Stung, Juliet put down her cloth and squared her shoulders.
‘Not at all. I wanted to congratulate you on the weekend. But now that it’s over, isn’t it time to think about the next thing?’
‘Can we not just enjoy the moment, even for a moment?’
Juliet glared at his laughing face – laughing at her, again.
‘I know you think I’m some sort of workaholic, but it’s not true. I’m perfectly capable of enjoying myself, but I also don’t see why we shouldn’t get the next thing in motion. Time just slips away, otherwise, and all you’ve done is drink champagne and chat, rather thanachievinganything.’
‘Sounds okay to me right now,’ said Léo, topping up his glass. ‘I do not think I can be accused of frittering away time, after the work I have put in to get this school up and running.’
‘Juliet, Léo.’ Sylvia’s calm voice drifted across the table. ‘You are more alike than you think, both with admirable work ethics and plenty of drive. Juliet, darling, I know that you will feel calmer if we put in a time to start the photographs. Léo, that can be done quickly and easily and then we can toast our success until dawn if you like. Well…you can at least. I’m exhausted, but you take my point.’
Juliet bristled at her aunt’s swift dissection of the situation but couldn’t deny the truth of it: shewouldfeel less panicked knowing that there was a firm date in the diary for the photos to start; she didn’t like nebulous arrangements that might never happen. But it was Léo who spoke first.
‘Of course, Sylvia. We can do that. Tomorrow will be spent sorting out the school, and on Tuesday, I have business in Oxford. What about Wednesday?’
‘I can’t do Wednesday, I’m afraid, and the latter part of the week is busy too, but why don’t you and Juliet make a start then? We can always arrange another time for my close-up, darling, and this would get the ball rolling.’
For a moment, Juliet wrestled with her opposing feelings: she wanted to get working on the photographs as soon as possible but didn’t really want to spend time alone with Léo – she had been relying on having her aunt there. Her need to work won.
‘All right,’ she said, regretting the grudging tone of her own voice but unable, somehow, to lighten it. ‘Wednesday it is. We can start after breakfast. Thanks.’
Léo grinned that infuriating grin again and lolled back in his chair.
‘Parfait. I always knew my model looks would be put to good use. I look forward to working with you, Juliet.’
Juliet spent the next couple of days rigorously planning the photo shoot. She didn’t want to give Léo any more reasons to be so enragingly smug, although she suspected that he would probably manage it anyway, without any help from her. It was the way he looked at her as if he saw straight through her that she hated the most. She’d had, she thought as she wrote out her list of suggested shots for the third time, quite enough of men who thought they had some sort of superior knowledge of her. Briefly, she let her thoughts wander to Toby, who not only had asserted that he knew her better than she knew herself, but that he also knew what was best for her. And she had believed him, at first. Howcouldshe have? she berated herself for the thousandth time. Why,whyhad she let him control and manipulate her to the point that her head spun with confusion? For a while, she had truly believed that he had her best interestsat heart and that she was a poor judge of how she should run her own life. She had believed him when he told her what her failings were, then clung gratefully to any shred of a compliment he might have tossed her way, even if it was always qualified with a nasty dig to water it down. Her talent had been nothing more than inherited; her beauty not to everyone’s taste and of the sort that needed a lot of help anyway; her sense of humour too caustic and spiteful, revealing her true nature, even if people did laugh andpretendto like her. She threw her pen down and dropped her face into her hands. Why did she still let him get to her? He was gone, and she was never going to fall into a trap like that again. She called to mind the words of a therapist she’d seen and of the books and articles she had read about coercive control, reminding herself of their insistence that it had not been her fault, but his. Slowly, she started to pull herself away from the memories, and the blame, and stuffed away that tiny kernel of contempt for herself that remained, and returned to her work, her blessed work.
