by Tina Seskis
‘That girl is so unbelievably stupid,’ said Renée. ‘It’s like there’s a part of her brain missing or something.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’
Renée coloured, and they both stared into their drinks now. Stephen shifted as Andy roared derisorily at something Melissa had said, although she hadn’t meant it to be funny, throwing his head back, narrowly avoiding knocking into Stephen’s drink. Stephen budged up and Renée could feel the comforting warmth of his arm against hers. She thought about moving away, about creating some space between them, but she stayed there, not quite knowing why.
‘Remember, he’s Juliette’s boyfriend,’ she told herself, but the thought drifted away and her brain replaced it with another: ‘She finished with him, they’re not together any more.’ She looked into his eyes and they were large and deeply brown, like muddy puddles, kind even. She smiled shyly at him, and Stephen moved in a little more then, until his leg was pressing against hers under the bar, and they remained like that for ages, half-enjoying, half-dreading the physical contact, the possibility, as the music blared around them.
30
Hyde Park
In a park in central London on a perfect summer’s evening it was a close call who could become the most hysterical. Amongst the candidates was a woman who was tired of her marriage to a man who was not only overbearing but had just been called a murderer, in effect; another whose husband was dead; one who had recently found out hers was having an affair with one of her supposed best friends, who happened to be right here too, apparently unaware that her secret was out; one sobbing drunkenly about having been raped years ago; one who was horrified at how their friendships were unravelling, finally; and a sixth who usually managed to be the most melodramatic without having to try too hard, so was feeling a bit put out, unused to this level of competition. Siobhan was confused. Her skinny jeans were ruined, she was mortified by her outburst about Stephen and what it had set off, there was a sick feeling in her stomach that Matt still hadn’t called her – and she was far too drunk to deal with any of it. She leaned over and picked up a glass near Sissy, she had no idea whose, and drank the contents straight down, although she knew that wouldn’t help. Camilla was getting up, trying to be all mumsy and sensible, draping her jumper over her shoulders, slurring on about how they should all go home; and Siobhan had a sudden dread of the evening ending, despite how horrifically it was turning out, of going home to her empty flat and her absent boyfriend and her over-fed cat Norris – and all she wanted was for the others to look after her, like they used to. She started bawling, mainly because she was pissed and couldn’t think what else to do. It was dark and the park was nearly empty now, and the sounds seemed to travel further than they should, ringing out rancorously across the water, as if they would reach over the grass and through the trees all the way to the Bayswater Road.
‘Oh, just shut the fuck up, Siobhan,’ said Natasha. ‘For God’s sake. If it wasn’t for you and your big mouth none of this would have happened.’ Siobhan looked stunned at Natasha’s outburst, how dare she speak to her like that. Natasha looked across at Sissy, who appeared to have deflated, was slumped with her head on her knees on her fancy woollen rug, shoulders shaking gently.
‘And just look what you’ve done to poor Sissy,’ Natasha added, as if for emphasis.
Siobhan lost it then.
‘Look what I’ve done to her,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve done nothing! Sissy wouldn’t even be a widow if it wasn’t for Juliette’s lying bastard of a husband, and she knows it.’ Even Siobhan looked shocked at what she’d said, for a second – and then her tongue ran away with itself, as if it were operating unilaterally and had decided there was no going back now. ‘In fact both of your husbands are repulsive,’ she yelled at Juliette and Natasha. ‘Stephen should be in bloody prison’ (at which point Juliette put her head in her hands and started weeping), ‘and Alistair thinks he’s such a big shot just because he’s a children’s author.’ Siobhan stared down Natasha, inflamed after years and years of her put-downs. ‘And you – you always have been a social climber. And now you’re so wrapped up in your fancy job and posh house and flash cars and private schools you seem to think you’re above everyone else these days. And you’re not.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ snorted Natasha. ‘You are so ludicrously hung-up that you’ve never managed to hold down a relationship, or get a decent job. It’s always the same when I see you. If you didn’t bitch and moan and go on about yourself so much maybe you wouldn’t be so bloody lonely.’
