‘Ugh, don’t get all weepy, Mum,’ Charlie pleads, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s only for a few days!’
I lift my glasses and dab my eyes gently before turning to face her. She grins at me, flashing a mouth full of metal. ‘You didn’t get this emotional when you went to London for the week with Aunt Faith.’
‘I did, you know,’ I confess, sniffing. ‘But I waited until I drove away… Did you remember to pack the elastic bands for your braces? Please don’t break them while— Charlie, what are you fiddling with?’
‘This stupid thing!’ she replies, pointing to the keyring on her school bag. ‘I hate this kind of keyring; I can’t open the round bit.’
Charlotte’s love of keyrings is obvious in the way she jangles like a jailer with every step she takes. She must have hundreds. As I lean in and help her pull apart the tiny metal rings, I notice her name tag on the inside of the bag.
Charlotte Jamieson. Broughton Grammar School.
I always feel a little odd, not having the same surname as my only child. Having to constantly correct teachers and doctors who assume I’m Mrs Jamieson never fails to remind me that at one point in my life, I assumed I would be too. Still, we have the same mouth, the same nose and even the same hands. She’s undeniably mine and besides, Jamieson is better thanBrown. Charlie Brown? No kid needs to be a ready-made cartoon character.
As we step outside, the morning breeze quickly dries the few tears which have defiantly escaped my eyes. Ugh, I don’t want to be this needy. ‘It’s cold, honey. Did you pack your hoodie? Will you be alright with just one jacket?’
Charlie nods. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum, stop worrying. I feel like I should be checking if you’re OK!’
I laugh. ‘All mothers are like this, Charlie. We cry when you’re not within cuddling distance for longer than six minutes.’
‘That’s embarrassing. I’m fourteen.’
‘You are never too old for cuddles. Pretty sure that’s the law.’
Charlie smirks. ‘Fine, one cuddle now and one when I get to school. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
I hug her tightly and kiss her cold cheek repeatedly, like a woodpecker.Get a grip, Nora. You’ll see her next week. It’s only a bootcamp, not bloody war.
‘Um, I have to go, Mum,’ Charlie says, trying to carefully peel me off. ‘I don’t want to be late. Our maths teacher gets annoyed if anyone arrives after she’s taken registration.’
‘I know, I know. I’m just getting my fix,’ I reply. ‘You won’t be late.’
Charlie probably would have been quicker walking to school, given the traffic, but I want to drive her. I want to spend every second with her before I have to leave for this idiotic bootcamp.
Ten minutes later, I drive into the school car park as the first bell rings. It’s filled with equally tired parents who lovingly boot their children out into the cold without stopping. Charlie unclips her seat belt and grabs her backpack.
‘Have fun!’ she says. ‘You can phone me anytime, you know.’
‘Since when did you become the mum?’ I ask, as we both step out of the car and walk towards the gates. ‘I’m supposed to say that to you.’
She leans into me, and I keep my word. One respectable hug, one cheek kiss and one great big joy-filled ‘I love you,have a brilliant time with your Aunt Faith’speech as she runs off into the school building. I take a deep breath. She’ll be fine. Faith will spoil her, Tracey will make sure Victoria doesn’t burn the café down and, after this week, I’ll finally be free from the constant nagging and matchmaking. Everything will be fine.
I walk back to my car, trying to plan my day ahead; Faith took Charlie’s suitcase last night, so all I have to do is tidy up and then, in a couple of hours, I'll be driving to a cabin on the outskirts of Loch Cairn.Maybe a few days of no responsibility will be good for me, I think as I pull on my seat belt. No work, no roadworks, just me and fifty strangers who clearly have too much money and time on their hands. I start the engine and turn on the radio. One week, I tell myself.One week and I’ll be back in Edinburgh and back with Charlie.
It’s 9.20am when I arrive home, still trying to shake the feeling that I might be about to embark on the most expensive week of self-centred, unscrupulous bullshit ever.
Where even the most broken hearts can heal.
I cringe. It’s like a tagline from a Hallmark movie. My life is not a romcom and my perfectly functioning heart is not in need of repair. I’m already judging the people I imagine will be there: rich widows, socially awkward hipsters, yoga bores… Ugh, I bet there’s an entire group of people who talk incessantly about juicing and coffee enemas.
I shuffle into my bedroom and peer into the suitcase on my bed, already filled with clothes I hastily packed last night. Comfy trousers, T-shirts, underwear, black suede heels…Really, Nora?From what I’ve seen online, the lodges are situated beside a small loch, surrounded by trees and rough gravel roads that even my car might struggle on, never mind my kitten heels. Surely my sturdy, all-weather boots will be more appropriate?They’ll probably make us walk about barefoot anyway, I think, reluctantly throwing my heels back into the wardrobe –barefoot and brainwashed.
I slump down onto my bed and grab the very limited information sheet they’ve provided to see if they’ve mentioned anything about dress code or romantically conducive footwear, but of course there’s nothing. It does, however, mention an end-of-bootcamp soiree on the final evening in the main house,to celebrate your hard work and success. I laugh.Congratulations! You’re now five thousand pounds poorer and still single. Have a vol-au-vent.Still, at least my kitten heels are now back in the game. I remove them from my wardrobe along with my dependable little black dress, which hasn’t seen the light of day since Charlie was six and Faith forced me to accompany her to some dull industry awards ceremony in the hope of setting me up with her colleague. Her colleague was a man called Rav who repeatedly said the word ‘yeah’ while I was speaking. He wasn’t even listening to me; I could have been saying anything.
‘So, I live in Broughton—’
‘Yeah.’
