by Tina Seskis
Sissy looked at the grey granite circuit that had been designed to be smooth, water-worn, but if you looked closely had had little crinkle-cut gouges added as a safety afterthought, and as she watched the gushing water she felt sure that Diana would have preferred it all to be a bit prettier, more playful somehow. Sissy admired the sentiment of the memorial, thought it was nearly right, but it lacked something visually, maybe some flower borders to soften the stark of the grey next to the plain green grass. It all seemed a bit industrial to Sissy – she could see why the early comments had been that it looked like some kind of drainage system. Sissy wondered how the artist must have felt, to take that much criticism over something so personal, something she had created; particularly when that child had fallen and banged her head, and everyone had been up in arms about the fountain’s suitability as a children’s playground, and they had even closed it for a while. And then when they did finally reopen it they’d installed No Fun patrols to stop children walking in the water, it was quite ridiculous really. Let the parents take responsibility for their children, thought Sissy, that’s their job, life is full of risk after all. And then that made Sissy think about Nigel again and she almost felt like crying here on her own with her stupid picnic that she’d humped all the way from Balham, and she thought maybe she should just get up and leave right now – she wasn’t sure she could cope with any drama tonight, the unspoken rivalries and resentments that had built up over the years. Why didn’t people say what they meant any more? Sissy often wondered why she got so upset about things; she should try to think less, be like other people who didn’t seem to notice if there was tension in the air, or care how anyone else was, not how they really were anyway.
In the end, Sissy made her decision on where to sit, she couldn’t stand there dithering for ever, and she plumped for an area on the south-east side of the fountain, where the water ran belligerently, with no thought for tiny unstable children, fast and relentless and cold. She could always move again if the others weren’t happy, and here she could keep a watch on whether they were coming. She spread out her picnic rug, a wedding present from her Auntie Shirley, made of tartan Scottish wool with a waterproof backing, which despite being over a decade old was still good as new. You couldn’t beat quality, it was always worth paying the extra, she thought absently as she shook it out and the year-old creases smoothed away as if the evening sunshine had ironed it. And that thought made her sad again, made her think of her poor dead husband, and she really definitely wanted to go home now. There was a group of young tourists – students probably – looking at her, she was sure they were, alone with her blue and green rug and pathetic pasta salad, and she felt conscious of her short sensible haircut and her floral summer dress that really wasn’t her, made her look mumsy, out of place somehow. Her pale-blue eyes pricked and swam amidst her sea of freckles. Why was it still happening, when would she ever get better?
As she was fishing in her handbag for a tissue (amongst half-open make-up, old receipts, a hairy brush, her purse full of nothing but small change, a battered writing journal, her mobile phone, a hair pin that went up her nail and shot a pain straight to her heart), she heard somebody call her name and she started, wiped quickly at her eyes. It was Renée, approaching from the northern gate, looking tanned and gorgeous, her huge brown eyes as alluring as ever (like a cow’s, she always used to drawl when people praised them), and Sissy felt that familiar pang of envy that had never quite gone away, not since they’d been twenty-one and had travelled around Crete together, and Sissy may as well have been invisible on that holiday. She couldn’t help having a tiny, buried feeling of delight when, in their final year, Nigel had asked her, Sissy, out although Renée was convinced that he was always calling around and staying for ages because he fancied her. Renée would never have been interested in someone like Nigel of course, but she seemed to adore the power she wielded over men, and Sissy hadn’t had the heart to disavow her, tell her it hadn’t worked on this one.
‘Hi, darling, knew you’d be here first,’ said Renée, dropping down beside her and crossing her legs, the skirt of her khaki shirt-dress bunched between her thighs, just the right side of decent. A tiny skull tattoo was inked inside her ankle. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Late as usual.’ Sissy smiled, the threat of tears receding now. It was always good to see Renée.
‘Love the rug,’ said Renée. ‘Very Five Go Mad in Dorset.’
‘It was a wedding present,’ replied Sissy.
