When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  Nothing more had been said about Nigel’s death in Sardinia either, although Stephen was much more nervous about that story leaking. He’d been shocked when Juliette had told him how Sissy had known what he’d done all along, how it came out at the picnic that Sissy had heard through her delirium Nigel cursing the socket, saying there was something wrong with it; how she’d not trusted using it herself to plug in her hairdryer. But when the emergency services had turned up, she’d been carted off to hospital and put on a drip while another ambulance had taken Nigel’s body away, and the police hadn’t even been called. So when the report into Nigel’s death had concluded that it was accidental, with no reference to the faulty socket, Sissy must have known then that there’d been a cover-up, but had been too scared or distraught to do anything except accept the verdict.

  Stephen still felt terrible about Nigel dying like that, he hadn’t intended it to happen, no way. It really had been just an unfortunate accident – he’d been trying to do the guy a favour, for Christ’s sake – but he’d panicked, hadn’t known what else to do apart from hush it up. Nigel was dead anyway, no investigation would have changed the outcome. It would have wrecked his, Stephen’s, life too – and what was the point of that?

  Stephen looked down absently at a police boat on the river, cute as a bath toy, cutting through the water. So that’s why Sissy had hated him over these past years, they’d always got on all right before that, especially since they’d gone to America together – in fact he’d thought she’d liked him, before.

  What got to Stephen the most though, he realised in this rare moment of reflection, was not what Sissy or Renée thought of him these days (he couldn’t give a toss about that), but the fact that Juliette despised him now, after what had been said at that fucking picnic. There had been no going back after that. They were finished.

  Stephen sighed as his eyes glistened in the early sunlight – it was too bright out here – and he dabbed at them with his sleeve. Life goes on, he thought, there was no use moping, and even though he missed her sometimes (which annoyed the hell out of him) he knew he was better off without her – she may be beautiful but she was a lousy housewife, useless mother, unfaithful bitch. He looked at his watch. He’d better think about getting ready in a minute; his meeting to discuss a possible new tabloid launch was at eleven. The hacking scandal had done him a favour in the end – he’d managed somehow to avoid being implicated, and people were dropping like flies these days, which meant there were a couple of very juicy openings in the offing.

  Stephen cheered up at this thought. It was a beautiful December day, he might even walk to Soho House, it was an interesting route and the exercise would do him good, make him nice and hungry for his lunch with Maddie later.

  93

  Lambeth, South London

  Terry came out of Elephant and Castle Tube station and looked around bewilderedly – at the semi-subway he found himself in, the despondent-looking stallholders displaying handbags and scarves and sunglasses that all looked the same, the seemingly identical roads as he emerged onto the roundabout. He’d only ever come out at Lambeth North before and he was disorientated, but he definitely didn’t want to be late. He knew he shouldn’t stress, it wasn’t as though he was on a date or anything, it was just a casual visit to a museum, to indulge a shared interest in military history, that was all. He was pleased though that he’d had his hair cut, he didn’t look so insipid with it shorter, and he liked his new Levi’s and bomber jacket, they almost made him look trendy.

  It was strange, he’d always found women so hard to talk to before. Maybe that’s why he’d married Maria all those years ago, she’d been quiet and sweet and barely spoke English – plus she’d mothered him at first, before she’d got fed up with him. But with this woman it was different. They’d got chatting after the inquest had been adjourned when Siobhan’s poor mother had passed out – he’d found her crying outside when he’d popped out to call the vet to check on Humphrey, who’d had gastroenteritis and was still under observation. He’d asked her if she was OK – and because she was so overwrought and he seemed kind, she’d told him in a timid little voice he’d recognised from Hyde Park that she couldn’t believe what she’d done, leaving Siobhan to die like that.

  ‘No, I heard you,’ he’d said. ‘You wanted to go back and check on her, it was the others who persuaded you it was nothing. You cared, I could tell you did. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’

  And then Terry had taken her back inside and they’d sat together amidst the panic, and somehow or other he’d made her feel better. They’d got on to talking about anything and everything: Frank Sinatra, the Franco-Prussian War (she told him she’d done History at Bristol, was passionate about it, especially military history, which was odd for a woman, he’d thought), Terry’s rats, Sissy’s cat: how getting Coco had been a godsend in helping the children cope after their father’s death. And that had led to Terry telling her about his poor sick spaniel, and she had seemed so concerned about Humphrey it was endearing, really it was, not like Maria who’d seemed to almost hope he’d die – although she probably didn’t care either way now that she’d buggered off with one of the tenors from the Barking and Dagenham Choir. Being splashed across the papers putting out the rubbish in her dressing gown, after her husband had been implicated in murder, had given her the perfect excuse.