Siobhan was standing now, looking like she might even punch Natasha, and she was so furious that she was debating whether to just bugger off and go home, flag down a cab on the bridge and leave the lot of them, this was unbearable. In the end it was Sissy who spoke.
‘Please can we stop this,’ she said quietly. ‘None of it’s going to bring Nigel back, and I’m sure no-one did anything deliberately. Please let’s not make everything worse by all screaming and shouting at each other. All I want to do is go home, please, let’s just get packed up and go.’
Sissy stood up and shook out her rug, and even in the fading light it was clear that tears were running down her cheeks and she looked small and hunched, like a little girl who’d been smacked by her mummy. No-one spoke as they packed up and the atmosphere was sullen, brittle, utterly irreparable; and each woman was aware that her life would never be quite the same again, not after this, although at that point none of them realised in what way.
31
Cleveland
Sissy looked over into the corner of the bar, where the lights were dimmest and the music was loudest, and she didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or anxious. What the heck was Renée thinking? She really was going too far now. Stephen had found himself a bar stool and was sat next to Renée, his dirty mid-brown head bent close to her sleek dark one, and even from here Sissy could see that their feet were intertwined underneath the counter. What on earth would Juliette say? The funny thing was that Sissy had asked her, back in Bristol, if she was worried about Stephen meeting someone else over the summer, and Juliette had replied that she might even be quite glad if he did – what would be would be, she’d said – and Sissy had wondered at the time if Juliette would ever get back with Stephen, she’d seemed almost desperate to be free of him.
‘What would upset me, though,’ Juliette had continued. ‘Is if he got off with one of my friends – but you’re far too in love with Nigel, thank goodness, and Renée doesn’t even like him.’
‘Juliette!’ Sissy had said, shocked. ‘That’s not true; of course she does.’
‘Darling Sissy,’ Juliette had replied. ‘You’re so sweet and that’s what I love about you. But Renée’s not keen on Stephen and never has been, and if I’m honest that’s always made me ever so slightly wary about him too. I do tend to trust her opinion, deep down.’
‘Don’t you think it might be that …’ Sissy had stopped.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Come on, Sissy, what were you going to say?’
‘… Don’t you think … she might be … a little bit jealous of him?’ Sissy had said finally.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she’d floundered. ‘You do see him quite a lot.’
‘Oh,’ Juliette had said. ‘Do you think so? (Pause.) I suppose I do … Oh God, I feel awful now.
‘Anyway,’ she’d continued, changing the subject. ‘Let’s see what happens over the summer – and with any luck I might meet a hunky Spanish waiter in Marbella.’
Just as Sissy remembered the end of this conversation, she saw in the orange glow Stephen lean in and caress Renée’s face, and Renée stop and look at him, as if trying to make up her mind what to do; and now she was laughing at something he’d just said and they were almost rubbing faces, and although Sissy tried not to look she was almost transfixed; and now, no, oh my God they were,
they were fully, full-on, mouth-open tonsil-munching snogging, and she could see his revolting darting tongue, and he was wrapping his arms around her clumsily, like a bear – and, oh no, now he was standing up and virtually dry-humping her. It was disgusting.
Melissa noticed next, and started going, ‘Urghh, have you seen Stephen and Renée?’ When they realised everyone was watching, they stopped snogging for a while, and Stephen sat back down on his stool with his hand in his lap, as if he were concealing something; but after a little while they started laughing and smooching again, until eventually Stephen stood up and hoisted Renée off her seat too, and Sissy noticed that she staggered a little – and then they left, and didn’t come back.
