When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  So, thought Natasha, shaking off her maudlin mood, snapping into proactivity – if she wasn’t going back to work today she needed to do something productive, the kids wouldn’t be home for hours. She left the warmth of the dining room, with its plate-glass windows giving onto the huge slimy-looking pond Alistair had insisted on having dug in their garden, rammed full of monster carp that she vehemently hated but which he refused to get rid of.

  Yes, that’s it. She’d go and sort things out with her husband, start the ball rolling, now was as good a time as any, now she’d made up her mind at last. As she climbed the stairs, she noticed the bare patches on the carpet, a single long loose thread. Maybe she could request some samples, the carpet needed replacing and she never usually had time to sort things like that out, not unless she had a project on. She might as well make an effort to get the house looking nice, she’d be staying in it with the children, obviously. Perhaps she could also order some towels from The White Company while she was at it, they could do with some new ones.

  When Natasha reached the closed door to her husband’s office, she felt suddenly unsure of what she was doing. It was unlike her to hesitate once she’d made a decision, but she still wasn’t feeling quite right – which was hardly surprising, she tried to remind herself. As she stood there hesitating, her fingers on the door handle, she briefly remembered how much she’d loved Alistair once, been mad for him, couldn’t get enough of every single part of him. She’d believed in him then. In between climbing her own career ladder and shagging his brains out, she’d channelled her endless energy into helping him professionally, launching his book career with her normal invincibility, never taking no for an answer; she’d been so sure of his talent. He’d have been nothing without her.

  So where had it all gone wrong? Natasha acknowledged now that Alistair had started to get fed up with her years ago, perhaps even before the wedding itself (maybe looking back she had been a bit dogmatic about it all), and she knew he’d definitely found it difficult once the babies had come. She’d gone back to work after two months each time, and it had been so hard juggling her job, securing her promotions, running the house, organising the children, she’d ended up exhausted. No wonder she’d gone off the whole sex thing, it was normal, it was just that no-one ever admitted it. She sighed as she remembered Alistair’s hurt at her rejections, felt a rare stab of sympathy for him. Maybe she shouldn’t have put so much effort and energy into her own self-improvement, become so obsessed with keeping up with everyone else; perhaps she should have concentrated more on her marriage … but she’d needed every ounce of resolve and drive to have made it to university in the first place, to escape the dismal future that surely would have been hers if she’d stayed in Glasgow, and it seemed her ambition just didn’t have an off switch. Poor Alistair, she’d been a lousy wife, Natasha saw that now.

  And then she remembered that her husband had screwed one of her oldest friends – and not just Juliette, but that little strumpet author too. Possibly even worse, he’d passed off Lucinda Horne’s books as his own, was a loafer, a fraud. Any remaining nostalgia for her marriage vanished in that moment, was gone for ever.

  Natasha shifted her weight onto her left side, easing the pain in her bunions, and wondered how to do it. Knock? Barge in? She listened, but it was quiet. She turned the handle. It was time to confront him.

  It was only when the door failed to open that she realised it was locked. She didn’t know he had a lock on it. He’s probably wanking in there, she thought with disgust, and it was the most perceptive insight she’d had about her husband in years.

  Natasha didn’t bother knocking, or waiting to see if Alistair had heard her and would come out anyway. She turned around and stomped back downstairs to the dining room, where she took a seat at the table facing the fish, opened her laptop, lit up yet another cigarette, and demanded the divorce by email instead.

  75

  Berkshire

  Juliette looked younger than her nearly nineteen years as she sat opposite her mother in the kitchen of her childhood home. Cynthia couldn’t help but notice how beautiful her daughter was. She was glad Juliette had taken off the fingerless gloves she’d had on earlier, Cynthia wasn’t too sure about the whole Madonna look. She wouldn’t have said anything though, Juliette always seemed too fragile to take any kind of criticism, no matter how well-meaning, and especially not today.

