swiping at her tears. ‘Oliver’s having an affair.’
Emily looked round in a panic. Where was the lemon drizzle crew when you needed them? She wasn’t equipped for this. There was the doctor’s bedside manner thing, but she’d had training for that. Professional distance came much more easily than the whole warm-and-fuzzy thing.
That. And Charlotte wasn’t a patient. Charlotte had held her hair up when she’d thrown up after an overzealous margarita night. Charlotte had helped her make models of organs out of jelly for her anatomy class. Charlotte still liked her enough to invite her to her fortieth birthday party, despite fifteen years of bunking off invitations to meet up.
‘Here.’ She grabbed an origami crane from the bunting and pushed it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Wipe your face. He’s coming.’
With