The Happy Glampers. Daisy Tate

with money, living in a bit of a dream world most of the time with his harebrained schemes for their future (perhaps they should move to the Isle of Mull one day and set up a retreat for burned-out tech entrepreneurs and teach them how to live mindfully), but he was an amazing father and her family loved each other. Not one of them would ever have to be bribed to spend time together. Monty always instilled respect into their kids. Years ago, when Regan was four, she’d had a particularly foul tantrum when Freya had been trying to get out of the house to work. Monty had made Regan FaceTime her on her way to the tube and sing ‘The Apology Song’. It wasn’t a real song. Monty had made it up. They’d also bought her a Tunnock’s Snowball and put it on her pillow after making her toad-in-the-hole for supper. Her faves from home.

      She couldn’t imagine Oliver ever doing the same for Charlotte. She made a silent vow to try and not kick Monty tonight when he began to snore.

      ‘Hey,’ Freya brightened at a memory. ‘I forgot to say, Rocco sends his best.’

      ‘Your brother?’ Charlotte’s features softened.

      ‘The one and only. We rang him on the drive down. I mentioned we were seeing you and he starting dredging up memories from the summer you came up and worked at the fruit farm with me. Remember that?’

      ‘Of course, I do. It was a brilliant summer.’

      Freya squawked, ‘Hardly! We worked our fingers to the bone … oh, wait. You got upgraded to the café, didn’t you?’

      ‘Farm shop. I did the displays,’ Charlotte said, as if it had happened yesterday. ‘And your brother dropped us off and picked us up every single day.’

      ‘Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. He’s a good big brother.’

      ‘Yes,’ Charlotte looked lost in a world of her own. ‘Very nice.’

      Freya grabbed a couple of Charlotte’s brilliant homemade biscuits then took a torch out of the ‘general use’ box.

      Charlotte hadn’t moved.

      ‘You sure you’re okay?’

      ‘Perfect.’ Charlotte gave her hand a quick squeeze then shooed her on. ‘Never better.’

      Charlotte had nearly cracked. Told Freya everything. She’d virtually tasted the words in her mouth.

      Oliver’s having an affair. He wants us to stay married. Push on through. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to.

      And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know what she wanted. Plenty of women forgave their husbands for indiscretions. Even Beyoncé. There were others, of course, who didn’t. But could you ever move on from betrayal?

      She had no money of her own. No job. Nowhere to go. No friends to turn to – not on her doorstep anyway.

      Oh, it was an impossible situation, and not one she’d imagined having to contend with on her birthday. Not anytime, really, but it did seem particularly unfair to find out now. Her mother would’ve wept with laughter. Shows you, Little Miss Fancy Britches. Always thought you were too good for your own kind.

      Yes. She had been shown. And now she needed to decide how to proceed. She tiptoed up the curved stairwell to the tree house, even though the place was still blazing with light. Perhaps Oli hadn’t been taking a call from her after all.

      She quietly opened the door and looked across to the huge king-sized bed where Oli was skimming through messages on his phone, that telltale smile playing on his lips. The one that said he was in the mood. Her heart lifted. Maybe he really had meant it. About keeping things going. Wanting the best for their marriage. He looked up when she closed the door behind her with little more than a click, met her inquisitive gaze and said, ‘Oh. It’s you.’ As if he had been expecting someone else.

      ‘Hello, darling. Chilly out. Oh, good, you got your coffee.’

      His eyes flicked to the bedside table then back to his phone. ‘Your friends were pretty lairy tonight,’ he said. As if they’d trashed the place. ‘Especially … who is it? The Scottish one. She likes her sauce.’ He mimed glugging a bottle of wine, which was rich given the fumes he was emitting. ‘You’ll keep an eye on her tomorrow, right? Make sure the staff don’t top her up too often?’

      An instruction. So many of their conversations were actually lists of instructions. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t even trying to be different. This wasn’t the behaviour of a repentant man. A husband desperate to make amends. All of her hopeful thoughts that they might be able to go through this marital … calamity … fluttered to her feet.

      She wondered if Oli’s lover was the same as she had once been. In complete awe of him. The power. His physical presence. The confidence. It was his confidence that had really swept her off her feet. He was still every bit as handsome. Every bit as charismatic. Every bit as much in love with her?

      She reached out to him, her heart lurching up into her throat as she asked, ‘Darling, do you think this will all work out?’

      ‘What? The party? So long as your mates behave themselves, I’ve got it all in hand. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.’

      Then he rolled over and turned out the light.

      In that moment, Charlotte resolved to tell her friends everything.

       Chapter Six

      Sleep might have helped. So would flinging her phone into the fire and watching it melt away into nothing.

      As things stood, Charlotte wasn’t in the best frame of mind to host a birthday party.

      Calling it off was out of the question. Too many wheels in motion. The caterers, for example, would be arriving any time now.

      Almost involuntarily, her thumb flicked her phone from the home page to Instagram. Cyber-stalking, it turned out, was rather addictive.

      Xanthe was terrifically young and beautiful. No surprise there.

      Xanthe had well over two thousand followers, could ski, scuba, and loved a quality organic facial.

      Xanthe – she thumbed a bit further down the page – also went out to nightclubs where her husband doled out kisses like lollipops. She looked happy and comfortable. As if it were perfectly normal to have another woman’s husband plant kisses on her dewy young cheek.

      Charlotte pocketed the phone and stared helplessly at the yurts where her friends peacefully slept away.

      As certain as she’d been that she must tell them what was really going on, morning brought with it the dawning realization that if she were to veer off script now she might lose what little traction she had in her marriage. Putting on ‘a good show’ was paramount to the Mayfields. And today, which came complete with the full complement of in-laws, would be no different.

      Mostly because everything seemed one step removed from reality. As if discovering her husband was a cheat had dropped triple-glazing between her and the life she thought she’d been living.

      She remembered the advice that some of the older wives at the law firm had given her in the early days of their marriage; giving her the lowdown on what being a ‘seasoned wife’ meant, and what was in store for Charlotte when Oliver became the youngest partner in his firm. Don’t complain about supper drying out in the oven. It will happen frequently. Never moan about the long days. Those billable hours were keeping her in Chloé and Stella McCartney. And most importantly, don’t fight about the affairs. It was simply how it worked. That will never happen to me, she had thought.

      The affairs, she’d learnt that night, had tiers. The secretaries slept with the junior partners. The junior partners slept with the senior partners. The librarian slept with everyone.

      She took a sip of her tea and watched,