When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  It was only once they’d arrived in Australia that Sissy had finally begun to relax. She and Nigel spent a week in a fancy hotel on Magnetic Island, where they had their own private terrace, complete with hot tub and sweeping sea views the colour of swimming pools, and where on the beach thirty yards away the sand was soft under their feet and coconuts fell like gifts from a more benevolent universe. And after that they took a trip in a Winnebago up the coast, not knowing where they would stay each night or what the next day would bring, and Sissy had adored it, even more than the luxury of the resort. Nigel made her feel safe, as though she didn’t have to worry about everyone and everything for a change, and they found deserted postcard beaches where they set up camp and built fires and cooked fish they’d caught themselves, and she hadn’t realised life could be so magical. She found herself falling ever more in love with her new husband, delighting that he was such a decent person, so optimistic about life, so practical and manly, so much fun. It was all too perfect.

  So when, near the end of their trip, Nigel had confided over breakfast that he was worried about a mole on his left leg, just above the knee, saying that it had seemed to really grow and darken while they’d been away, Sissy hadn’t catastrophised like she normally did (especially after what had happened to poor Camilla while they were at Bristol), and instead she’d felt sunny and positive and had reassured Nigel that it would all be fine. They agreed to get it checked out though, just to be on the safe side, ensure it wouldn’t spoil their stopover in Hong Kong. So as soon as they got to Cairns a couple of days later Nigel found a doctor, and she’d taken one look at the mole and sent him straight to the hospital, and that’s when the river of dread had started flowing inside Sissy again, the one that had never quite stopped since, not since that sunny afternoon long ago, on the other side of the world.

  7

  Bristol

  Camilla’s father had the kind of fall from grace that had the Sunday tabloids whooping for joy, their reporters out sniffing round the corpse like hyenas waiting for the lion to clear off. His story had all the right ingredients for a front-page splash – the oh-so-respectable peer, the dutiful wife, his droning sermons on public morals during the latest election campaign, the handsome rent-boys (with pictures), proof of his particular penchant for wearing rubber and being spanked with a wooden spoon for bad behaviour. For anyone it would be horrific, but for Camilla, in her first year at university and already a minor celebrity around campus due to her famously influential father, it was intolerable.

  Camilla hid away in her and Natasha’s room for days and days and refused to come out. She lay under her duvet and sobbed, only getting up to shuffle down the corridor to the communal bathroom when she absolutely had to, Natasha on guard to ensure the coast was clear. And even then she would wrap the duvet around herself, as if it were a dressing gown, and it seemed it was her only protection from the world that before this had seemed innocent and sunny, and now was rancid, impossible to navigate. She couldn’t even go home, the press were camped outside, and anyway how could she face this man who until now she’d adored and revered, and her poor dutiful mother who must be dying from shame herself.

  In the end it was Siobhan who organised a weekend away in her uncle’s cottage in Somerset. All six of them went, and no-one remotely knew who Camilla was down there, and they took long walks and drank tea and ate chocolate, and being able to breathe the fresh, unsullied air and avoid the newspapers and the pitying looks was a relief to Camilla. When she got back to Bristol there was a letter from her father, begging her forgiveness, and it was so open and heartfelt she was tempted, which was just as well as the next day he was found dead, hanged in one of the trees he’d planted himself, in the thickening wood on their vast estate.

  ‘Camilla? It’s me, Tash.’

  ‘Oh. Hallo.’

  ‘I’m sorry to keep ringing, but I’ve left you so many messages.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry I haven’t called back.’

  ‘Och, don’t apologise. How are you just now?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ Camilla trailed off.

  ‘Look, I know this is terrible for you, but we want you to know we’re all here for you. Did you get our card?’

  ‘Yes, I … I’ve been meaning to reply.’

  ‘Don’t be soft, we don’t expect a reply … Anyway, we thought we may come and see you soon.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘All of us.’

