Juliet shrugged.
‘No idea. I suppose that’s up to Dad.’
‘Mmm. And you? Do you mind he’s seeing someone? Truthfully?’
Juliet opened her mouth to brazen it out, declare her lack of interest in the whole thing, then closed it again and paused. She looked over at Léo, who gave her a big smile, and turned back to her sister.
‘Truthfully, I am fine with it for Dad. He likes to have a partner and she seems nice. But…’
She trailed off. Martha smiled at her encouragingly.
‘Go on, just say it.’
‘Look, the truth is that I have been feeling quite…freed. I’m not saying I’m glad Mum died, but it has been a sort of release for me. I’m not sure I’m ready for a stepmother, to be a mother’s daughter again, just as I was finding out what it means to be me. You probably think that’s disgustingly self-absorbed, but that’s how I feel right now.’
Martha smiled tenderly and reached for Juliet’s hand.
‘I think you’re doing brilliantly asjust you, and no amount of girlfriends – whether they become stepmothers or not – is going to change that. And if shedoesstick around that long, well – maybe we’ll all learn a different sort of mother-daughter relationship. It won’t be the same, Jools,shewon’t be the same.’
Juliet returned the squeeze and smiled.
‘Thanks, you’re right. And I’m getting ahead of myself, just a bit. Come on, let’s get some more champagne before Dad necks it all.’
NINETEEN
‘Bon, I think it is time we went to eat, yes?’
Everyone looked up from their conversations and nodded.
‘Wonderful!’ said Rousseau, taking Sindhu’s hand. ‘And thank you, Léo and Sylvia, for cooking for us tonight.’
They walked into the dining room, which looked lovely with an array of stunning dahlias from the garden adorning the table. Juliet found herself sitting next to Sindhu and returned the older woman’s smile as they sat down.
‘So, what have you been doing between first meeting Dad and now?’ asked Juliet, pouring them both some water. ‘If you were at art college together, that’s a gap of…’
‘Nearly fifty years,’ said Sindhu. ‘I know, it’s mad, but I’m so very glad we met again. What have I been doing? Well, a lot in all that time. The potted history is that I worked as a fairly successful sculptor – not in Rousseau’s league, of course – and owned a gallery and shop in Notting Hill. I never married, but I have a son – he must be a few years older than you.’
‘Is he an artist as well?’
‘Not by profession. He’s a doctor, a GP, married with two little daughters. They live in Oxford, and I sold up recently to be nearer to them and pursue my interest in jewellery making.’
Juliet was about to reply when the food arrived, large platters bearing pomegranate seed jewelled couscous, crispy fried tofu in a dark, sticky-looking sauce, herbed flatbreads and a spectacular salad studded with flowers.
‘Bon appetit,’ said Léo, as he put down the final dish.
‘We hope you enjoy it all,’ added Sylvia. ‘We wanted to showcase the finest Feywood has to offer to our guests – most of this has come from the garden – and we also admit that we are trying out recipes for the book.’
Everyone agreed on how gorgeous it all looked, and Juliet reached for her phone.
‘Don’t anyone touch it yet, I want to take a few pictures – not proper ones of course, but to help me start collecting ideas.’
When she had finished, she sat down again.
‘Sorry about that, I can’t help myself sometimes, and I’m determined to do the very best I can for this book they’re writing.’
‘It’s quite a departure for you, isn’t it?’ said Sindhu, helping herself to some salad. ‘I must say I’ve always loved your cartoons; I look for them in the paper and online these days, of course. There was one of the Prime Minister at the height of that whole scandal over the tax he was – or rather, wasn’t – paying that was so vicious and funny and damned accurate I nearly choked on my breakfast.’
Juliet beamed, proud at her work being so admired, but Sindhu’s next words took her aback.
