When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  ‘What was that?’ one of them asked, the timid one, Terry thought.

  ‘It must have been a bird,’ someone else said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, that wasn’t a bird,’ said a third voice. ‘It must have been her.’

  They all stood still, weaving a little. There was silence, no splashing, just the dull thrum of the traffic along Kensington Gore. Precious seconds passed.

  ‘We need to go and look,’ the woman with the timid voice said, and she spread fear into the air.

  They listened again, but it was quiet still.

  ‘It’s nothing, come on,’ said a voice, and it sounded impatient, panicked almost.

  ‘Maybe we should check.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said the second voice. ‘I’m not going back, I’m going home. She’ll be fine, I’m telling you. And I didn’t even hear anything if anyone asks me; ten more yards and we’d be up on the road with –’ Terry didn’t catch the name.

  ‘I can’t believe you!’ slurred a new voice.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do? Call the police?’

  ‘Yes, maybe I will.’

  There was more silence then, as if they were all hesitating, not sure what to do next. Finally, one of the earlier voices spoke and said, ‘Well, I don’t think we can do anything now. It must have been nothing, we would have heard her screaming otherwise. Let’s go.’

  And it was like an unspoken pact, a group brainwash, a decision made, and as if connected by a long, invisible rope, they slunk drunkenly up the steps together, heaving picnic baskets and rugs and chairs. Just before the last woman reached the road, she turned, seemed to stare in his direction – shit, had she seen him? – but then she shook her head and shuffled after the others into the night. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. Terry hesitated himself now, his instinct telling him to go towards the water – and then he thought of his client, of his client’s temper, of his, Terry’s, fee, and he came out from his hiding place, and he looked up and down the bank seeing no-one, nothing, just moonlit nothingness. He went to hurry away from The Serpentine, after the women, and then he remembered himself, someone could be drowning down there, and so he turned and ran back towards the water’s edge, and as he stared down into the stillness, willing himself to see something, a ripple, anything, he reached into his jacket pocket, for his mobile phone.

  Part Two

  * * *

  35

  Bristol

  Late on a sultry summer’s afternoon a quarter of a century earlier, six undergraduates were enjoying an impromptu (if rather culinarily unsophisticated, despite Camilla’s best efforts) picnic in a beautiful historic park with views across the city, less than ten minutes’ walk from the halls of residence where they’d all been thrown together, and, for the next week at least, still lived. It was nearly the end of their first year and most of them were hungover from a party the night before, but Natasha had suggested it, saying it was the last weekend they’d all be together before the summer, and in any case, she’d said, it was far too nice to be indoors.

  Although still not anywhere near her old self since her father’s suicide, Camilla had perked up a little at this (which had been Natasha’s intention), and had miraculously rustled up egg sandwiches and some chocolate Krispies. Meanwhile everyone else had raided the communal kitchen, with Natasha grabbing a slab of jelly (that she was now eating cube by cube, which normally would have made Camilla apoplectic), and the others cobbling together some on-the-turn fruit, a lump of Cheddar cheese and an open tub of Philadelphia that Renée had stolen out of the fridge, and an ancient-looking packet of crackers they’d discovered behind the boxes of cereals in the larder. Sissy had been the most proactive and had dashed out and bought some crisps and soft drinks from the newsagent on Queens Road, although she’d refused to buy Natasha the cigarettes she’d requested, saying, quite firmly for her, that she couldn’t possibly take part in helping one of her best friends get cancer.

