No One Could Have Guessed the Weather (5 page)

“Outside the home,”
Camilla chipped in.

“—and . . . I don't know. Now when I think about starting all over again I feel old . . . and afraid. It's like I was running the marathon, and I hit the wall.”

“For ten years?”
chortled Camilla.

“You're right. I hate myself. I've been asleep for ten years.”

“Darling, no praise, no blame from me. I don't mean to be tactless after mommy dearest, but . . . we need a big drink. Look at the state of us. Couple of fucking suffragettes, eh? And to think we used to be like George Eliot heroines, you and me. Especially you. I remember you telling old Miss Whatsherface-tweed-skirt-old-English that you felt you would stick your head in an oven if you couldn't
use your mind.”

“Did I?” Lucy was startled. She had a terrible memory and was always interested when people told her things about herself she had forgotten.

“Yes, we'd been reading
Middlemarch
. Remember the bit, ‘
you would die . . . from that roar which lies on the other side of silence
.'”

There was a long pause.

“I do need a drink,” said Lucy.

“You need several,” giggled Camilla. “And then if you're up to it, we're going to go to Rose and Jasper Hardy's joint surprise birthday party that's not a surprise anymore, because I accidentally put it on Facebook. No one told me it was a secret because
you know who
might be there.”

Lucy knew instantly that
you know who
referred to nice but unmemorable Peter Aldridge, who used to hang round the edges of discos in his V-neck sweater and, during the years Lucy had had her ten-year nap, had apparently become Home Secretary. From the frisson of excitement in Camilla's voice, Lucy knew this was meant to be a Big Deal, but in her current state she failed to drum up much excitement.

“I don't care where we go,” she said. “I'm just glad to be away from the house of death. I'll go with the flow.”

“You have changed,” said Camilla, pushing the agricultural vehicle into fifth gear.

•   •   •

C
AMILLA LEFT
L
UCY
at the cheap hotel Lucy had booked for the night and gave her strict instructions to get some rest while she went home to check that the new German au pair wasn't letting Tristan watch
Sex and the City
on DVD again on the pretext of extending her English vocabulary. (Tristan had asked for a cosmopolitan at a play date the previous week, and it had reinforced people's perceptions of Camilla.) Camilla would return at seven.

Lucy rifled in her bag to see what Richard had packed, and, in fact, groping for anything black in her wardrobe, she found he had thrown in a pre-austerity ruffled Prada top with a sequin trim that, over her jeans and boots, would do very nicely for a fortieth birthday party for people who did not wish to be forty at all.

It was commonplace for Lucy to declare whenever she met anyone from her college days that they hadn't changed a bit. In fact, they always had. Normally it was the straightforward deterioration of their looks or the sense that some bright light inside them had been switched off by a force greater than themselves; but sometimes, in her own case, certainly, the years had made them look better, grown into themselves somehow.

Rose Hardy, the hostess, unfortunately fitted into the former group, standing in the kitchen looking oppressed and miserable, despite her picture-perfect breadmaker and children. She was devastated because
you know who
had not appeared and was not likely to appear, it seemed, due to another problem with the euro, which required the entire cabinet to sit in an office with a big red phone. Well, that was what Lucy imagined, anyway. For Rose, this was a disaster; she knew several people had accepted the invitation only to ask
you know who
about whether the government could safeguard their pensions and were disappointed to have a couple of mere junior civil servants in the Department of Arts and Tourism to ingratiate themselves with. In fact, Rose was so upset she barely registered Lucy's presence, and when Lucy pointed out that perhaps the fluctuations of the European currency market might take priority over a party, Rose disappeared off to find a more understanding ear in which to complain about how “certain people forgot their friends, the friends who helped them into their positions of power,” clearly alluding to the days she had spent leafleting in Bayswater before the election.

Jasper was altogether more delighted to see Lucy, clasping her in a slightly too vigorous embrace and marveling at how much time had elapsed since he had seen her. When he asked, sincerely, how she was, she gave him the only line she wanted to talk about tonight: two young boys, living in New York, happy.

