Juliet certainly couldn’t argue with that. Gulliver had been a Flemish Giant Rabbit, about the size of a spaniel, and had lolloped around the house charming and confusing visitors in equal measure. He had been docile and biddable, even house-trained, but had got on the wrong side of their father by taking a liking to the Tudor wooden panelling, which he had gnawed almost back to the brick in some places. But now Gulliver had gone to the great rabbit hutch in the sky, and Frankie often mused about what to replace him with. Recently, she had been threatening to investigate micropigs, which were at least, thought Juliet, unlikely to chew the fixtures and fittings.Her sister was just drawing breath to start discussing her next potential pet, when the door opened again. Not Sylvia this time, but Rousseau, their father. How on earth washeso fresh and well-turned-out? He drank more than the rest of them put together last night, and was last seen at three o’clock in the morning charming the woman who ran the Post Office with promises of a portrait and fulminations over the angle of her cheekbones. He may be nudging seventy, but, Juliet had to admit, he had lost none of his magnetism. She supposed that charisma never aged and felt that familiar tug of inadequacy that she didn’t have much natural charm – as Toby had never hesitated to drive home to her. Who she really was had been hidden so successfully behind the haircut and all-black wardrobe as well as satirical cartoons she drew for a living that even she wasn’t sure any more who she really was, or even wanted to be. Oh well, it wasn’t like fast-paced London life left much time for personal reflection. It was being here, back at her family home of Feywood, that made her more contemplative, and that meant it was time to leave.
Rousseau came over and kissed her.
‘Happy birthday, darling. But why are you all still lolling around here in your pyjamas – and you still in your glad rags, Juliet? Fabulous dress, by the way, my dear. Anyway, I want you all in this family meeting in an hour, dressed, if possible.’
Grumbling, the sisters made feeble moves towards getting up, pushing aside dogs, plates and cushions. As Rousseau opened the door to leave, Frankie lurched forward, pushed him to one side and dashed out, her hand clamped to her mouth.
Juliet grinned after her, then turned to her father.
‘Why do we have to have a meeting so urgently, Dad? It’s my birthday, don’t I get a free pass?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Her usually cheerful father’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘We all need to be there. I’ll see you in an hour.’
TWO
Finishing off a piece of golden, crunchy hash brown, Juliet turned to Martha.
‘Do you know what this meeting’s about? It’s not like Dad to be all serious and secretive. He’s not ill or something, is he?’
It had only been a year since their mother had died, and Juliet, who had always had a difficult relationship with her when alive, had not yet fully found her peace. She found her father easier company, and the sudden idea that he might be unwell clutched at her heart.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Martha in soothing tones. ‘If anything, I think it’s going to be about Feywood.’
‘Feywood? Why?’
‘Look around you, Juliet. We all love this house, but it’s falling down around our ears. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dad wants to sell it.’
‘Sell it! He can’t do that – this is our home.’
Her sweet sister looked down at the floor, the familiar blush rising in her cheeks that gave away even the smallest discomfort. Juliet took a breath, not wanting to upset her, but wishing she would say what was on her mind.
‘What is it, Martha? Please tell me.’
‘Well, it’s just that…Do you actually still think of Feywood as your home? You’ve been living in London for so long, I kind of thought you’d forgotten about us all. I was so happy when you wanted to have your thirtieth here, I wondered…’
She paused and bit her lip. Juliet took up the sentence:
‘You wondered if I was going to come back for good…now Mum’s gone.’
Martha nodded, and her eyes shone with tears.
‘I hoped…’
Juliet put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in for a hug.
‘Oh, Martha. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to come back and live here, but Idostill see it as my home. I…I’m doing all right in London. Plenty of people I meet there find me familiar because of Mum being such a famous artist, but they don’t know me at all, and I’m happy with that. They know a version of me, a new version, and that feels…’
‘Safe?’ supplied her sister.
‘Oh, stop being so wise,’ said Juliet, grinning. ‘Yes, safe, I suppose. I can get on with work and have a good time without constantly being reminded of who I used to be, who Mum wanted me to be, how disappointed in me she was.’
‘She wasn’t disappointed, not really,’ said Martha, her face crumpling with concern. ‘She loved you, Juliet, she did.’
‘Only when I was little,’ said Juliet. ‘When she thought I was her mini me. When I grew up and started having my own opinions about things, then didn’t show any artistic promise – or not the promise she wanted me to have anyway – she just…dropped me.’
‘But you’re a wonderful artist!’ protested her sister. ‘Your pictures are in the paper every day; you’re probably the most successful of all of us.’
‘At the moment, maybe,’ said Juliet. ‘But it’scommercial success, those cartoons, they don’t have lasting artistic merit. You’re already commissioned all the time for your portraits, and they’re starting to find their way into galleries and auctions. And Frankie will have her breakthrough any moment. The two of you have the real talent. Mum knew that…I don’t understand why that wasn’t enough for her.’
