What your less wealthy friend really thinks of you… and why they’re thrilled summer is over

‘So, who wants to book glamping tents at that festival?’ the WhatsApp message reads. Everyone immediately pings back enthusiastically. And then comes the highlight. A Bedouin tent for four costs, gulp, £2,355. Per person.

That’s the reality as I try to keep in touch with my rich friends during the summer holidays, which are now thankfully over.

Despite the rain, most people tried to squeeze the last bit of fun out of July and August, with sailing trips on the Solent, expensive dinners and weekends away by the sea.

But dear God, the price of it all. And the fear of saying yes to every innocent suggestion of ‘a relaxing night or two away’ when your companions have so much more money than you… and you’re already wondering how you’re going to pay this winter’s gas bill.

I have reluctantly said goodbye to the festival. As much as I would love to party for a weekend with some of my oldest friends and their children, the truth is that I am increasingly struggling financially.

And as I scroll through Instagram and see their luxury holidays abroad – one rented a yacht for a week in the Mediterranean, another posed with a glass of bubbly by an infinity pool in the Caribbean – I’ve had to fight the Fomo (fear of missing out) and jealousy that overcomes me at this time of year.

During our family holiday last summer, a week in Ireland and a few days glamping in a rainy shepherd’s hut in Dorset, I started to realise that the gap between me and my wealthier friends is widening.

When a friend recently asked me if I could join her for a long weekend in Ibiza, I jokingly asked if she had ever heard of something called the ‘cost-of-living crisis’. She just laughed and said it sounded really unpleasant.

Break out the little violin, I hear you say. I know it’s a ridiculous first-world problem when so many people are really struggling – but still, that Theodore Roosevelt quote about comparison being the thief of joy sometimes rings true.

Like when I’m forced to admire a friend’s new wine cellar, which is twice the size of our repainted ’80s kitchen.

At our annual university get-together, it’s not unusual to see bottle after bottle of champagne ordered. When the four-course meal arrives – smoked salmon, celeriac carpaccio, beef fillet, chocolate and lamington marmalade – I dread the final bill. £300. Each!

Those kinds of expenses are enough to keep me saving for a month, and I’ve already maxed out my overdraft.

Although we met at Exeter University in the late 1990s and have led similar middle-class lives – 2.4 kids, Volvo, Labrador, etc. – I earn considerably less than most of my friends.

While many have gone on to become CEOs and fund managers, I struggle on less than the UK average full-time salary of £35,000 as a freelance journalist. I’ve been self-employed for almost 15 years, working around my three children, now 15, 12 and 10.

A scroll through her friends’ Instagram feeds of their lavish summer holidays – one of which involved renting a yacht in the Mediterranean – showed the growing rift between Georgina and her wealthy friends

Luckily, I’ve never felt judged by my friends for my relative lack of money. Sometimes I’ll suggest meeting up for brunch at a local café instead of one of the expensive fancy restaurants they frequent. I’ve only had one old friend decline. After turning her nose up at Wagamama, we ended up going for oysters and champagne at a new restaurant in Soho. We had such a good time, but I regretted it the next day when I checked my bank balance.

Oystergate has made me tell friends that I can only go out for drinks instead of dinner if I’m a bit broke that month. They’ve generally been very understanding.

Quietly, some friends do their best to help me. One was happy to wait for the £75 I owed her for dinner until a large bill had been paid; another sometimes insists on paying the bill at the end of the evening because, she says, she can and she knows I would do the same for her if I could.

There is no social hierarchy in my different groups, as such; we have known each other too long for that. But I do find it difficult that some friends now work four days a week and still earn much more than I do.

Fortunately, my husband Dom, a lawyer, earns enough that I don’t have to worry about paying the mortgage each month. However, we have separate bank accounts (something my late mother always advised), so I’m well aware that my own precarious salary situation isn’t ideal.

So it’s a huge relief to see the semester begin and fall settle down socially again. A chance to recoup some of the money I’ve spent chasing sunny memories with these buddies. I’ve largely had to accept that I just can’t keep up with them – at least not all the time.