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.