The Happy Glampers. Daisy Tate

hadn’t meant to be permanent, more … a means to an end. Only there didn’t seem to be an end. Maybe Izzy’s reappearance was a sign that change was afoot. Of good things to come? Or a harbinger of doom?

       Chop.

      It came to her clear as day. Monty was going to leave her. No wonder he’d run off to have a pint with Oliver. She’d hollered instructions after him as if he were a teenaged boy, not a man. If she were in his shoes, she’d run away. With Izzy, for example. Now that she was back. Izzy was beautiful. Carefree. Freya was the opposite of carefree. She was … pernickety. A bossy, pernickety, purveyor of so-so unicorn T-shirts.

       Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop.

      ‘All right there, woman?’ Izzy sidled up to Freya and hip-bumped her at just the wrong moment. Freya was about to snap at her when Izzy leant in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘So good to see you. You look bloody brilliant. Still keeping Monty on his toes?’

      … and breathe.

      ‘Brilliant T-shirt, Frey.’ Izzy pointed at it with a slice of red pepper. ‘Love the skunk and grenade motif. Is that a Banksy-inspired take on conflict? A “war stinks” kind of thing?’

      Prickles of frustration crackled through her. The T-shirt was one of her favourites. And, yes, it was inspired by Banksy. Not that she would ever admit as much. ‘I thought it was a bit more subtle than that. More along the lines that the artist’s role in nonviolent protest is critical to bringing about change.’ She sniffed.

      ‘It’s cute.’ Izzy plopped the dips into a pair of glossy green bowls without waiting for Charlotte’s decision.

      Typical Izzy. Just ploughing ahead and doing whatever she wants, no matter the consequences!

      ‘It’s very … evocative,’ Charlotte said. Which was kind, but not really the ego boost it was meant to be because, in a million-zillion years, Charlotte would never be caught dead wearing one of Freya’s T-shirts. Except, perhaps, the unicorn range and even then—

      ‘Emily!’ Izzy’s scream brought Freya’s maniacal chopping to an abrupt halt.

      Charlotte clapped her hands. ‘Oh, good! I was beginning to think she wouldn’t make it.’

      Izzy took off like a gazelle, arms wide open, as Emily peeled away from the fancy convertible she’d arrived in, instantly falling into her role as The Girl Who Hates Group Hugs.

      Freya followed Izzy, noticing – as she left the tent – Charlotte swiftly rearranging the dips before she, too, headed towards the car park.

      ‘Enough!’ Emily wailed as they surrounded her and bombarded her with the very things she hated most, kisses and hugs. ‘Get off!’

      Through her cries of protest, they all vied to be heard, ‘You look amazing!’ tangled up with, ‘How long was the drive?’ ‘Who’s the hottie emptying the boot?’ And ‘Jesus wept, are you wearing a skort?’

      The familiarity of this, the silliness of it, stripped a layer of defensiveness from Freya’s heart. Her insecurities were obviously playing silly buggers with her. Everything was as it appeared. Izzy was no threat to her marriage. Oli was as good a husband as any. And Emily was secretly loving this.

      ‘Get off me you heathens!’

      See? Nothing had changed at all.

      Once she’d shaken everyone off, bar Izzy, who was draping her arm over Emily like a feather boa, Freya got a proper look at her.

      ‘Crikey, Emms. You’ve not aged a day!’

      Emily gave a nonchalant shrug. She looked like Lucy Liu with a fringe. Long, inky-black hair. Pitch-black eyes. Not a line in sight, nor a lick of make-up. The women all beamed at each other and, for a moment, the years fell away and they were all twenty-one again, the world at their feet.

      Emily made a show of assessing each of them before abruptly unleashing that sly-dog, hard-won smile of hers. ‘Well, thanks very much, ladies!’

      ‘For what?’ Charlotte looked perplexed.

      ‘For telling me we didn’t have to dress like Ray Mears.’

      Laughing, Emily clapped her hands together with a decisive crack, then brandished two condensation-covered bottles of fizz that she’d pulled from her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s get this pre-party party started!’

       Chapter Four

      When supper was finally ready, the children descended like locusts, making Charlotte’s efforts feel worthwhile. She’d always loved the hubbub of happy children. Even hers had cheered when Izzy revealed some genuine American marshmallows.

      The children, having devoured most of the marshmallows, started to disappear from around the fire which, until food was put in front of him, Monty couldn’t seem to leave alone. Or Oli, for that matter. As if he who made the largest fire would come out as top man. Why on earth was Oliver still trying to prove he was the alpha male when he so obviously was? Charlotte’s concept of what made a real man snagged on the thought. Perhaps the fact Monty had enough pride and self-confidence to be a stay-at-home father did make him the stronger one of the two. She would bet any money in the world Monty wasn’t running around behind Freya’s back.

      ‘Oof! Charlotte.’ Izzy rubbed her flat-as-a-pancake belly. ‘That was amazing. Still hostess with the mostest!’

      Hostess with the mostest secrets, Charlotte thought, giving herself an invisible pat on the back for not succumbing to the growing urge to tell her friends that her charming husband sought his carnal pleasures elsewhere. It had been on the tip of her tongue all evening.

      ‘Tomato sauce, Emily?’ Did you know I’ve not had sex with my husband since Christmas?

      ‘Pimm’s, Freya?’ The last time I tried to make love with him, he pushed me away.

      ‘Izzy, do have the last bit of burrata.’ How’s life as a single mum? Do you think I’d take to it?

      ‘Anyone care to finish these off?’ Charlotte held out the scant remains of their supper. A pair of odd-shaped sausages, a bit of over-charred potato with chorizo and some wilted salad leaves.

      ‘Would you look at that?’ Freya tipped her head towards the fire pit where Monty was now sound asleep on a broad slab of oak, tucked beneath one of the lovely National Trust rugs Whiffy had brought out. He was hugging his camera bag like a teddy bear. ‘Stamina of a gnat.’

      Charlotte watched Freya examine her slumbering husband. It was difficult to read her expression. Half loving, half ‘oh, please’. Their banter was as bright as ever. Maybe a bit more bossy on Freya’s part, but … she was the breadwinner in the house, and if Charlotte’s home was anything to go by, the bill payer had free rein to comment on the failings of the non-earning person. Perhaps that was where she’d gone wrong. Literally making herself valueless.

      ‘He lasted longer than Callum.’ Emily flicked her eyes towards the yurt where her boyfriend had disappeared after announcing he was exhausted after a ‘savage week on the ward’. Mind you, Emily hadn’t actually introduced him as her boyfriend. Just said, ‘And this is Callum, the hospital’s answer to Dr Kildare.’ The two of them seemed to have a little joke at this, which was sweet … but he did seem a bit … theatrical. ‘He seems lovely. Your Callum.’ Charlotte pushed the remains of the cheese tray towards Emily.

      ‘Ha! He’s definitely not “mine”.’ Emily picked up a grape and stared at it. ‘The man does as he chooses.’ When she realized everyone was looking at her with raised eyebrows, she qualified. ‘As do I. Obviously.’

      ‘Amen to that.’ Freya sat up straight. ‘I find