“You look happy,” he said. “But then you always were different.” And he picked up a plate of mini-sausages glazed in honey and ginger and headed into the living room.

Camilla was shaking martinis and marveling that Rose and Jasper had two dishwashers.

“Oh, bloody hell!”
she said suddenly.

“What?” said Lucy, confused.

“Miranda Bassett just walked in. I'm off to see if anyone's smoking in the kids' bathroom upstairs. I cannot face Madam consoling me tonight.” And she seized her shaker and hurried up the back stairs, leaving Lucy alone and defenseless.

Miranda entered radiantly with husband Simon behind her; he was dutifully carrying a small baby instead of her handbag like he used to, but they were both airily dispatched the moment Miranda saw Lucy.

Miranda was the most conspicuously successful of all the women of Lucy's acquaintance from university. As a shy teenager Lucy had been terrified of her, for Miranda, at age nineteen, swanned around, resplendent in her raven-haired beauty, her permanently airbrushed skin and her maxi-dresses, in which she managed to cycle. In their twenties they had kept a wary eye on each other as their professional paths occasionally crossed, although Miranda was still superior, as, having married Simon at age twenty-three, she had had her first child the year after and was therefore “having it all,” a subject on which she regularly opined in her column in a Saturday newspaper. Her brief was to depict the joys and travails of working motherhood with humor and insight, and so every week she detailed an amusing incident about herself, saintly Simon, and her child, whom for purposes of anonymity she called the Savior. She had published the collected columns in a best-selling book and presented a documentary series on Channel 5, so when Miranda sashayed over to Lucy, Lucy knew she was in the presence of someone who had her own website.

“Thank God, Lucy Lovett. Someone here I can talk to. I've been looking for signs of intelligent life in the other room and can't find any.” Her signature peal of laughter burst forth. It never got less strange each time Lucy heard it.

“Was Camilla in here?” continued Miranda. “Thought I saw her running toward her nicotine. Poor thing. We all thought it was bad when she was like Bridget Jones, but now she's turned into Patsy from
Ab Fab
.”

From Miranda's rapid appraisal of the company, Lucy knew Miranda was one of the number who had attended only because Rose had promised to deliver
you
know who
and had worked out that she must stay for at least half an hour before leaving, in order not to be deemed unspeakably rude. Lucy took a deep breath to gather herself before attempting conversation, but fortunately her participation was not necessary. Lucy was left exhausted by the roller coaster that was Miranda's late thirties. She learned how difficult it was to get anything intelligent made on TV these days, how the Savior had proved an immense disappointment (dropping out of Westminster to go to a Sixth Form College to do woodturning), and as a result Miranda had been gripped by an overwhelming urge to have another, more Miranda-ish, child and, miraculously, after Simon reversed his vasectomy, she did, another boy,
dammit
, but here's hoping. . . . She longed to take life a bit easier, but Simon had got so used to being at home he felt he couldn't possibly go back into the workplace, and they lost so much money after his dodgy investments on the stock exchange, which she had allowed only to make him feel that he was “contributing,” that she'd had to take a job writing for a
tabloid newspaper
.
Honestly she could have divorced him a couple of years ago, but then you realize, don't you, that there's only one George Clooney, and while perhaps one could have had anyone one wanted in one's prime (Lucy realized she must nod in agreement to this), we're all rather stuck now unless we want to end up like Camilla, bitter and twisted, or like Rose and her ilk in there, the valley of the surrendered wives.
What
a bloody waste of taxpayers' money it was educating that lot!

And with that, Miranda sat down and Lucy thought that despite her support underwear, the uniform of skintight top and maxi-skirt was becoming rather ill-advised. She wanted to say that Miranda was a natural tabloid journalist and this would solve all her financial worries, but something stopped her.

