Private Lives полностью

Now, sitting here, I realise it was stupid of me, stupid to be jealous of Bry and Elizabeth, because if this court case is the cost of true friendship – families devastated, lives destroyed – then it can’t be worth it. Maybe women like us are the lucky ones after all, maybe our distance from each other keeps us safe, helps us to hide our wounds, our fears, so we can’t be injured by others, lone wolves making our own way as best we can.

1 July 2019

For once, Bry isn’t late. She is waiting outside the Nettlestone Primary School gates at exactly 3.30 p.m. She’d tiptoed out of her vinyasa flow class a little early, been stern with herself when she was tempted to nip into a shop on the short walk to her goddaughter’s school, Elizabeth’s request in her ears: Please don’t be too late, Clem panics if she thinks she’s been forgotten. Bry has to admit it feels kind of leisurely being early, to be one of the first at the school gates, simply waiting, the afternoon sun warm on her face. It’s a relief not to feel a flood of panic rising in her; not to run. So this is how it feels to be Elizabeth. More parents start to gather, a few faces Bry recognises from around town, parents she knows are friends with Elizabeth, but no one Bry knows well enough to say hello to. They acknowledge her vaguely and turn back to their conversations. Bry can see why Elizabeth fits in perfectly here, leading the chats about school trips and nit treatments.

Suddenly the school doors open and there’s a rush of noise: small, high voices shrieking, laughing; a couple of teachers’ voices lower, louder, warning, ‘Slow down!’ A fast-moving cloud of children fills the little playground, all clamouring towards the gates. Bry sees Clemmie immediately. Her red hair, the same colour as Jack’s, makes her easy to spot. Today it’s plaited, the plait moving side to side like a fox’s tail as Clemmie runs. Her rucksack is too big and full for her small six-year-old frame; it moves awkwardly on her back, out of time with her run, but she’s laughing, her blue eyes and freckled face creased in joy. Clemmie’s not laughing at anything in particular; she’s laughing at the feeling of release, the novelty of Auntie Bry collecting her from school, the chaotic speed of her running. Bry bends, opens her arms, and laughs too. Clemmie runs into her with a gentle thud. Her hair smells of pencil shavings and strawberry lip balm.

‘Auntie Bry!’

Bry holds her and closes her eyes briefly. Clemmie wiggles away before Bry is ready. She wipes a few strands of hair from her face with her palm and says, ‘My class did the song today in assembly, we did.’ Her rucksack starts falling off her shoulders. Bry lifts it on to her own back and reaches for her goddaughter’s hand. Clemmie starts singing a song, presumably the one she sang in assembly, about baking a cake for her friend. She looks up at Bry, dimples showing as she beams. Bry swings their held hands so Clemmie knows she loves her song as they start the short walk through the narrow, hilly old streets of Farley, towards Saint’s Road, where both their families – the Chamberlains and the Kohlis – live. She gives Clemmie a two-pound coin, which she drops into the cap of a man busking on the cobbled bridge.

‘Cheers, girls,’ he says with a wink, and they both wave to a friend who works in the health food shop.

‘Bry! Yoo-hoo! Bry, Clemmie, wait for us!’ Bry turns, slow and reluctant, as her friend Row, still in her yoga leggings, steams up the tree-lined pavement behind them, her daughter Lily tinkling along by her side.

‘Told you you didn’t have to leave yoga early,’ Row says as she catches up with them. Clemmie peels away from Bry and greets Lily enthusiastically, before the two girls run ahead a couple of paces.

‘But I guess Elizabeth would have killed you if you’d been late,’ Row adds, her bangles jingling as she loops her arm through Bry’s. ‘Where is she anyway?’

‘She has a meeting with the council about that petition she got everyone to sign, about reducing the speed limit on Saint’s Road to twenty.’