‘Oh. Sorry, Siss.’ Renée changed the subject as she opened a bottle of Prosecco. ‘Is Natasha coming? Has she managed to organise her incredibly busy schedule to fit us plebeians in?’
‘Apparently so,’ said Sissy with a half-smile. ‘But please promise not to take the mickey out of her about it – you know how touchy she gets.’ She stopped, suddenly guilty at what she’d said.
‘Yeah, and doesn’t she?’ said Renée, blithely. ‘And then she just goes back to telling everyone how important she is. Silly bitch.’
‘Ssshh,’ said Sissy, looking around nervously, as though the students ten feet from them actually knew Natasha, were perhaps even related to her, and would be offended.
‘Don’t worry, Sissy, no-one’s listening. And anyway, it’ll be nice to see her, I haven’t had an update on her ghastly children for ages.’
‘Don’t be mean,’ said Sissy. ‘They’re lovely kids,’ although they weren’t, of course, but despite everything Sissy still tried to see the good in people.
‘I’m only joking,’ said Renée. ‘You really need to lighten up sometimes.’ She grinned and shoved a glass of sparkling wine at Sissy, and when Sissy took it her hand was flecked with tiny spots of blandly neutral paint, Mascarpone perhaps. ‘Cheers, darling.’
Sissy put down the glass carefully, untouched, and as she looked up she saw Juliette walking – no, not walking, staggering – along the path, lugging a colossal picnic basket, and although Juliette also had one of those fold-up chairs slung across her back, her posture managed to be graceful, like a dancer’s. She’s still so beautiful, thought Sissy, a little wistfully, is she ever going to look older?
‘Hi,’ called Juliette across the fountain, plonking the basket down with a dangerous-sounding clank and readjusting the chair, which had slipped off her shoulder.
Sissy went to help, trying her best to be normal with Juliette, to not recoil as she was embraced somewhat reticently by her friend – after all Juliette wasn’t to blame for what had happened. By the time they’d carted everything over to Sissy’s chosen spot Renée had lain down on her own rug (which was blood-red and satiny, more porn film than picnic), long dark hair fanning out like a dried-up stain, legs bent into perfect flesh triangles, scarlet silky knickers shamelessly on show – and instead of sitting up she simply smiled and vaguely waved hello, which Sissy wasn’t sure was deliberate rudeness, or just Renée being louche, you could never tell with Renée. Juliette seemed equally awkward, and Sissy wondered if something new had happened for them to fall out over – they usually made a bit more of an effort to at least pretend to get along – or whether it was just the same old feud that had been rumbling on for years. Sissy put down the chair and sat back down on her rug, twisting her wedding ring, wishing she could go home, to Nigel – and then she remembered all over again that he was dead.
‘Thanks, Sissy. My God, getting here was a nightmare,’ said Juliette. ‘First Stephen was late home, and then my taxi didn’t turn up, so I had to call some dodgy minicab and it stank of car freshener. Thought it was going to contaminate the picnic, ha ha.’ Juliette kicked off her silver sequinned flip-flops and sank onto Sissy’s rug, her back to Renée, her extraordinary hair glowing in the amber sunshine. ‘Is that Prosecco? Pour me a glass will you, Sissy, I’m gasping.’
There were only a few people left at the fountain now, it was getting late: one other picnicking group who were drinking wine from white plastic cups and eating out of carrier bags; a couple with backpacks and zi
p-off shorts and matching sensible sandals, those Velcro ones, who were sat on the wall eating supermarket sandwiches whilst studying a map of London; a family of noisy, very wet children (the mother had wrung out her little boy’s shorts and was attempting to put them back on him again); and lastly a lone man in a business suit who was dangling his bare feet in the fountain whilst reading a book – which, Sissy noticed, was her most favourite war novel ever. He had a nice face, unremarkable yet familiar somehow, but he looked melancholy to Sissy, and she wondered why he wasn’t on his way home – he didn’t look the type to take off his socks in public, or read Zola’s La Débâcle for that matter.
