The Happy Glampers. Daisy Tate

      Oli smiled ingratiatingly at Charlotte, then the crowd. ‘My girl here needed a bit of softening round the edges. With a few curative pointers from myself and my family,’ he lifted a glass to his mother who sent an adoring look in return, ‘we now have supper instead of dinner, bread instead of teacakes and, my personal favourite, a proper cup of Earl Grey in the morning instead of that—’

      ‘Eh, laddie! I object to that! A person’s from where a person’s from and no one should try and oppress them for it!’ Freya’s broad Scots rang out despite Monty’s feeble attempt to shush her. Charlotte had forgotten what champagne did to Freya’s accent.

      Amidst the murmurings of ‘bloody Scots’ and ‘never miss a chance to wave the Saltire’, Oli soldiered on. This was his crowd and he knew it. ‘So here she is, over fifteen years on. All grown up and properly civilized. She makes a mean Sunday roast. Her Yorkies are the envy of Sussex—’

      ‘Seriously? Her Yorkies?’ Emily, who hated the limelight as much as she did, was indignant. ‘How about her brains? Her efficiency. Her UN-like diplomacy?’

      A few people called out ‘hear-hear’, but not enough to decrease the humiliation. Or Emily’s sotto voce, ‘Bloody wanker.’

      The children appeared at the edge of the group, clearly keen to see what the hubbub was about.

      Oh, when would this end?

      Undeterred, Oli carried on as if no one had said a word. ‘Thanks to Charlotte’s fortitude, we’ve got two gorgeous children who, hopefully, take after their mother more than they do their monster of an old man.’ He pulled a face, beaming when the protests flooded in.

      Charlotte did her best not to flinch when he put his arm around her shoulder and lifted his glass. ‘I’m going to wrap this up so all of this attention doesn’t go to her head. Wouldn’t want her running off and finding someone else’s shirts to iron, would we? To Charlotte. Happy Birthday.’

      As the crowd dutifully echoed the toast and drank, Charlotte watched in horror as Freya marched with the fixed determination of someone who may have had slightly too much to drink to the front of the group and lobbed her beautiful, buttercream, triple-chocolate devil’s food cake directly into Oliver’s face.