‘I’m okay, thank you, and I’ll be better once I’ve eaten this. Thanks for bringing it.’
‘My pleasure. Now, tell me what happened at the party after I gave up far too early and went to bed,’ said Sylvia. ‘It looked as though you were all having a wonderful time, although I did have to extract our neighbours’ sons from the rose bushes. Our lovely estate manager, Will, would have been furious if they’d squashed his Gertrude Jekylls.’
‘Will is a bore,’ said Frankie, pouring herself a second cup of coffee and looking at her now-empty tablet strip with disappointment.
‘He’s not! He’s kind and very conscientious,’ said Martha. ‘And he does love those roses. The party was really fun, Aunt Sylvia – it was a shame you left so early.’
Juliet smiled, looking down at her dress and remembering how she and her sisters had gone completely over the top with their outfits so that they looked like film stars – she dark and severe, Frankie sexy and dissipated as Jean Harlow and Martha all soft waves and melting eyes like Olivia de Havilland. The invitation had stated ‘fancy dress if you want’, but most of the guests had turned up in jeans, like they would to any local party, making the three of them stand out even more.
‘Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of the place. How are we going to get it all cleaned up? You haven’t forgotten that Rousseau has called a family meeting, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t, and don’t worry about the clear-up.’ A smile spread across Juliet’s face. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be in any fit state this morning to deal with it, so I’ve organised for Agnes and her crack team of cleaners to come and sort it out. They may have an average age of ninety-five, but they’ve got more energy than I had when I was four.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Oh, maybe that’s them now.’
Sylvia went into the hall to answer it. She returned swiftly, not with a gaggle of lively nonagenarians clutching dusters, but a vast bouquet of flowers.
Martha jumped up to burrow around in the acres of tissue paper for a card.
‘Ooh, birthday flowers! I wonder who they’re from? Look, here it is.’
She handed the tiny envelope to Juliet, who was trying to stay cool but was excited to find out who had sent her such anextravagant present. She flipped open the flap and pulled out the card, the message written centrally, the edges decorated with an ornate but tasteful pressed pattern.
‘Read it out,’ said Martha.
Juliet’s smile at her sister’s unquenchable romanticism quickly changed to a frown as she saw who had sent the gift. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone, today of all days? She stuffed the card back into the envelope and tossed it onto the tray full of dirty plates.
‘They’re from Toby.’
She glanced again at the bouquet. She should have realised. Beautiful though it was, it was laden with creamy oriental lilies, which she hated, finding them cloying and sickly. Her horrible, controlling ex-boyfriend Toby had always thought they were elegant and – she nearly gagged –ladylike, and that sheshouldlike them, so he always forced them on her, another small step to make her into a different – better – person. The smell was drifting over to her now, and she felt her breakfast rising in her throat.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Sylvia, can you take them away? Please. Put them somewhere I can’t see – or smell – them.’
She let her eyes slide away, rather than meet her aunt’s concerned gaze.
‘Of course, darling. I’ll find somewhere for them. Forget they ever arrived.’
When she had left the room, the sisters sat in silence for a moment. It was Frankie who spoke first.
‘Bastard. I’m sogladyou finally broke up with him.’
‘So am I,’ said Martha. ‘Even though you both know how much I love a happy ending. Although I really do think thatnotbeing with him is the happiest thing.’
Juliet sat in silence, pressing down the surge of unwelcome feelings as shame battled fear and sadness and rage.
Martha continued.
‘Are yousurehe won’t worm his way back in? I worry – shared friends, working at the same paper, attending the same parties…It can’t be good for you.’
Juliet sighed. She just wanted this to stop now. She was suddenly desperate to get back to London, to be away from the sympathy, the kind looks, the expectations. To be somewhere she could be herself. Couldn’t she? Well, anyway, somewhere she could be the sharp, witty, hard-shelled version of herself that worked perfectly well.It did. Really it did, she told herself firmly.
‘All right, thanks, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Hadn’t we better think about getting ready for this meeting? You’ll have to tip that dopey dog off your lap first, Martha. Look at him, he’s set in for the day.’
Subject cunningly changed. All three sisters were always happy to be distracted by animal talk, particularly if it was about their precious dogs.
‘I wish I was too. Look at him, he’s so cosy.’ Martha smiled down fondly at the scruffy dog.
Frankie sighed.
‘I still miss Gulliver, though; he was such a…presence.’
