The weird thing after the grotesque showdown with her husband (who decided, once he’d sobered up, not to hang himself after all) was that all Juliette wanted was her mum, her real mum. She knew better than to call her though, she’d learned her lesson over the years, and she didn’t think she could handle Elisabeth Potts’ dismissive platitudes, Juliette preferred silence to those. Stephen had been surprisingly compliant since the night she’d confronted him – he was obviously shit scared she’d leak something. She must admit she was tempted, she was so horrified by what he’d done, someone needed to make sure he got his comeuppance – or perhaps she ought to go to the police instead of the papers. Why should he keep getting away with everything? She knew she wouldn’t do it though, she couldn’t do that to the children, they were unsettled enough as it was, particularly Noah. If her friend wasn’t going to press charges then she wouldn’t stir it up, it wasn’t her business, not really. She was only married to Stephen, she hadn’t actually been involved, thank goodness.
Juliette lay in the enormous bed with the luxurious mattress that she’d shared with Stephen for so many years and shuddered. She would never share it with him again, not after this. Their marriage was over. She turned her head into her pillow and let out a sob. Poor Cynthia wouldn’t do. She wanted her mother.
The phone rang and rang downstairs. Juliette ignored it as ever, her head still buried in the pillow – Mrs Redfern could get it, she seemed desperate to know what was going on. Eventually the phone stopped and Juliette welcomed back the silence, like an old friend. Then the door opened, just a little, enough for half a curly grey head to make an appearance.
‘Juliette, are you awake?’ she said. ‘It’s one of your friends, I think. She says it’s important.’
Juliette groaned and took her head from under the covers. Her hair was wild in the half-light. Mrs Redfern tiptoed across the luxurious deep-piled carpet and handed her the phone. She slumped it against her shoulder, barely holding it, and it was slippery against the silk of her nightdress.
‘Juliette?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s me, Camilla. I was just calling to see how you are. You never return my calls.’
‘Oh.’
‘Not bad,’ said Juliette. She started to cry, silently.
‘Why are you blanking me, Juliette? What have I done in all this, except maybe be a little bossy over what to make for the picnic? I can’t help it, it’s my upbringing.’ She attempted a laugh.
‘I’m not blanking you, Camilla,’ said Juliette. She hesitated. She didn’t want to be rude, Camilla of all people didn’t deserve it. She decided in the end to be honest for once, it might do her good.
‘It’s just that I can’t forgive myself for Siobhan’s death, for leaving her like that. You don’t have to live with the guilt – I know it sounds odd but you’re lucky in a way, you’d gone, you didn’t hear her.’ She didn’t mention Stephen, she couldn’t face referring to what he’d allegedly done, although Camilla knew that too of course, everyone had bloody heard the night of the picnic. Juliette wept and had to stop talking for a while as Camilla waited, quietly. ‘I just can’t see any of you now, it’s all too painful. I’m so sorry,’ she said, and went to put down the phone.
‘Stop, don’t go,’ said Camilla. ‘You were drunk, you didn’t know what you were doing, and anyway you didn’t really think it was her, of course you didn’t! You’re not to blame, really you’re not. Look, I’m at Mummy’s in Holland Park, shall I pop over? Your cleaner said you’re still in bed, and it’s the afternoon, Juliette. You need your friends at times like these, I should know. Remember how you looked after me when Daddy died?’
Juliette remembered that time, twenty-five years ago, how they’d all rallied round Camilla after her father’s dreadful sex scandal, how they’d taken her off to Siobhan’s uncle’s cottage and looked after her, only for her father to hang himself the day after they’d got back, deep in the woods on his country estate. Camilla had still managed to stick out university though, and Juliette knew it was because they’d all pulled together, put a cocoon of love and support around their friend, as people who all live together at college tend to do at the time. They’d stuck together through everything back then, even though they’d all been so different – Camilla had been so totally posh in her stripy shirts with the collars turned up, and Juliette and Siobhan were Madonna wannabes, while Renée was punky, and Natasha always looked like she was going for a run, a vision in Lycra even then, and Sissy had looked like someone’s little brother. But they’d all got through things together in Bristol. They’d been real friends back then.
‘OK,’ she said, in the end. What harm could it do? All the harm had been done.
‘I’ll get a cab, I’ll be there in half an hour. So get off your skinny arse and put the kettle on!’ And the way she said the word off rhymed with wharf.
‘OK,’ said Juliette. ‘Thanks, Camilla. See you soon, bye.’
‘Ciao, ciao,’ said Camilla.