On Wednesday morning, she felt nervous as she got dressed and gathered her equipment together. She had decided against going to breakfast up at the house that morning, buying in some pastries and fruit instead, which she ate curled up in front of some mindless morning TV, which gave her the space and comfort she needed to keep her anxiety under control. But now she could hear Léo moving around downstairs, and she berated herself for her nervousness, firmly reminding herself that this was just another professional job, nothing to get worried about. A final check in the mirror reassured that, if nothing else, she certainly looked the part. She had chosen to wear a pair of black, three-quarter length trousers, with a crease down the front so sharp you could cut yourself on it, and a boat-necked jumpershe had pinched from Frankie a couple of years ago, also black. She slid her feet into some black ballet shoes, applied minimal make-up and brushed her dark hair until it was sleek and shiny. The rituals calmed her, and she was pleased with her appearance when she looked in the mirror: professional and businesslike.
She stepped out of her door and was downstairs on the dot of nine o’clock. The smell of fresh coffee wafted across the room, and she saw Léo sitting at the central island.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Juliet. I have made some coffee, again from my own beans. I hope you will have some?’
‘Thank you. I’ve brought a list of shots I would like to try, so maybe we could go through it?’
‘But of course.’
As they drank their coffee, Juliet took him over the list of photographs she wanted to try, some she thought would work on the website, if they were any good, and some that she needed practice with.
‘These close-ups of your hands chopping and sprinkling herbs and so on will be highly effective, if I can get them right, and the formal portraits should be straightforward, as long as I can figure out the lighting. The sun this afternoon should be right for the kitchen garden shots, but they’re the ones I’m most worried about, as they’re a real departure for me. I do want to try some of you looking as if you’re teaching, but if that feels too awkward, then I can ask Martha and Frankie to come down and pretend to be students.’
Léo nodded and drained his coffee cup.
‘Juliet, you have thought all this out so carefully, but all you do is worry about what might go wrong. Come, we will have a good day and these photographs will bemagnifique. And if they are not, we can try again, no matter. I am developing a sauce which will be delicious when it is ready – when I have ‘crackedit’, as you say – but I have made at least thirteen different attempts and still it does not taste right, or it curdles, or splits, or otherwise misbehaves itself.’ He shrugged melodramatically, and Juliet wondered if that really was a French ‘thing’ or if he was playing a part. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I am a chef, and the sauce is a sauce. I will win in the end. And so it is with you. You are an artist and will conquer this new form, even if not immediately.’
Juliet didn’t know what to say, feeling that any of her own words would be inadequate after this lyrical outpouring, but she appreciated his kindness, and even felt reassured. She still felt she had something to prove – to herself and to everyone – but maybe that didn’t have to be accomplished instantly.
‘Thanks. Right, let’s get started. I’d like to make the most of the light coming in through that window, so if you could start over there?’
Obediently, Léo went over to the window and the shoot commenced. Barking orders and following her plan rigorously, Juliet was pleased with how things were progressing and felt that, regardless of the photos she produced, she had at least managed to organise everything in a professional manner. But studying him and working with him for several hours, she also couldn’t help but notice how pleasant and accommodating Léo was, how he treated her like a pro, how his sense of fun shone through. Like it or not, the time spent staring at him also revealed what she had, up till now, tried to avoid – that he was, as Frankie had said, extremely attractive. His eyes were friendly and merry when they darted towards the lens, his smile warm and easy. He had great cheekbones and a well-shaped face in general, and with her artist’s eye fully engaged, she couldn’t keep pretending that he was unappealingly scruffy, as she had done up until now. She did a series of close-ups of him chopping onions and so deft was he with the scimitar-sharp knife that shehad to ask him to slow down so that the photos were not a blur. His skill was admirable, but she was distracted by his hands: they were big and strong, but nimble, and showed the rigours of his job in their old and new scars left by burns and blades.
By lunchtime, they were both tired and went up to the house to eat.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Martha, as they piled their plates with local cheese, homegrown salad, Sylvia’s perfectly sweet and sharp pickle and some bread Léo had brought up with him.
