In a park in central London on a perfect summer’s evening it was a close call who could become the most hysterical. Amongst the candidates was a woman who was tired of her marriage to a man who was not only overbearing but had just been called a murderer, in effect; another whose husband was dead; one who had recently found out hers was having an affair with one of her supposed best friends, who happened to be right here too, apparently unaware that her secret was out; one sobbing drunkenly about having been raped years ago; one who was horrified at how their friendships were unravelling, finally; and a sixth who usually managed to be the most melodramatic without having to try too hard, so was feeling a bit put out, unused to this level of competition. Siobhan was confused. Her skinny jeans were ruined, she was mortified by her outburst about Stephen and what it had set off, there was a sick feeling in her stomach that Matt still hadn’t called her – and she was far too drunk to deal with any of it. She leaned over and picked up a glass near Sissy, she had no idea whose, and drank the contents straight down, although she knew that wouldn’t help. Camilla was getting up, trying to be all mumsy and sensible, draping her jumper over her shoulders, slurring on about how they should all go home; and Siobhan had a sudden dread of the evening ending, despite how horrifically it was turning out, of going home to her empty flat and her absent boyfriend and her over-fed cat Norris – and all she wanted was for the others to look after her, like they used to. She started bawling, mainly because she was pissed and couldn’t think what else to do. It was dark and the park was nearly empty now, and the sounds seemed to travel further than they should, ringing out rancorously across the water, as if they would reach over the grass and through the trees all the way to the Bayswater Road.
‘Oh, just shut the fuck up, Siobhan,’ said Natasha. ‘For God’s sake. If it wasn’t for you and your big mouth none of this would have happened.’ Siobhan looked stunned at Natasha’s outburst, how dare she speak to her like that. Natasha looked across at Sissy, who appeared to have deflated, was slumped with her head on her knees on her fancy woollen rug, shoulders shaking gently.
‘And just look what you’ve done to poor Sissy,’ Natasha added, as if for emphasis.
Siobhan lost it then.
‘Look what I’ve done to her,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve done nothing! Sissy wouldn’t even be a widow if it wasn’t for Juliette’s lying bastard of a husband, and she knows it.’ Even Siobhan looked shocked at what she’d said, for a second – and then her tongue ran away with itself, as if it were operating unilaterally and had decided there was no going back now. ‘In fact both of your husbands are repulsive,’ she yelled at Juliette and Natasha. ‘Stephen should be in bloody prison’ (at which point Juliette put her head in her hands and started weeping), ‘and Alistair thinks he’s such a big shot just because he’s a children’s author.’ Siobhan stared down Natasha, inflamed after years and years of her put-downs. ‘And you – you always have been a social climber. And now you’re so wrapped up in your fancy job and posh house and flash cars and private schools you seem to think you’re above everyone else these days. And you’re not.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ snorted Natasha. ‘You are so ludicrously hung-up that you’ve never managed to hold down a relationship, or get a decent job. It’s always the same when I see you. If you didn’t bitch and moan and go on about yourself so much maybe you wouldn’t be so bloody lonely.’
Siobhan was standing now, looking like she might even punch Natasha, and she was so furious that she was debating whether to just bugger off and go home, flag down a cab on the bridge and leave the lot of them, this was unbearable. In the end it was Sissy who spoke.
‘Please can we stop this,’ she said quietly. ‘None of it’s going to bring Nigel back, and I’m sure no-one did anything deliberately. Please let’s not make everything worse by all screaming and shouting at each other. All I want to do is go home, please, let’s just get packed up and go.’
Sissy stood up and shook out her rug, and even in the fading light it was clear that tears were running down her cheeks and she looked small and hunched, like a little girl who’d been smacked by her mummy. No-one spoke as they packed up and the atmosphere was sullen, brittle, utterly irreparable; and each woman was aware that her life would never be quite the same again, not after this, although at that point none of them realised in what way.