Sissy and Juliette sat down and chatted about their children as Renée continued to lie insouciantly on her back, catching the last of the summer sun. It was only when there was a screeching noise that even Renée sat up to see what the fuss was. It was Siobhan, of course, stumbling through the gate, with what appeared to be a folding chair over her shoulder and a wrecked-looking carrier bag in her hand. The bag’s handle had broken, and she seemed to have made another hole in the plastic, cutting off the blood supply and making her wrist look angry. Sissy noticed she was wearing heels that were far too high for her, as usual, making her look taller and slimmer than ever, and her skinny jeans had a dark stain down the left thigh.
‘Oh, there you are!’ she squealed, loudly, so everyone in the fountain’s enclosure turned to look at her, everyone except the businessman who carried on reading his book determinedly. ‘I couldn’t bloody find this place, I thought you said it was by The Serpentine Gallery, Sissy!’ Her tone sounded accusing, but Sissy didn’t rise to it.
‘Sorry, Siobhan, I’m sure I said it was by The Serpentine cafe, near the lido, but maybe I got it wrong. How are you?’
‘Hot. Fed up. Dropped my profiteroles, had a row with my boss, he’s such an arsehole sometimes. Anyway, whose idea was it to meet here? It’s a bloody nightmare to get to on public transport.’
The others sighed inwardly. Here we go, thought Sissy with dread, as she continued helping Juliette sort out the food. No-one bothered correcting Siobhan, that in fact it had been her suggestion to have the picnic here – Siobhan was one of those people who managed to fit history to suit her version of the truth.
Siobhan dumped her things down and looked around. ‘Don’t you think over there’s better?’ she grumbled. ‘It’s a bit higher up, so it’s got a nicer view of the river.’
Renée gave Sissy a distinctly unsubtle told you so look, and Sissy looked down, embarrassed, but she needn’t have worried, Siobhan seemed oblivious. Sissy was about to start packing up, to move to where Siobhan suggested, when Juliette spoke.
‘Sorry, but I think we’re all right here, Siobhan. It’s too much palaver to move everything now.’
Siobhan stared at Juliette, unsure whether to argue. ‘But it’s better over there,’ she said eventually, and she sounded forlorn, like a little child.
‘Oh, OK, maybe we could –’ began Juliette.
‘Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have been late, Siobhan,’ interrupted Renée, as she lay down again, and hitched up her dress even higher. ‘The others will be here soon, let’s just get on with it instead of fussing about nothing.’
‘Oh!’ said Siobhan. ‘That’s a bit rude.’
‘Sorry,’ breezed Renée, and closed her eyes.
Before Siobhan had time to say anything further, there was a loud, horsey ‘Helloooo’, and as they turned they saw the final two women approaching along the path from the other direction. Natasha was thread-thin and stressed-looking, aggressively blonde, in a scarlet dress suit that was too hot for the day, too dated for the year, and she walked in her heels like she wished they were running shoes. Camilla was short, immaculately pastel, in white jeans that made her legs look stumpy like iced buns, and a pink stripy shirt with the collar turned up under a string of pearls. A pale-blue jumper was slung nonchalantly over her shoulders. Sissy caught Renée looking at them as she sat up to top up her glass (already?) and hoped she wouldn’t say anything. Renée was always threatening to take them both clothes shopping, but Sissy could tell that Natasha wasn’t in the mood for any dress sense jokes today. Sissy wondered what was wrong; it was unlike Natasha to be miserable, or to show it anyway.
Sissy observed Renée not even bother to sit up to say hello (instead she just murmured hi from her horizontal position), and Juliette hunch into the apparent effort of unfolding the chairs (were they still not up?) rather than turning and greeting people properly, which seemed strange to Sissy; and of course Siobhan was looking moody still for a whole host of unknown reasons. In fact the atmosphere felt so odd, off-kilter, it seemed almost impossible to believe they’d all once been best friends – and as she watched them, Sissy knew with the certainty of someone primed to spot trouble these days that she’d been right all along. She shouldn’t have come.