32
Hyde Park
Terry Kingston was fed up with prowling around in Hyde Park, like some kind of cottager, chasing after a group of middle-aged women having a picnic, for God’s sake. It seemed obvious to him that his client’s wife was on a girls’ night out, and a pretty tame one at that, rather than taking part in any clandestine extra-marital relations – for tonight at least. Terry was tired and wanted to go home, get back to painting his fusiliers, he needed to finish them before the convention in Nottingham the following weekend. It had been more difficult to observe the women since they’d moved from Diana’s fountain; there was no obvious place for him to sit here, plus it was getting late for him to still be in the park alone, he’d look like a ruddy pervert if he wasn’t careful. He’d ended up having to hide behind a tree near the cafe, meaning he couldn’t actually watch them any more, but he could see along the path to the bridge, would know if anyone came or went – and although he could no longer hear the detail of what they were saying, it was pretty obvious no-one was having much fun. What are women like, he thought to himself. Why oh why had he ever married one, he’d have been so much happier with just his pets and his pastimes for company. And then he felt a flash of guilt about Maria – she’d been good to him over the years, it wasn’t her fault how he felt about women – and this train of thought led him morosely to wondering about Eileen, smug in her new life in a suburb of Liverpool, and he debated whether he should try to get in touch with her. She must be getting on now, it would be too late one day. Perhaps he should at least try, he thought, she was his mother after all.
Terry shifted on the patch of grass he’d made his seat for the past hour and looked at his watch for perhaps the twenty-fifth time. He’d been specifically told to wait all evening to see where she went afterwards. His client was convinced that she wouldn’t be coming straight home as she’d said – she always got in so late from her supposed girls’ nights out these days – and so Terry was stuck here. It was tedious, normally he wouldn’t take on a domestic job, creeping around in the bloomin’ bushes like this, but he was doing it partly as a favour, plus his client was very hard to say no to.
The dark was descending quickly now, and what little of The Serpentine he could see streaming away towards the bridge appeared blackly thick, like liquid mud. There was hardly anyone around – just a wiry, middle-aged woman with over-sized headphones and well-defined muscles who jogged elegantly past, her breath effortless, like a Kenyan marathon runner’s; and twenty minutes later a couple walking along the bank arm in arm, chatting comfortably, as if they were still in love.
Terry was sleepy. He rested his head against the tree and felt himself almost dozing off in the lazy summer air. He was tired of listening to all the bitching and moaning, glad he couldn’t make out the exact words – apart from the occasional louder one every now and then (murder he was sure was one, which had woken him up, and surely rape another). And then it went quiet suddenly, as though someone had told them to shush. He yawned. His eyelids started to stretch involuntarily downwards, his long lashes fluttering indecisively, as though debating whether or not to succumb to sleep – and then he flicked them up again, briskly. He’d been startled by a scream; well, not a scream exactly, more of an anguished roar, as if an animal had grabbed a woman’s baby perhaps, and was running off with it. He shrank into the shadows as a woman came careering past, sobbing. He watched as she threw herself down by the side of The Serpentine, her identity unclear in the darkness, and despite himself he felt a pang of sympathy as she knelt at the water’s edge and keened, head between her knees. What the bloody hell was going on? He thought he’d been hired simply to find out if his client’s wife was having an affair, and now it seemed he’d stumbled into a potentially more explosive situation.
Terry stood up and hopped from side to side, like a little boy who needs the toilet, trying to decide what to do. He sat down again, and waited. After a few minutes, he heard voices coming closer to him, and he shrank back into the bushes as he heard one of them slurring, ‘My God, I can’t deal with any more of this tonight, let’s just leave her to it.’
‘But d’you think she’s OK?’ said another voice, timid, anxious-sounding. ‘She’s hysterical … how’s she going to get home?’
A third voice cut in then. ‘That’s up to her. I really am past caring.’
‘But she’s right by the water,’ the timid voice said. ‘And she’s drunk …’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said the first voice. ‘And anyway, I’ve just about had enough for one night. If she does fall in she can bloody drown for all I care.’
The timid voice went to object, but the first voice said, ‘NO. Let’s go, she’ll be fine, there are loads of cabs up on the bridge. I need to get home now, I just can’t cope with anything else this evening. It’s all too awful.’
