Gusty rain was hammering at the windows, water streaming downwards as if in a race to the bottom, the sky still dark even though it was morning. It was a lousy day for commuting and Camilla’s husband was soaking. He took off his Burberry trenchcoat, shook the rain from it, hung it on the coat stand, switched on his computer, sat down at his desk, and picked up the FT.
James was glad that Camilla seemed to be feeling a bit better at last, despite the apocalyptic weather this morning. She had taken Siobhan’s death last year so hard, almost as hard as her father’s from what he could gather, and although she didn’t have to live with the guilt that the others would bear for the rest of their lives, she still seemed to blame herself. James did his best to tell her that just because she’d organised the picnic, that didn’t mean it was in any way her fault Siobhan had died, she hadn’t even been involved in any of the arguments. But Camilla kept saying that she’d known how paralytic Siobhan was and yet had left without her anyway, even if she had been drunk herself, and that made her as culpable as anyone. And of course she was also devastated that the group had finally broken down, although James was convinced it was for the best, it had been far too long coming in his opinion. Thank God Camilla had the boys to think about – she was helping Christian with his university choices at the moment, and although she’d blanched when he first said he wanted to go to Bristol, she knew that that was what his heart was set on, it had one of the best reputations for Mathematics, and she would never want to stand in either of her sons’ way. And anyway, James thought as he downloaded his emails (thirty-seven overnight, what had happened to people talking to each other?), it might do her good to go back there one day, and remember the good times she’d had with the others, realise that their friendships had been real once, before the inevitable ups and downs and outright tragedies of life had got in the way.