  After what seemed like forever they heard the sound of wheels on the gravel, the car door slamming, the key in the lock. They waited, unable to look at each other, as they heard shuffling and rustling in the hallway. Finally Juliette’s father came into the kitchen, looking older, anxious. A cold wind swept in with him, and Juliette shivered.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ said Juliette. ‘Thank you for coming home, I’m so sorry to be such a drama queen.’ She paused, not sure what else to say.

  Cynthia pushed a mug of tea (cups and saucers were reserved for the front room) across the table at Giles, and it was brown and swampy, stewed.

  ‘You start, Juliette, dear,’ said her father, taking a sip and trying not to grimace, his voice low and steady.

  Still Juliette said nothing. Where did she begin?

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can tell us, love.’ His kindness made her eyes prick.

  ‘Elisabeth Potts,’ she said finally. It was all she could think of to say. She took a breath. ‘She was my real mother.’ Juliette saw Cynthia flinch. ‘Oh, sorry, I mean my birth mother.’ She looked at Cynthia. ‘You know her, don’t you, Mummy?’

  ‘Oh no,’ thought Cynthia. ‘Oh no.’ Although she’d always known a lot more about her daughter’s adoption than she’d ever let on, what could she ever have said? How do you tell a little child the truth of how they came into the world, why they are not wanted, when you don’t even know yourself? As she sat there, unsure where to begin, her mind wandered back through the past nineteen years. She remembered how for years Juliette had been obsessed with who her real mummy was, why she had left her, where she lived, what colour her hair was, whether at her real mummy’s house there was a swing in the back garden, like at her best friend Sara Day’s house. Cynthia had found it all terribly upsetting. The adoption people had said not to tell her she was even adopted until she was older, that tended to be the advice in those days, but Cynthia was quite progressive like that, knew that wasn’t good for her daughter, and had always tried to tell her at least a version of the truth right from the very beginning. Sometimes she’d regretted her candour. She remembered hating having to have discussions with Juliette about how her real mummy had loved her but wasn’t able to keep her, and no, she really didn’t know why, but what she did know was that there must have been a very good reason (what harm could one little lie do?). And Cynthia would always go on to tell her daughter that they were all very lucky to have each other, and how much Juliette was wanted by her new parents, how much she was loved, but Juliette had gone on and on about her ‘real mummy’ until sometimes Cynthia had wanted to scream. In the end the eight-year-old Juliette had caught Cynthia at a bad moment, as she’d just been let down by one of the mothers who normally made cakes for the school’s summer fair, and for once Cynthia had snapped.

  ‘Look, Juliette, I’ve told you all I can about your mummy. I’m your mummy now. I really don’t want to hear anything more about it.’ And she had stormed out of the kitchen and banged the door behind her, which was most unlike her, and although she had apologised profusely, little Juliette had never mentioned her real mummy again, and even when Cynthia had tried to bring up the subject herself, Juliette never wanted to talk about it any more. In fact, it wasn’t just that she didn’t speak of it, it had seemed to Cynthia that she’d closed it down somewhere deep in her mind, and she’d stopped wondering, stopped caring, stopped thinking about where she had come from originally. From that point on she was just Juliette Greene, from Swallowfield, Hampshire, with a mummy and daddy who might not be her real parents but who she knew adored her, an
d a beloved pony, Popcorn. Who needs two mummies anyway?

  Cynthia looked at Giles. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. She gulped. Her mouth felt dry. The words sounded like they were coming from someone else, someone far away, in another room perhaps.

  ‘Elisabeth’s my sister,’ said Cynthia.

  76

  Wandsworth

  The weird thing after the grotesque showdown with her husband (who decided, once he’d sobered up, not to hang himself after all) was that all Juliette wanted was her mum, her real mum. She knew better than to call her though, she’d learned her lesson over the years, and she didn’t think she could handle Elisabeth Potts’ dismissive platitudes, Juliette preferred silence to those. Stephen had been surprisingly compliant since the night she’d confronted him – he was obviously shit scared she’d leak something. She must admit she was tempted, she was so horrified by what he’d done, someone needed to make sure he got his comeuppance – or perhaps she ought to go to the police instead of the papers. Why should he keep getting away with everything? She knew she wouldn’t do it though, she couldn’t do that to the children, they were unsettled enough as it was, particularly Noah. If her friend wasn’t going to press charges then she wouldn’t stir it up, it wasn’t her business, not really. She was only married to Stephen, she hadn’t actually been involved, thank goodness.