  ‘Oh, Natasha, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Aye, Camilla. We’ll get a takeaway and watch a video or something. You just need a wee bit of normality. Please don’t say no … Your mother thinks it’s a good idea.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Mummy?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last three weeks, ever since the funeral, and in the end she picked up the phone, and she recognised my voice from the answerphone.’ Natasha sounded sheepish. She never had been one to take no for an answer.

  Camilla didn’t know what to say. She was touched that her friend had been so persistent. She hadn’t known what to make of Natasha when they’d been put together as roommates – they were so totally different, from different worlds in fact. Natasha was from Glasgow and had an accent so thick that Camilla had struggled at first to understand it, and she’d had bright-blonde, spiky hair that she’d never worn any different since, and she’d been madly into hockey and running and Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’, playing it all the time, and she never seemed to have time to eat anything except Cup a Soups and Pot Noodles. Camilla, on the other hand, had brought her own slow cooker and prepared her evening meals before breakfast, and had an impressive array of stripy cotton shirts and cashmere jumpers, even then. They were the odd pairing of the group, but the strange thing was that although Natasha had been ballsy and ambitious from the start, she hadn’t seen Camilla’s utter poshness as a threat, just an opportunity to better herself. Camilla had found her guilelessness refreshing.

  ‘So?’ asked Natasha. ‘Can we come?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next weekend?’ The question was assumptive.

  ‘Can I call you back, Tash? I don’t mean to be evasive, but …’

  ‘I understand,’ said Natasha, and it seemed her voice was trembling suddenly. ‘But if you’re coming back next year you need to see us all sooner or later.’

  ‘I – I haven’t even thought that far ahead,’ said Camilla.

  ‘No, but we have. You can’t let this ruin your life, Camilla.’

  ‘It already has.’ She said it softly, without self-pity.

  ‘No, it hasn’t,’ said Natasha. ‘You’ve got us, we’re going to get you through this. We’ll see you next weekend, bye,’ and she put down the phone.

  8

  Hyde Park

  By half past seven the picnic had been set up to Camilla’s liking. She had taken charge of the food as usual (fussing around like they were at sodding Glyndebourne or something in Renée’s opinion), and even Siobhan seemed to be happier, having finally given up trying to get everyone to move nearer to the water. It turned out that one of the folding chairs was a table so the food had been set out on that, but no-one sat at it as there weren’t enough seats for everybody, which Camilla was privately cross about; she’d specifically told them all to bring their own. Someone had brought an iPod dock, and when Juliette put on Michael Bublé, Siobhan said she adored his voice, so that kept her happy, which was a relief to everyone.

  The picnic was eclectic, despite Camilla’s best efforts, despite having created a pair of quite magnificent dishes herself – fresh salmon and dill salad with rosti potatoes and soured cream, a raspberry torte – and Sissy having made a passable job of her pasta salad. However, Natasha had come straight from work and had cheated and spent a fortune at M&S, which wasn’t at all like her: she’d long since graduated from Pot Noodles and would normally be up until midnight the evening before, she seemed to fancy herself as Superwoman these days. Renée stayed true to form
and had provided nothing except three bottles of Prosecco and some shop-bought Scotch eggs, which Camilla just about managed not to comment on, despite Renée having ignored her explicit instructions to make a quiche. Siobhan had brought what was left of the profiteroles and a bottle of white wine. The profiteroles looked quite revolting now but no-one dared decline one, even though they were squashed and the chocolate had half-melted and the cream was thick and yellow – Siobhan didn’t have a fridge at work and it had been a particularly hot day.

  The sun was sinking gently, and it left behind one of those rare English summer’s evenings that were unmatched elsewhere in the world. The atmosphere between the women was more jovial now, thank goodness, and when Camilla announced that the food was ready, even Renée sat up obediently. She poured herself another glass of Prosecco and grabbed a handful of Kettle Chips straight from the packet. Her eyes were shiny.

  ‘How’s Stephen, Juliette?’ she asked airily, and Juliette still found herself bristling, even after all this time.

  ‘He’s fine, thanks,’ she replied. She paused. ‘How are you? Seeing anyone at the moment?’