5
Bristol
Nearly thirty years earlier
The room was high-ceilinged and elegant, despite the cheap student furniture, the two unmade single beds tucked away under the sash windows, the clothes horse full of damp faded washing in the corner, the Morrissey poster pinned up over the mantelpiece. It was as if the size of the room made up for the student chaos it contained, enabled it to rise above it somehow. Sissy had been glad she’d been allocated such great digs in her first year, even if she had had to share them with, amongst others, an acerbically witted, punky-looking girl who’d scared the life out of her at the start, until Sissy had finally tuned into Renée’s sense of humour and realised, thankfully, that she was actually quite nice.
Juliette and Renée were curled up on the couch, watching Blind Date on the crackly portable TV Camilla had brought from home. Siobhan was sat on the floor between them, leaning against the sofa, and every now and again she would roar with laughter at something one of the contestants had said, and bang her head on Juliette’s legs and go, ‘Owww,’ and Juliette would ruffle Siobhan’s bubble-permed hair affectionately, as if she were a dog. Sissy was sat bolt upright in the single easy chair, looking like a twelve-year-old boy, reading yet another book on the Franco-Prussian war, seemingly oblivious to everything, yet every now and again giggling at one of the impersonations Renée would do of the presenter’s accent. As the final ad break finished, Natasha burst through the door, hot and sweaty, Jane Fonda headband luridly pink against her blonde spiky hair, and plonked herself down next to Siobhan to watch the bit where Cilla would say things to the post-date couple like, ‘Oh dear, no need for me to be buying me hat then, chuck,’ to try to add some levity into the air of mutual hatred.
Just then, Camilla bustled into the room, face shiny with steam, hair pushed back by a tortoiseshell Alice band, stripy shirtsleeves rolled up as if she meant business.
‘Supper won’t be long, chaps,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Juliette. ‘D’you need any help?’
‘Well, if you could peel the carrots that would be super,’ replied Camilla.
‘Sure,’ said Juliette, and got to her feet, despite this being her favourite part of the show; not that Camilla would have minded doing them herself, she loved cooking for everyone – especially when Blind Date was on, which she thought was dreadful.
As Juliette made her way into the kitchen there was a knock on the main door, and she assumed it was a friend from one of the other floors, come to borrow something, or simply invite themselves in. She was right, it was Alison, one of the swotty physicists from downstairs.
‘Hi, Alison!’ said Juliette. Alison just stood there, staring mutely. Peals of laughter sounded from the other room. Still Alison didn’t speak.
‘Alison, are you OK? What’s happened?’
‘Is Camilla all right?’
‘Yes, come in, she’s cooking as usual.’
‘Doesn’t she know? Hasn’t anyone phoned her?’
‘Know what? We don’t have a phone here.’
‘Oh no, I take it you haven’t seen t
he news then?’ asked Alison, and she seemed agitated, on edge.
‘No, what news?’
‘Oh God, sorry, just put the news on, will you? I’m so sorry.’ And with that she turned on her heel and walked away, as Juliette stood watching her in bewilderment.
6
East Coast of Australia
Sissy and Nigel’s honeymoon, in the earliest days of the new millennium, was very nearly the best three and a half weeks of Sissy’s life. She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed the wedding as such – it had been lovely of course, but she’d become so stressed about all the arrangements, and then she’d hated being the centre of attention, and although everyone told her she looked beautiful she knew she didn’t really, that’s just what people said to the bride. Her dress had been nice enough, but they’d teased and lacquered her hair until it was like cardboard, and her face had looked as if she’d been crayoned (she knew she should have trusted her instincts and done everything herself), and she didn’t need to wait to see the photos to know she looked terrible. The food had been OK and the speeches hadn’t been too humiliating, but no-one had danced much – Sissy was worried that the space had been too big, the lighting too bright, to tempt anyone but the aunts and uncles out – and she’d found herself stressing, convinced people weren’t enjoying themselves, wishing the evening would just hurry up and end. It had been a relief to collapse into bed, all thoughts of consummation abandoned; they’d been together for years anyway so it didn’t matter, not really.