  Juliette lay in the enormous bed with the luxurious mattress that she’d shared with Stephen for so many years and shuddered. She would never share it with him again, not after this. Their marriage was over. She turned her head into her pillow and let out a sob. Poor Cynthia wouldn’t do. She wanted her mother.

  The phone rang and rang downstairs. Juliette ignored it as ever, her head still buried in the pillow – Mrs Redfern could get it, she seemed desperate to know what was going on. Eventually the phone stopped and Juliette welcomed back the silence, like an old friend. Then the door opened, just a little, enough for half a curly grey head to make an appearance.

  ‘Juliette, are you awake?’ she said. ‘It’s one of your friends, I think. She says it’s important.’

  Juliette groaned and took her head from under the covers. Her hair was wild in the half-light. Mrs Redfern tiptoed across the luxurious deep-piled carpet and handed her the phone. She slumped it against her shoulder, barely holding it, and it was slippery against the silk of her nightdress.

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘It’s me, Camilla. I was just calling to see how you are. You never return my calls.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Juliette. She started to cry, silently.

  ‘Why are you blanking me, Juliette? What have I done in all this, except maybe be a little bossy over what to make for the picnic? I can’t help it, it’s my upbringing.’ She attempted a laugh.

  ‘I’m not blanking you, Camilla,’ said Juliette. She hesitated. She didn’t want to be rude, Camilla of all people didn’t deserve it. She decided in the end to be honest for once, it might do her good.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t forgive myself for Siobhan’s death, for leaving her like that. You don’t have to live with the guilt – I know it sounds odd but you’re lucky in a way, you’d gone, you didn’t hear her.’ She didn’t mention Stephen, she couldn’t face referring to what he’d allegedly done, although Camilla knew that too of course, everyone had bloody heard the night of the picnic. Juliette wept and had to stop talking for a while as Camilla waited, quietly. ‘I just can’t see any of you now, it’s all too painful. I’m so sorry,’ she said, and went to put down the phone.

  ‘Stop, don’t go,’ said Camilla. ‘You were drunk, you didn’t know what you were doing, and anyway you didn’t really think it was her, of course you didn’t! You’re not to blame, really you’re not. Look, I’m at Mummy’s in Holland Park, shall I pop over? Your cleaner said you’re still in bed, and it’s the afternoon, Juliette. You need your friends at times like these, I should know. Remember how you looked after me when Daddy died?’

  Juliette remembered that time, twenty-five years ago, how they’d all rallied round Camilla after her father’s dreadful sex scandal, how they’d taken her off to Siobhan’s uncle’s cottage and looked after her, only for her father to hang himself the day after they’d got back, deep in the woods on his country estate. Camilla had still managed to stick out university though, and Juliette knew it was because they’d all pulled together, put a cocoon of love and support around their friend, as people who all live together at college tend to do at the time. They’d stuck together through everything back then, even though they’d all been so different – Camilla had been so totally posh in her stripy shirts with the collars turned up, and Juliette and Siobhan were Madonna wannabes, while Renée was punky, and Natasha always looked like she was going for a run, a vision in Lycra even then, and Sissy had looked like someone’s little brother. But they’d all got through things together in Bristol. They’d been real friends back then.

  ‘OK,’ she said, in the end. What harm could it do? All the harm had been done.

  ‘I’ll get a cab, I’ll be there in half an hour. So get off your skinny arse and put the kettle on!’ And the way she said the word off rhymed with wharf.

  ‘OK,’ said Juliette. ‘Thanks, Camilla. See you soon, bye.’

  ‘Ciao, ciao,’ said Camilla.