  In the absence of proper picnic rugs (not even Camilla was that organised in the early days), Juliette and Renée had dragged along their university-issue blankets for everyone to sit on. Siobhan had brought her portable stereo, and Madonna was now tinnily belting out ‘Like A Virgin’ (the cover of which Siobhan was apparently modelling her latest look on), and although everyone winced at the sound quality no-one had the heart to tell her. They were all drinking Moscow Mules out of plastic cups, even Sissy, who didn’t much like alcohol but felt she should make the effort, especially as Renée had gone to so much trouble, having mixed up a huge batch in the kitchen and transported it in giant-sized empty Fanta bottles. The cocktails looked murky, distinctly unappetising – at best like melted Coke floats, at worst not worth thinking about – but at least they seemed to be hitting the spot.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ said Renée, kicking off the patent leather Dr Marten boots that she’d worn all year, whatever the weather, and hitching up her black ra-ra skirt. She blew her fringe out of her eyes, which she’d recently dyed purple although the rest of her hair was black. ‘I’m going to miss you lot in the summer. It’s weird that we won’t see each other for weeks,’ and although her voice was full of its usual bravado the others could hear the faint crack in it, and could tell that she meant it.

  ‘Well, don’t worry, you won’t miss me, Renée,’ said Juliette, plonking herself down next to her. ‘Seeing as I’m coming to stay at your dad’s for a week. I’m looking forward to it – I’ve never been to Clacton.’

  ‘And nor would you want to under normal circumstances,’ said Renée. ‘It’s a total dump; I’ve warned you. And my dad’s a right miserable git.’ Her face darkened. ‘Sometimes I wonder how I’m even related to him … Oh! Sorry, Juliette.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Juliette. She turned her face into the sun and closed her eyes. Her hair was pulled up messily in a scarf she’d tied in a great bow on the top of her head, presumably to better show off the huge black cross that dangled from her right earlobe.

  Everyone looked awkward. Natasha flashed looks at Renée not to say any more, as Juliette continued to sit there, face tilted upwards, soaking up the sun, as if opening her eyes would give her away.

  ‘Juliette, are you OK?’ asked Siobhan after a while, and she put a skinny arm around her friend’s shoulder and Juliette leaned into her, for just a moment – and then she pulled gently away and composed herself. She changed the subject, slightly too abruptly.

  ‘Camilla, have you worked out what you’re doing in the summer yet?’ she said. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come to Renée’s with me?’ She put her forefinger to her dark, glossy lips. ‘Hmm, Clacton or Provence … ?’

  Camilla smiled but didn’t answer. ‘Seriously, Cam,’ Juliette continued. ‘D’you think you will be able to persuade your mother to go to France?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Camilla. ‘I’m sure it would do her good, she loves the house so much, but of course it’ll be the first time without Daddy, and she’ll have to face all the neighbours … I do wish I could invite you all, it’s so beautiful there, but under the circumstances …’ She trailed off.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cam,’ said Renée. She tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘And anyway there’s always next year – except knowing Siobhan she’d probably forget her passport.’

  Siobhan grinned good-naturedly, her imperfect teeth flashing white in the sunshine. She pulled the tartan braces attached to her Levi’s down off her shoulders, presumably so it was easier to sit. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Auntie Camilla would pack for me, wouldn’t you, Cam?’

  ‘Knowing you she probably would,’ said Renée. ‘Somehow you manage to get us all running round after you. I’m so surprised you’re not blonde.’

  ‘Hey, don’t be blondist!’ said Natasha, but with her short, spiky mop she wasn’t really the type of blonde Renée was referring to.

  ‘I know!’ said Sissy, the Moscow Mule talking. ‘What about everyone coming
and staying at my parents’ house? The countryside is gorgeous where they live, plus they’re going on a trip to Lourdes in August, so there’d be plenty of room for us all. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,’ and as she said it she realised that they’d be so shocked at their middle daughter making any demands on them that she really had no idea what they would say.