“So what are you up to these days?” said Miranda, changing her tone. She tilted her head to one side in the “tell me about the tragedy” mode. “How are you
coping
with things?”

For a moment Lucy panicked that Miranda had somehow heard about her mother, but no, she was referring to the demise of Richard's share options. Lucy remembered Camilla's horror at the prospect of the Consolations of Miranda. So she announced that she had taken the opportunity of the move to New York to reinvent herself and that
these days
she was writing.

As she said it she knew what had come over her.

Miranda was impressed, though she tried to hide it. The hint of faux sympathy disappeared from her voice.

“What sort of writing? It's not like everyone else—
I'm working on a novel
about the mothers at the school gates
—is it? The world simply doesn't need another female hack rambling on about retail and reproduction. Tell me you're tackling the big issues.” Lucy gulped, disconcerted by Miranda's aggression, which was not passive. She had often considered writing, and, if she were to try, her stories would be about the school gates and the women she met there, the tales they had to tell if you listened, indeed, the roar that lay on the other side of silence.

“I've been working on TV, actually. A crime show.
Rage Undercover
, it's called. You won't have seen it, I expect. It's on Living. Extremely violent, elemental-type vibe.”

She could tell from Miranda's expression that although she certainly had not seen it, she would be scanning the cable menu later that night. Lucy sat straight upright like Julia did and adopted Julia's breezy tone.

“I did it under a pseudonym to allow me to explore a whole different side of my personality, a masculine side, really. Richard's so conventionally macho that I felt I was becoming absorbed into a very traditional role. Julia Kirkland's my writing name. Look out for me.”

Miranda positively bristled. She had had enough of Lucy. Fortunately, at this moment Simon appeared to warm a bottle.

“Here, give me that,” she demanded, and Simon started, unsure as to whether she was referring to the bottle or the baby. “Sounds like everything's going really well for you,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

“It's amazing what positive things can happen from a reversal of fortune.”

It was the only truthful thing Lucy had said.

She smiled sympathetically at Simon and moved away, knowing that she needed to find Camilla to prevent her from being arrested later for drunk-and-disorderliness while driving an Eastern European 4x4. As she headed for the stairs she glanced into the living room, looked at the women, obediently clustered on armchairs, talking about the common entrance exam, the men standing by the mantelpiece, guffawing. It was positively Stepford. And yet only a few months ago she would have been firmly in the female area, or else sitting on a cushion like a dog at Richard's feet.

Camilla was lying in the bathtub with a bathrobe on and a towel rolled up like a pillow under her neck. Lucy sat down on the toilet.

“Are you okay?” Camilla asked.

“Sort of,” replied Lucy. “I'd forgotten what it's like when you haven't seen people for a while. I hate giving the one-line description of my life.”

“I know,” agreed Camilla.

They both considered this for a moment.

“Mine is, ‘One kid, one divorce, life sucks.' I don't want to say it, and no one wants to hear it,” Camilla said.

Lucy leaned over and kissed her friend on the cheek.

“You're not bitter and twisted, are you, Milla?”

“
No!
My life didn't turn out how I imagined. But then neither did yours, right, Lucy? You used to be so
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, and now it sounds like
Last Exit to Brooklyn
. Cheers!”

She handed Lucy the shaker, and Lucy drained the last gulp.

•   •   •

T
HE MORNING OF THE FUNERAL,
Lucy awoke to a thin layer of frost on the window and a robin perched on the ledge outside, staring straight in at her.

She shrieked and George rushed in, bleary-eyed, gray-faced, in striped pajamas.

“What the hell?” he cried.

“That robin is looking at me strangely.”

“
What?”
George turned, but the robin had disappeared, and now he looked at Lucy strangely.

“I'm telling you. It was kind of malevolent. Like in
The Birds
.”

“Robins are territorial and aggressive. They mark out their living space and will attack trespassers.”

Lucy's vision settled, and she peered at her brother. She noticed the flecks of white in his stubble. “You look dreadful.”