Terry pressed back into the undergrowth as the women started leaving. He counted five of them – although one was quite a long way in front, walking fast, as though she couldn’t wait to get away – but it was too dark to be sure from here whether his target was amongst them. Perhaps it was her who’d run off into the night – he wouldn’t put it past her, he’d always known she had some kind of screw loose, like most women. One of the group seemed to be limping, and another two were carting an enormous picnic basket and carrying folding chairs across their backs, like bows and arrows. They were nearly at the bridge now and he could see the outlines of four of them, a good hundred yards from him. It was probably safe for him to start following now. He hesitated again. Maybe he should double-check it wasn’t his target down by the water after all, just in case – his client would give him hell if he lost her, and it would only take a minute … but there again he might lose the others then, up on the road. Oh God, what should he do? After a few more agonised seconds Terry finally made up his mind, and he came out from his hiding place, glanced swiftly left and right, and moved carefully along the shadows.
33
Cleveland
Stephen and Renée staggered home from the bar along the deserted sidewalk next to the busy main road, arms draped around each other, stopping continuously to snog, then carrying on walking, still kissing and laughing and stumbling. Even through her drunkenness Renée felt oddly euphoric, and it was as if the acute sadness of the past weeks were twisting and lifting, spiralling away from her, leaving her free again. She realised now that part of her distress had been pure unbridled loneliness – she’d felt isolated and disorientated anyway since graduation, but it had got so much worse since the attack. She’d obviously been missing college life, her friends (especially Juliette), the home they’d made in Bristol which was now for ever gone, even her mother in Paris who she never saw anyway – and it felt so good to be held tight and safe again. It wasn’t sexual as such, it was more a feeling of being alive, of being important, relevant again in the world, at least to someone.
As they reached the house and started dragging themselves up the driveway, Stephen went in for an overly ambitious embrace, causing Renée to stumble, and they finally, inevitably, lost their footing. They collapsed together onto the packed red dirt, and the dust flew up accusingly.
‘Owww,’ laughed Renée, but she didn’t get up, just lay there winded, knickers on show, her knee burning and sticky.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Stephen, and as he nuzzled into her she could feel the grit sticking to them both, like breadcrumbs on schnitzels. They continued kissing but Renée was uncomfortable now, the stones were digging into her; so she pushed Stephen off and straddled him instead, leaning down and teasing that she was filthy, that she needed a shower first. She hauled herself up and managed to pull him to his feet too, which was no mean effort, and although he went to grab her again she told him he’d have to wait, and then she ran giggling upstairs to the bathroom, and locked the door.
34
Hyde Park
Even as Terry crept closer, he still couldn’t be sure whether the woman by the water was his target – clouds had drifted in, obscuring the moon, and with her head between her knees like that it was difficult to be certain. His eyes were watering now, one of those bushes must have set off his hay fever, and he couldn’t help rubbing at them which just made it worse. He was feeling increasingly agitated – the longer he hung around here the more likely it was that he’d lose her if she had left, was with the group after all. His client would give him hell. He had to be quick. He moved a little closer. As if on cue, the moon came out and she lifted her head and looked up.
Shit! It wasn’t her. She must be with the others after all. He was going to lose her. He ducked away and legged it past the reed beds towards the bridge, his heart hammering in his ears.
Terry was relieved to find he was in luck – the women were moving so slowly, weighed down as they were by their picnic paraphernalia, that they were still on the path. As he got nearer he slackened his pace and edged along carefully, discreetly following them. The arguing had stopped but he could hear soft crying now, although he wasn’t sure from whom. No-one was speaking, and the fury in the air, even from a distance, felt tangible, like dust. They were almost at the bridge and he could see four of the women clearly, a good fifty yards from him still. Just as the first one made it onto the stone steps there was a noise: a thud and then a loud, undignified splash, resonating into the night. They stopped.