  Renée laughed. ‘Just the odd one-night stand, they’re always entertaining, plus the same old thing with Ed. He won’t leave his wife, I don’t want him to anyway, and we have increasingly mediocre sex the longer it goes on.’

  Juliette looked disapproving, although about exactly what no-one was sure, it could have been any number of things.

  ‘Why don’t you ditch him and go out with someone nice, Renée?’ asked Camilla, as she handed her a plate. ‘You might even like it.’

  ‘Well, you know, it’s not that easy,’ said Renée, and she took another handful of crisps. ‘All the blokes I meet these days are either total bastards, or else they think I’m desperate to go curtain shopping and get married and have babies, and so they dump me anyway.’ Her voice brightened. ‘So I’m quite happy with the occasional night with someone else’s husband for the time being.’

  ‘Well, what about his wife, don’t you think about her?’ asked Natasha, and her tone was stern suddenly.

  There was an awkward silence. Natasha took off her shoes to reveal nails that were painted glossy geranium pink, incongruous against her runner’s bunions – like a plain girl in a prom dress, Renée thought bitchily. She looked coolly at Natasha.

  ‘I think it’s more for him to think about his wife, don’t you?’ Renée said, and she topped up her glass again so it overflowed, the bubbles chasing down the sides like slalom skiers, before lifting the bottle jauntily and saying, ‘More Prosecco, anyone?’

  9

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Renée dyed her fringe pink and flew to Nashville just six days after her graduation ceremony. She was apprehensive – she’d never been to America before, wasn’t sure if it would be her kind of place – but Andy, one of her best friends from home, had managed to recruit her into his door-to-door bookselling team. He was taking a group of twelve students, mainly university friends from Cardiff, and he was hoping to make an absolute fortune – it seemed he was operating some kind of pyramid sales model that meant the more people he took, the more money he made. He’d done it the previous year too, and had come back bragging about how he’d made thirty thousand dollars in less than three months, how it was so easy, how people had loved his accent, how complete strangers couldn’t wait to let him into their homes, buy his books, serve him iced tea, even feed him lunch most days. Renée wasn’t daft. She knew Andy was romanticising the experience, that selling encyclopaedias door to door must be way harder than that, but she didn’t know what else to do now that she’d graduated. She hadn’t even thought about getting a job yet, she had no money for a holiday, and she couldn’t face the prospect of going home to live with her father, in his big empty house near Clacton that was as good as falling down and looked as tired and unloved as he did. She’d shuddered at the thought of the summer at home: silent meals on grimy trays in front of depressing shows like Morse and Murder, She Wrote, the atmosphere shot with dark resentments that were better left unsaid.

  So when Andy had offered to lend Renée the money for the flight (that’s how keen he was to have her on his team, sure that with her looks and sassy, irreverent charm she’d be totally brilliant at it) she’d thought why not, it was something to keep her busy while she decided what to do with the rest of her life; plus it would help pay off some of her debts.

  What had surprised Renée was that it was Sissy of all people who first decided to join her. She never thought Sissy had it in her, or that she could bear to be parted from her lovesick boyfriend for ten minutes, let alone ten weeks. But Nigel was off to stay with his uncle in Sydney, had booked it months ago, before Sissy and he were even going out, and then he was planning on backpacking all the way up the East Coast of Australia with his cousin – and even though Nigel had asked her to come too, Sissy had said it wasn’t fair on Brett, that it really wouldn’t work with the three of them.

  Renée did her best to persuade Natasha to come bookselling too, but Natasha said no way, claiming she could see right through the hype. And anyway, she insisted, she was moving to London to stay with Camilla straight after graduation. She didn’t have the time or money to go gallivanting off to America over the summer, she wanted to get on with finding a proper job as soon as possible – she just wasn’t prepared to risk ending up broke back in Glasgow, she said.

  It was only when Juliette finally caved in to Renée’s charm offensive and agreed to come that Renée had felt better about going – until she found out that Stephen was planning on tagging along. Although he’d always seemed nice enough, there was something about him that Renée had never been sure of, and besides, he would only monopolise Juliette as usual. Renée’s friend Andy hadn’t minded though – the more the merrier, he’d said, presumably thinking of the extra commission for him.