  ‘That’s a super idea,’ said Camilla, pushing her hair band back, a nervous habit she’d picked up lately. ‘I’d like to come, if I can manage it,’ and because it was the second thing Camilla had shown any interest in in ages (the picnic being the first), Sissy did end up asking her parents, and although Sissy’s older sister had the hump about it – they had never let her have the house to herself when they were away – her parents had said yes. So that’s where the six of them did go for that last week of August, which was fortunate, because all through the summer Camilla had been dreading the thought of going back to Bristol, of having to bear the humiliation all over again, with a new batch of freshers pointing her out, whispering about her. She’d even drafted a letter to her tutor, withdrawing from her course. But as soon as she’d got to Sissy’s in Shropshire, everyone had immediately fallen back into their familiar patterns, their complementary roles (Siobhan scatty, Natasha nervy and driven, Sissy unfailingly sweet, Juliette sensitive and fragile, Renée sassy and sardonic, Camilla the mother hen) and they had laughed and danced about in their pyjamas to their favourite Wham! and Wet Wet Wet and Prince albums; or else curled up with a bottle of wine to Sissy’s Best of Frank Sinatra; and Camilla had known that she’d get through it all with the support of this eclectic bunch of girls – they were her best friends in the world now, and would be forever.

  36

  Chelsea

  Camilla stood splashing water on her face in the ‘hers’ sink of the marble en suite bathroom, her head feeling like it might even explode. The children were downstairs already, having breakfast. Now they were in their teens they were largely self-sufficient in the mornings, but even so Camilla would normally be down there fussing around them, trying to force them to eat porridge, make sure they had their PE kit, and they would chastise her crossly, complaining that they were fourteen and sixteen, not four and six, and James would tell them not to be rude to their mother, they were lucky they hadn’t been packed off to boarding school like every other male in her family.

  Camilla felt devastated this morning. She had been so excited about the picnic, about seeing everyone again – it had been much too long since they’d all got together – but last night had been horrendous, and she knew that James had been deeply perturbed by her arriving home not only drunk, which was unusual in itself, with hair band askew, pristine white jeans trashed, but sobbing, which was absolutely unheard of. She vaguely recalled staggering into the bedroom, wailing that she’d had the worst night of her life, but she couldn’t remember now exactly what she’d said to James, and then she’d just fallen into their antique French bed and passed out. She’d been horrified when he’d asked her all sorts of terrible questions this morning: about Renée nearly drowning, and being raped, and someone being killed, by Stephen, had she said? What on earth had Camilla revealed to her husband?

  Camilla was aware that she hadn’t been so hysterical since her father’s death, when her friends had done everything for her, been everything to her – perhaps that was why she’d become so distraught last night; maybe the fact that the ties had been severed at last was triggering some new wave of grief for her father.

  Camilla felt heartbroken as she acknowledged that things would never be the same again. What had happened to her old friends? They seemed to have changed so much, particularly Natasha, who although she had been Camilla’s fiercest protector once, seemed so cold and brittle now. Privately Camilla had thought for ages that if Natasha would only spend more time at home with her family, rather than obsessing about her career, maybe her children wouldn’t be so badly behaved and her marriage (in Camilla’s opinion) wouldn’t be in trouble.

  Camilla turned off the tap and buried her face into a thick white towel. She was grateful to James now, that he’d insisted he didn’t need to go into the office today, could work from home instead, keep an eye on her. Even if her group of best friends had just been decimated, at least she still had her husband, her children – and even through her current despair Camilla knew that, unlike some of the others, she would be all right, that ultimately her family’s love would be enough.

  37

  Bristol

  On a cold, frosty morning, more than six months before their impromptu end of year picnic, Renée knocked gently and, hearing no answer, slowly opened the door to Juliette’s room. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the half-light, but soon she could make out the melee of clothes and papers and textbooks strewn on the floor, like the wind had got to them, and the lump in the single bed, one cold-looking foot protruding from the pink gingham duvet.

  ‘Oh, you are there,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have stayed at Stephen’s last night.’

  ‘No, he tried to get me to,’ said Juliette, turning over and yawning. ‘But I need to do an essay today, so I wanted to get back.’

  ‘Why didn’t he come too?’ asked Renée. ‘After all, you two are officially joined at the hip these days.’

  Juliette looked uncertain for a second, unsure whether Renée was joking or not. It was still only halfway through the first term and she hadn’t quite worked out Renée’s sense of humour. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head. ‘I hate sleeping in a single bed with him, he’s such a lump, so I sent him home.’