  As Terry walked towards the museum he saw the familiar green dome and the white columns and the two huge guns, and there she was, already there, although he was five minutes early himself, standing between the cannons, in jeans and a puffa jacket and Converse trainers, her hair messily longish, like a teenage boy’s – his first ever female friend.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, and hesitated, unsure how to greet her. He held out his hand, was that the protocol?

  ‘Hello, Terry,’ said Sissy, and she shook it, politely.

  ‘Shall we go in? It’s freezing out here.’ She nodded shyly, and they walked together, side by side, towards the entrance.

  94

  Wandsworth

  The Roman soldiers were lined up smartly, twirling prettily in the faint breeze, the ghost-breath. Light rain was falling half-heartedly past the windows, almost as if it couldn’t be bothered. It was quarter past four.

  Noah Forsyth’s teacher sat back in her chair, relieved, as his parents left the room. That hadn’t gone as badly as it might have done, and it was good that they’d discussed it. It was hard being a teacher sometimes – you ended up being responsible for far more than a child’s education, and you had to be careful not to overstep the line to wanting to become their mother too. But she’d thought about it carefully, discussed with the head beforehand what she was going to say – and anyway she owed it to Noah, he was such a sweet little boy, underneath.

  It was odd how Mrs Forsyth seemed to have softened these days, Miss Pridmore thought. She knew it had been hard for her to come into school when she and her husband were still being splashed all over the news all the time, and it must have been particularly awful for her to have been virtually accused of being a murderer like that. Still, she thought, there was no way she would have left a friend in that situation, no matter how drunk she was – sometimes it seemed the more money people had, the fewer morals they possessed, even if they did just about manage to operate within the confines of the law.

  But somehow today Mrs Forsyth had seemed less uptight, less angry than normal, and Noah certainly seemed happier of late too. It was funny how kids sometimes seemed to fare better after the parents had split up – Miss Pridmore had seen enough children throughout her career to know that staying together wasn’t always the answer. Mrs Forsyth had seemed genuinely interested in what she’d had to say too, as though she was trying desperately hard to support her son. Even the husband had turned up for a change, and although the atmosphere between Mr and Mrs Forsyth had been terribly strained, it was a step forward – he never used to come when he and his wife were still together.

  Miss
Pridmore made a note in her diary to book the session for Noah with the school counsellor, and then she shuffled her papers, adjusted her glasses, took a deep breath, and went over to the classroom door where she welcomed in the parents of Rupert Rees-Smith, who, she would be obliged to inform them, was having trouble with his maths.

  95

  Piccadilly, Central London

  Gusty rain was hammering at the windows, water streaming downwards as if in a race to the bottom, the sky still dark even though it was morning. It was a lousy day for commuting and Camilla’s husband was soaking. He took off his Burberry trenchcoat, shook the rain from it, hung it on the coat stand, switched on his computer, sat down at his desk, and picked up the FT.

  James was glad that Camilla seemed to be feeling a bit better at last, despite the apocalyptic weather this morning. She had taken Siobhan’s death last year so hard, almost as hard as her father’s from what he could gather, and although she didn’t have to live with the guilt that the others would bear for the rest of their lives, she still seemed to blame herself. James did his best to tell her that just because she’d organised the picnic, that didn’t mean it was in any way her fault Siobhan had died, she hadn’t even been involved in any of the arguments. But Camilla kept saying that she’d known how paralytic Siobhan was and yet had left without her anyway, even if she had been drunk herself, and that made her as culpable as anyone. And of course she was also devastated that the group had finally broken down, although James was convinced it was for the best, it had been far too long coming in his opinion. Thank God Camilla had the boys to think about – she was helping Christian with his university choices at the moment, and although she’d blanched when he first said he wanted to go to Bristol, she knew that that was what his heart was set on, it had one of the best reputations for Mathematics, and she would never want to stand in either of her sons’ way. And anyway, James thought as he downloaded his emails (thirty-seven overnight, what had happened to people talking to each other?), it might do her good to go back there one day, and remember the good times she’d had with the others, realise that their friendships had been real once, before the inevitable ups and downs and outright tragedies of life had got in the way.

  Part Four

  * * *

  96

  Hyde Park

  The park was still and moonlit. Clouds seemed to be gathering, as if sensing the danger. A bat flew over silently, but she didn’t see it, not even in the reflection on the water. The women’s voices were far enough away to be nothing more than low-level bitching now, not in-her-face vitriol, and it was a relief to her.

