By half past seven the picnic had been set up to Camilla’s liking. She had taken charge of the food as usual (fussing around like they were at sodding Glyndebourne or something in Renée’s opinion), and even Siobhan seemed to be happier, having finally given up trying to get everyone to move nearer to the water. It turned out that one of the folding chairs was a table so the food had been set out on that, but no-one sat at it as there weren’t enough seats for everybody, which Camilla was privately cross about; she’d specifically told them all to bring their own. Someone had brought an iPod dock, and when Juliette put on Michael Bublé, Siobhan said she adored his voice, so that kept her happy, which was a relief to everyone.
The picnic was eclectic, despite Camilla’s best efforts, despite having created a pair of quite magnificent dishes herself – fresh salmon and dill salad with rosti potatoes and soured cream, a raspberry torte – and Sissy having made a passable job of her pasta salad. However, Natasha had come straight from work and had cheated and spent a fortune at M&S, which wasn’t at all like her: she’d long since graduated from Pot Noodles and would normally be up until midnight the evening before, she seemed to fancy herself as Superwoman these days. Renée stayed true to form and had provided nothing except three bottles of Prosecco and some shop-bought Scotch eggs, which Camilla just about managed not to comment on, despite Renée having ignored her explicit instructions to make a quiche. Siobhan had brought what was left of the profiteroles and a bottle of white wine. The profiteroles looked quite revolting now but no-one dared decline one, even though they were squashed and the chocolate had half-melted and the cream was thick and yellow – Siobhan didn’t have a fridge at work and it had been a particularly hot day.
The sun was sinking gently, and it left behind one of those rare English summer’s evenings that were unmatched elsewhere in the world. The atmosphere between the women was more jovial now, thank goodness, and when Camilla announced that the food was ready, even Renée sat up obediently. She poured herself another glass of Prosecco and grabbed a handful of Kettle Chips straight from the packet. Her eyes were shiny.
‘How’s Stephen, Juliette?’ she asked airily, and Juliette still found herself bristling, even after all this time.
‘He’s fine, thanks,’ she replied. She paused. ‘How are you? Seeing anyone at the moment?’
Renée laughed. ‘Just the odd one-night stand, they’re always entertaining, plus the same old thing with Ed. He won’t leave his wife, I don’t want him to anyway, and we have increasingly mediocre sex the longer it goes on.’
Juliette looked disapproving, although about exactly what no-one was sure, it could have been any number of things.
‘Why don’t you ditch him and go out with someone nice, Renée?’ asked Camilla, as she handed her a plate. ‘You might even like it.’
‘Well, you know, it’s not that easy,’ said Renée, and she took another handful of crisps. ‘All the blokes I meet these days are either total bastards, or else they think I’m desperate to go curtain shopping and get married and have babies, and so they dump me anyway.’ Her voice brightened. ‘So I’m quite happy with the occasional night with someone else’s husband for the time being.’
‘Well, what about his wife, don’t you think about her?’ asked Natasha, and her tone was stern suddenly.
There was an awkward silence. Natasha took off her shoes to reveal nails that were painted glossy geranium pink, incongruous against her runner’s bunions – like a plain girl in a prom dress, Renée thought bitchily. She looked coolly at Natasha.
‘I think it’s more for him to think about his wife, don’t you?’ Renée said, and she topped up her glass again so it overflowed, the bubbles chasing down the sides like slalom skiers, before lifting the bottle jauntily and saying, ‘More Prosecco, anyone?’