  77

  Berkshire

  Juliette sat quietly opposite the tulips, which seemed to have drooped, lurched downwards under the weight of the revelation, disbelief trickling down her face, as Cynthia recalled exactly how Juliette had recognised her birth mother’s name. She could remember every detail of that morning, what, ten or eleven years ago now, when they’d spent Christmas at Cynthia’s mother’s house, down in the New Forest. Juliette had been such an inquisitive little girl and her nana had loved her so, doted on her, more than poor Barney (as everyone knew but no-one dared acknowledge), and they had shared such a wonderful bond. Juliette had been an absolute poppet, so eager, so helpful – setting the table for Christmas, making glittery name tags for everyone, putting up the Christmas cards her nana had saved for the children to do on lengths of silver ribbon (not that Barney had bothered, he’d just ripped a couple up and been told off), alternating the sizes and shapes, making them look perfect. It would have been the 27th or 28th of December, the first day of post after Christmas. Juliette had been sitting patiently at the kitchen table, her bowl of Weetabix neatly eaten, waiting for Barney to finish so they could both get down, when the letterbox had clattered and her nana had asked her to run and pick up the post before her badly behaved dachshund Dexter got to it, he loved chewing it up. There had been only three items – a plain envelope with a cloudy window addressed to Mrs P. L. Simmons that looked boring to Juliette, a bill perhaps; a thin insubstantial-feeling card for Mrs Penelope Simmons; and another small square card addressed to someone unknown, and then in a different-coloured ink, as though written at a later time, a c/o alongside Penelope’s address. As she sat in her cosy warm kitchen with not a teacup out of place, Cynthia went over that morning in vivid technicoloured detail – how she’d noticed as she buttered her toast that her fuchsia nail varnish had chipped, she must take it off; how she’d nagged Barney to finish his cereal (Golden Nuggets they were, she had scolded her mother for buying such junk, and Penelope had said, ‘Oh it won’t hurt them just this once’); how she’d watched Juliette come back into the kitchen and read out each envelope in turn, showing off what a fantastic reader she’d become; remembering Juliette’s nana saying, ‘Yes, you can open them, dear,’ hearing Juliette reading, quite innocently in her little girl’s voice, ‘Elisabeth Potts – like pots and pans! – c/o (pronounced ‘cee oh’) 3 Willow Grove, Lyndhurst, Ha—’ And then she, Cynthia, jumping up from the table and snatching the card off her daughter and saying, more sternly than she ever had, ‘That one’s not for you,’ leaving poor Juliette looking tearful, violated, and Cynthia knowing she
had handled it badly, attracted way more attention than she needed to have, but it had been the shock of course.

  Cynthia felt strangely calm, now the secret was out at last, and she wondered whether they should have just told Juliette years before, and to hell with Elisabeth’s rights, sod what her sister had wanted – after all, she’d been so unfathomably selfish about everything. But it was too late to worry about any of that now, Cynthia had done her best, it was what it was. She looked across at her trembling daughter (or should she think of her as her niece now, what on earth was the etiquette?) who she loved more than anything, and as the colour slowly returned to Juliette’s face, Cynthia sat patiently and waited for her to speak.

  78

  Wandsworth

  The two women sat together on the bench at the bottom of the gently fading garden, where the roses were brown now and only held their shape until the wind blew them into little fluttery petal bombs, flamboyant reminders of the seasons passing. The air had a sharpness to it, as if warning them that there wasn’t much of summer left, but the sun felt warm enough on their faces, and at least sitting side by side Juliette didn’t have to look her friend in the eye. They chatted for a while about James and the kids, and it was clear to Juliette that Camilla’s married life was so simple, based on real love and mutual respect, accepting each other’s differences, giving to each other rather than transacting like a business arrangement – and she realised how most of her friends’ marriages weren’t like that at all. Camilla moved on to her favourite subject now, filling time, telling Juliette about a super recipe she’d found for making instant ice cream (‘It’s so easy, Juliette, you should try it’), and Juliette told Camilla how the kids were doing in school (not great), how little Jack in particular had been unsettled since his father had moved out, how Flo seemed to be struggling with all the after-school activities and extra tuition and pressure she was under to get into secondary school, and how Noah just ran wild, immune to discipline, so Juliette simply didn’t know what to do with him. Finally the conversation had faded out to nothing and they had both just sat there for a while, in silence.