That little gem had slipped out in the end. When Oli was telling her just how little the affair had meant and how much he’d like for them to find a way to make their marriage work despite the pregnancy.
Despite the pregnancy!
He’d back-pedalled. Said he wasn’t sure, really. Or was it that Xanthe didn’t know if she was going to keep it? The roar of blood in her brain had made it difficult to hear.
Xanthe.
The name tasted of bile. And inexplicably gave her the giggles.
‘Mum! I’m starving.’
Charlotte’s daughter Poppy, the definition of a blossoming English rose, dramatically collapsed onto one of the benches at the far end of the tent, clutching her stomach. ‘This place is like, a total wilderness! Can you make me a toastie?’ Her eyes lit on the tins. ‘Is that cake?’
‘Cake’s for tomorrow, duck—’ she tripped over 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. 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.
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. Callum was trying not to laugh. They both knew she looked like an idiot.
‘You, 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’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. Now, who are we communing with again?’
She held up fingers to represent them. ‘Freya Burns-West. Scottish. Arty. Very woke. Husband is a living saint.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ She held up another finger. ‘Charlotte Mayfield. Organizer extraordinaire. Want your place to look picture perfect? She’s your woman. Two point four kids. House in the country. Amazing cake-maker. And Izzy Yeats.’
Emily stared as Callum wriggled into a pair of fitted, cream-coloured trousers that were entirely inappropriate for the great outdoors. Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to him. He just seemed so comfortable being him. The gayness. The braininess. The inability to pick a special someone and get on with life like the rest of the adult world.
Callum slid his belt on and nodded. ‘Right. So, we’ve got a happy homemaker and an arty tree-hugger. You’re the brainy, over-achieving, too narky for her own good because you’re actually very lovely wunderkind …’ Callum smiled when she punched him in the arm. ‘Which one’s Izzy?’
‘Another housemate.’ Emily paused, uncertain what to tell him about the woman she counted as her soul mate. ‘She ran a surf camp in Hawaii for the last ten years. Just moved back. C’mon. Move it. We’re going to be late.’
Eventually he’d tease more out of her. But for now? The fact she owned a skort should be proof enough these women meant the world to her.
‘Monty! Stop laughing. What does Charlotte want?’ Freya caught her husband’s giggles so badly she had to pull into a lay-by. The children, of course, were in a world of their own in the back seat. Ah, to be a Gen Z tween.
Monty put his fingers up in air quotes. ‘Last-minute bunting.’
Freya snorted. Bless her wee cotton socks. Only Charlotte Mayfield would answer an ‘anything we can pick up?’ text with a request for last-minute bunting.
‘C’mon then, woman,’