No One Could Have Guessed the Weather by Anne-Marie Casey

over her.
    Miranda was impressed, though she tried to hide it. The hint of faux sympathy disappeared from her voice.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHere, 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.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œAre you okay?” Camilla asked.
    â€œSort 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.”
    â€œI know,” agreed Camilla.
    They both considered this for a moment.
    â€œMine 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.
    â€œYou’re not bitter and twisted, are you, Milla?”
    â€œ
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.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    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.
    â€œWhat the hell?” he cried.
    â€œThat robin is looking at me strangely.”
    â€œ
What?”
George turned, but the robin had disappeared, and now he looked at Lucy strangely.
    â€œI’m telling you. It was kind of