  Renée had been irritated enough about Stephen muscling in, but the situation was made even worse when Juliette landed herself a fantastic job on the milk round and decided she wouldn’t come after all. She was really sorry, she told Renée, but she didn’t think she’d be remotely any good at traipsing round knocking on strangers’ doors trying to sell them encyclopaedias, and now that she had a job and the promise of money to come, she could afford to go and chill out on a Spanish beach with her old school-friend Katie. Renée just about forgave Juliette, as she knew the real reason (although Juliette hadn’t explicitly told her, of course, unwilling to be disloyal to her boyfriend). But privately Juliette had insisted to Stephen that if they were going to end up together, like he wanted, the whole thing stood way more chance if they’d both had some time to date other people first. Stephen had been furious, he wasn’t used to being dumped, but for a change sweet, compliant Juliette refused to be swayed – she said he could do what he liked, but she was going to consider herself a free agent. She had only just turned twenty-two, she reasoned, she’d only ever had one proper boyfriend before him, and that just wasn’t enough for a lifetime.

  And so that’s how it happened that the unlikely trio of Renée, Sissy and Stephen were squashed together on a United flight from London to New York one drizzly early-summer’s morning. From there they would catch another flight to Nashville, where they would meet up with Andy and the rest of the team for their week-long sales training course. Renée had been in a foul mood from the moment she’d arrived at Heathrow, and when they’d boarded the plane she’d insisted on sitting by the window, even though that was actually Sissy’s allocated seat, but she couldn’t bear to have to sit next to Stephen, with his rugby-playing thighs that were so broad they were bound to encroach into her space. Sissy sat in the middle, tense and irritating, fussing about ridiculously improbable potential catastrophes: picking up every last peanut she’d dropped down the side of the seat in case the cleaner didn’t find them and the next person had a child who went on to choke on one; wanting to know exactly where her lifejacket was, just in case; making sure her bag was lod
ged tight into the overhead locker so it couldn’t possibly fall out and injure someone. Sissy was always so anxious about everything, so opposite in nature to Renée that Renée sometimes wondered how they were friends at all. But the thing about Sissy was how loyal she was, and reliable, and just an all-round good person, and Renée had recognised that quality in her from the instant they’d met each other on that terrifying first day of term. And from that time on Sissy had filled a need in Renée, a chronic need to be looked after that Renée did her best to hide but was always there if you looked close enough, stamped forever on her little crumpled four-year-old face on the day her daddy had told her, as kindly as a man raging with resentment can, that her mummy had left and wouldn’t be coming home.

  Stephen sat in the aisle on the other side of Sissy, and to be fair to him, he just put on his headphones and Renée could forget for a while that he was there. She had never been quite sure what Juliette had seen in him – with those eyes and that hair she was so gorgeous she could do infinitely better, but Stephen was one of those powerful types who always seemed to get his own way. He had set his sights on Juliette, had even admitted to her months later that he would watch for hours out of his window for her to leave her halls of residence, and as soon as he spotted her crossing the car park he would dash from his own room, and run all the way round to the other side of campus, so that just as Juliette was making her way down the main precinct, he’d be sauntering casually in the other direction – and he would be sure to stop her and say hi and get her chatting, until she really felt like she was getting to know him, like he was almost becoming a friend. When Juliette had confided this to Renée, not sure whether to be flattered or freaked out, Renée hadn’t known whether to be admiring or scathing of Stephen’s efforts either. One thing she had been sure of though, even then, was that Stephen was ruthless – he would go to limits beyond what other people would, to get what he wanted. It was true that he could be charming, but there was something about him that Renée didn’t trust, and sometimes she worried about Juliette, about how she may well even end up with him if she wasn’t careful – and if so whether he would quash her eventually. Renée sighed and put on her own headphones and shut her heavily kohled eyes, willing her mind to concentrate on the throaty thrum of the aeroplane’s engine, as it headed relentlessly over the never-ending ocean below.