Late on a sultry summer’s afternoon a quarter of a century earlier, six undergraduates were enjoying an impromptu (if rather culinarily unsophisticated, despite Camilla’s best efforts) picnic in a beautiful historic park with views across the city, less than ten minutes’ walk from the halls of residence where they’d all been thrown together, and, for the next week at least, still lived. It was nearly the end of their first year and most of them were hungover from a party the night before, but Natasha had suggested it, saying it was the last weekend they’d all be together before the summer, and in any case, she’d said, it was far too nice to be indoors.
Although still not anywhere near her old self since her father’s suicide, Camilla had perked up a little at this (which had been Natasha’s intention), and had miraculously rustled up egg sandwiches and some chocolate Krispies. Meanwhile everyone else had raided the communal kitchen, with Natasha grabbing a slab of jelly (that she was now eating cube by cube, which normally would have made Camilla apoplectic), and the others cobbling together some on-the-turn fruit, a lump of Cheddar cheese and an open tub of Philadelphia that Renée had stolen out of the fridge, and an ancient-looking packet of crackers they’d discovered behind the boxes of cereals in the larder. Sissy had been the most proactive and had dashed out and bought some crisps and soft drinks from the newsagent on Queens Road, although she’d refused to buy Natasha the cigarettes she’d requested, saying, quite firmly for her, that she couldn’t possibly take part in helping one of her best friends get cancer.
In the absence of proper picnic rugs (not even Camilla was that organised in the early days), Juliette and Renée had dragged along their university-issue blankets for everyone to sit on. Siobhan had brought her portable stereo, and Madonna was now tinnily belting out ‘Like A Virgin’ (the cover of which Siobhan was apparently modelling her latest look on), and although everyone winced at the sound quality no-one had the heart to tell her. They were all drinking Moscow Mules out of plastic cups, even Sissy, who didn’t much like alcohol but felt she should make the effort, especially as Renée had gone to so much trouble, having mixed up a huge batch in the kitchen and transported it in giant-sized empty Fanta bottles. The cocktails looked murky, distinctly unappetising – at best like melted Coke floats, at worst not worth thinking about – but at least they seemed to be hitting the spot.
‘Well, this is nice,’ said Renée, kicking off the patent leather Dr Marten boots that she’d worn all year, whatever the weather, and hitching up her black ra-ra skirt. She blew her fringe out of her eyes, which she’d recently dyed purple although the rest of her hair was black. ‘I’m going to miss you lot in the summer. It’s weird that we won’t see each other for weeks,’ and although her voice was full of its usual bravado the others could hear the faint crack in it, and could tell that she meant it.
‘Well, don’t worry, you won’t miss me, Renée,’ said Juliette, plonking herself down next to her. ‘Seeing as I’m coming to stay at your dad’s for a week. I’m looking forward to it – I’ve never been to Clacton.’
‘And nor would you want to under normal circumstances,’ said Renée. ‘It’s a total dump; I’ve warned you. And my dad’s a right miserable git.’ Her face darkened. ‘Sometimes I wonder how I’m even related to him … Oh! Sorry, Juliette.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Juliette. She turned her face into the sun and closed her eyes. Her hair was pulled up messily in a scarf she’d tied in a great bow on the top of her head, presumably to better show off the huge black cross that dangled from her right earlobe.
Everyone looked awkward. Natasha flashed looks at Renée not to say any more, as Juliette continued to sit there, face tilted upwards, soaking up the sun, as if opening her eyes would give her away.
‘Juliette, are you OK?’ asked Siobhan after a while, and she put a skinny arm around her friend’s shoulder and Juliette leaned into her, for just a moment – and then she pulled gently away and composed herself. She changed the subject, slightly too abruptly.
‘Camilla, have you worked out what you’re doing in the summer yet?’ she said. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come to Renée’s with me?’ She put her forefinger to her dark, glossy lips. ‘Hmm, Clacton or Provence … ?’
Camilla smiled but didn’t answer. ‘Seriously, Cam,’ Juliette continued. ‘D’you think you will be able to persuade your mother to go to France?’
‘I hope so,’ said Camilla. ‘I’m sure it would do her good, she loves the house so much, but of course it’ll be the first time without Daddy, and she’ll have to face all the neighbours … I do wish I could invite you all, it’s so beautiful there, but under the circumstances …’ She trailed off.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cam,’ said Renée. She tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘And anyway there’s always next year – except knowing Siobhan she’d probably forget her passport.’
Siobhan grinned good-naturedly, her imperfect teeth flashing white in the sunshine. She pulled the tartan braces attached to her Levi’s down off her shoulders, presumably so it was easier to sit. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Auntie Camilla would pack for me, wouldn’t you, Cam?’
‘Knowing you she probably would,’ said Renée. ‘Somehow you manage to get us all running round after you. I’m so surprised you’re not blonde.’
‘Hey, don’t be blondist!’ said Natasha, but with her short, spiky mop she wasn’t really the type of blonde Renée was referring to.
‘I know!’ said Sissy, the Moscow Mule talking. ‘What about everyone coming and staying at my parents’ house? The countryside is gorgeous where they live, plus they’re going on a trip to Lourdes in August, so there’d be plenty of room for us all. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,’ and as she said it she realised that they’d be so shocked at their middle daughter making any demands on them that she really had no idea what they would say.
‘That’s a super idea,’ said Camilla, pushing her hair band back, a nervous habit she’d picked up lately. ‘I’d like to come, if I can manage it,’ and because it was the second thing Camilla had shown any interest in in ages (the picnic being the first), Sissy did end up asking her parents, and although Sissy’s older sister had the hump about it – they had never let her have the house to herself when they were away – her parents had said yes. So that’s where the six of them did go for that last week of August, which was fortunate, because all through the summer Camilla had been dreading the thought of going back to Bristol, of having to bear the humiliation all over again, with a new batch of freshers pointing her out, whispering about her. She’d even drafted a letter to her tutor, withdrawing from her course. But as soon as she’d got to Sissy’s in Shropshire, everyone had immediately fallen back into their familiar patterns, their complementary roles (Siobhan scatty, Natasha nervy and driven, Sissy unfailingly sweet, Juliette sensitive and fragile, Renée sassy and sardonic, Camilla the mother hen) and they had laughed and danced about in their pyjamas to their favourite Wham! and Wet Wet Wet and Prince albums; or else curled up with a bottle of wine to Sissy’s Best of Frank Sinatra; and Camilla had known that she’d get through it all with the support of this eclectic bunch of girls – they were her best friends in the world now, and would be forever.