  ‘Oh, well done,’ said Renée, and she smiled to show she was being kind rather than sarcastic, she knew she could sometimes come across the wrong way.

  ‘And anyway,’ continued Juliette. ‘I thought it would be nice to spend some time with my flatmates. I feel like we hardly get to see each other any more.’

  ‘Well, and whose fault is that?’ said Renée, and this time it did come out more harshly than she’d intended: Juliette had the right to have a boyfriend, even if she did lack quality control in picking them. Renée changed the subject.

  ‘Are you going to the Economics seminar this morning?’ she said. ‘Can I borrow your notes? I’m not going, I need to finish my sodding Psychology assignment.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Juliette. ‘Although I don’t know why I bother, I never understand a word of it. I don’t think maths is in my genes.’ She stopped and looked lost suddenly, as if she’d forgotten something important. Renée spotted an opening. She sat gingerly on the end of Juliette’s bed and hitched up her black bustier, which Juliette secretly thought was an odd wardrobe choice for a freezing Tuesday morning. Renée picked at her heavy bead necklaces with her black-painted fingernails.

  ‘Listen, I saw this thing in the Guardian yesterday, there was this article about how to track down your birth mother. I think it’s quite easy.’

  ‘Renée, please, I told you before, I don’t want to,’ said Juliette. She shifted in the bed and sat up against the pillows, resting her head awkwardly on the bare wall behind. Renée went to speak again but Juliette stopped her. Sometimes she wished she’d never even told Renée that she was adopted. Renée seemed quite obsessed by it somehow, unable to believe that Juliette showed so little interest in the identity of her birth mother. ‘Why should I?’ Juliette had said, on more than one occasion. ‘She obviously didn’t want me, so why bother trying to find out who she was?’ Renée had told Juliette not to be so hard on herself, she didn’t know that her mother hadn’t wanted her, there were all sorts of reasons women had their babies adopted – and anyway, Renée had thought, it was less of an insult to be given up at birth, before her mother had got to know her, than to be left at four years old for a lover in Paris. Now that was a rejection if ever there was one, not that Renée ever voiced the comparison of course.

  ‘But it might really help you, Juliette,’ Renée said now.

  ‘Help me with what? Hones
tly, I’m fine as I am. Please, Renée, she’s my mother, not yours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Renée. Her face flushed a little.

  ‘I’ll decide if and when I’m ready, thank you very much,’ said Juliette, but she sounded softer now, as if she knew Renée meant well. ‘Look, I know you think there’s one, but I don’t feel like there’s a gap in my life. In fact my life feels quite full enough right now without anyone else getting involved in it.’ She swung her legs out of bed and they were blue-mottled, like a baby’s. Her pink-eared rabbit lay forlornly on the pillow, abandoned. She stood up and tugged at her T-shirt, which had a cartoon dog on its front, pulling it down over her bottom (sending the dog upwards), and then she bent right the way over and shook her hair, so dust and dandruff flew up and danced in the sunshine drenching through the thin curtains.

  ‘Ugh, I need a cup of tea,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make one,’ said Renée, and she fled to the kitchen, which even by student standards was a bit of a dump, especially for the likes of Camilla.

  Alone in her room, Juliette moved through one hundred and eighty degrees to stand up straight, and behind the shimmering auburn curls there were fat sparkling tears forming at the very edges of her eyes – although of course they were gone by the time her friend returned.

  ‘D’you ever wonder what she’s like?’ asked Renée. It was a week or so later and she was lying curled up at the bottom of Juliette’s bed, as had become her wont, the edge of the duvet folded over her feet against the winter cold. Juliette was still in the bed, even though it was nearly midday and she should have been at a Psychology lecture, and she was propped up against the wall with a mug of sweet milky tea under her chin. A deluge of clothes lay flung across the floor, and it was impossible to tell whether they were clean – just tried on and carelessly rejected – or actually in need of washing.