  She knelt at the lake’s edge with her head between her knees, oblivious to her surroundings, to the blackness of the water. She was breathing hard, panting almost, trying not to sob. She just couldn’t take any more of those women tonight, their feuds, their hatred – Natasha screaming at Juliette that she was shagging her husband, and Juliette not even denying it, and Natasha trying to go for her, pull her hair like they were five-year-olds; Renée sitting there sobbing about having been raped, and although she felt desperately sad for her friend, really, just blurting out twenty-five years too late that it was Stephen who’d done it, not the stranger in Cleveland after all, while they were all totally paralytic, was not the way to go about it. Siobhan had told Renée so many times to go to the police, go to counselling, get help, get closure, but Renée wouldn’t. She preferred to drink herself senseless and shag other people’s husbands, as though she didn’t deserve any better.

  As Siobhan slumped at the lakeside, she knew her behaviour had been far from perfect too tonight. She’d been in a terrible mood by the time she’d got there, she’d had such a lousy day, and they’d all been mean to her, as usual – and then she hadn’t helped matters by inflaming everyone over Stephen. She must have been mad to insinuate that Stephen had had something to do with Nigel’s death, she’d kept it secret for so long – and although she’d tried to cover it up, pretend she hadn’t said anything, she knew it had been her words that had kicked everything else off. Running off screaming had been ridiculously melodramatic too, but she couldn’t bear to hear any more – she’d simply had to get away once they’d all got going, screaming at each other like they were harridans in some dreadful soap opera.

  Was it really all her fault? It had been years coming, Siobhan realised, and they’d all drunk far too much, even Sissy; and Renée had just gone straight in there, given the sniff of an opportunity. She obviously hated Stephen, despised him, and Siobhan couldn’t blame her, not at all. Even Siobhan had to admit Stephen seemed despicable these days, a serpentine man, but really, Renée calling him a murderer, a rapist, in front of everyone, spitting out the words like they were poisoned meat, was too awful. Siobhan actually felt a tiny bit sorry for Stephen, although she knew that she shouldn’t. But he was the one who had to live with Nigel’s death, with what he’d done to Renée, even if he hadn’t directly planned either. He still had to sleep at night, knowing someone had died, that he was a crook, a rapist.

  What was odd though, Siobhan had always thought, was how Renée had seemed all right with Stephen when she’d first got back from America, acted almost normal with him still, although it was clear their affair had been very short-lived, in fact pretty much a one-night stand. At the time Siobhan had just assumed that Renée had cooled it with Stephen because she hadn’t wanted to upset Juliette, ruin their friendship over a man.

  But, months later, Renée had eventually confessed to Siobhan that it was Stephen who’d raped her, and she’d broken down as she’d described how much he’d grovelled to her afterwards, told her he’d thought she wanted it too, and apparently Renée had fallen for it, accepted it – at first. She hadn’t spoken of it again for years, and now it seemed to Siobhan that the impact must have grown over time; as if the further away Renée had moved from what had happened, the more it had affected her – and the more intense her hatred for Stephen had become.

  Siobhan gave a great heaving sigh. Renée’s outburst had been bad enough, but then on top of all the drama Natasha had got stuck in too – once she’d finished attacking Juliette she’d had a go at her, Siobhan, almost seeming to enjoy ganging up on her, like a playground bully, when what she should have been doing was tearing a strip off her adulterous husband. Only Camilla had risen above it all, nothing seemed to enrage her, apart from inappropriate picnic contributions perhaps. No, Camilla and Sissy were the only two Siobhan was going to see from now on – she’d steer clear of the others, even poor Juliette, who would never be happy while she stayed with Stephen, and especially not now. She never should have gone out with him in the first place, Siobhan thought, through the Prosecco, she was always too good for him. She’d tried to tell her, but what can you do, people never listen to the truths that don’t suit them, and Juliette had always seemed too vulnerable to be on her own for long.

  The clouds moved silently across the moon, and the night became velvety dark. As Siobhan knelt quietly, trying to breathe slowly, ignore the still irate voices from beyond the bushes, she calmed down a little, began to regain some control. And then she thought she heard something near her, and she raised her head and looked up. She felt nervous suddenly, and a feeling of doom drenched through her, as though she were drowning in fear.

  Words and images tumbled through her head in the darkness, and they were scarier than any movie she’d ever seen. Her heart thudded and seemed to stop. Someone was there, she was sure of it, someone in the bushes. It wasn’t one of her friends, definitely not, she could tell it was a man. Who was it? As her brain flipped in on itself in panic, the clouds passed by and the moon reappeared, as if on cue, to light up her nightmare.

  Stephen!

  What was he doing here? She was consumed with terror, with what she’d said about him, the secrets she’d unleashed. She knew he was ruthless. Maybe he wanted to silence her. Perhaps he was a murderer after all. Perhaps he was going to murder her.