His eyes were amused, and Juliet tried to draw herself up, fighting a fresh wave of nausea that came with the movement.
‘No, I don’t. Sorry.’
He raised one eyebrow.
‘No matter. I myself am sorry to see that you still suffer after the excesses of the party. I have an excellent drink I would be happy to make you; it will make you feel better.’
Was he laughing at her? Juliet could feel the irritation rise in her tired body. Who did he think he was, interrupting her peaceful reverie to make fun of her hangover?
‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I just need to have a shower and get changed; I have a meeting to get to, so if you’ll excuse me.’
She stood up too quickly, causing the blood to rush to her head, and felt herself swaying. Clutching at thin air, she thought she was going to fall over and complete her humiliation, when she felt a hand grasp her arm and another wrap firmly around her shoulder. The brown eyes were now so close to her that she could see the warmth in them, tinged with concern, but also unmistakably amused. Because of her.
‘Are you all right, Juliet?’ asked Léo. ‘Maybe you should sit down again?’
She pulled away from him and tightened her jacket around her slender body. To her horror, she felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, a culmination of her hangover, her confusion at being back at Feywood and her humiliation in front of this handsome French chef.
‘I’m fine,’ she said shortly. ‘Thanks.’
And she stomped off in as haughty a manner as she could summon up, given her weakened condition. Léo’s voice floated after her across the garden:
‘I hope to see you later, Juliet, and that you will be feeling better.’
She didn’t turn, or answer. She hated being seen like this, unkempt and unwell, and his obvious amusement at her sorry state had compounded things. She very much hoped she wouldnotsee Léo later, or ever again, preferably.
THREE
Juliet rushed back to the house before she could bump into any more handsome strangers. It wasn’t unusual to meet people you didn’t know at Feywood: her father, Rousseau, never seemed to mind who stayed, or for how long, just as long as they were entertaining, intelligent company at mealtimes and didn’t ask too much in between. But this particular visitor had got under her skin, with his amused eyes and solicitous attitude. Well…maybe it was that after Toby and his controlling ways she didn’t need or want any man trying to take care of her. She would look after herself. She ran up the stairs to her room, turning her face from the enormous self-portrait of her mother that hung on the landing, overlooking the hall. When she had lived at Feywood, she had developed the habit of looking away from it, and the movement had become automatic.
Once in her room, she shut the door thankfully and stepped into the shower, letting the hot needles of water rain down on her head and body, driving away the remains of the hangover. She wondered again what the meeting her father had called could be about, and why he hadn’t already just told them whatever it was. Any issues, even quite personal ones, were usually brought up at the supper table and vigorously dissectedby whoever was there that evening, not guarded and saved for a formal family meeting. She cast her mind back to one particularly memorable time about three years ago, when she had been visiting Feywood. Everyone knew that Martha had a whopping crush on the man who was sitting for her, a particularly nasty specimen who ran some boring but successful business in Oxford, maintaining and hiring out dress clothes and robes to students and staff at the university. He had seen enough of the oil paintings in the different colleges that he fancied one of himself to put in his shop and make him feel like he belonged and had contacted Martha to commission her. For some reason, she had fallen for him, hard, while he behaved like Lord Bountiful because he had the money and she merely had a dazzling, God-given talent. Martha hadn’t shared her feelings with her family and her sisters had been unusually tactful, although they had kept a close eye on the situation just in case they needed to step in and prevent anything more than the regular hurt brought by unrequited love. But their father had, one day, simply announced at supper:
‘So, is there anything actually going on with you and that Ralph?’
Their mother who, Juliet remembered, had been feeling particularly unkind that day, had chimed in:
‘He can’t have failed to notice your cow eyes around him, darling. I think he would have reciprocated by now if he was going to. It’s probably time to move on.’
As poor Martha had got redder and redder, her parents had continued, her father oblivious to his daughter’s discomfort as he merrily recalled stories of friends who had been similarly spurned, doubtless thinking he was somehow being supportive, her mother enjoying watching Martha squirm. It had been Juliet who had stepped in and stopped the conversation.
‘Mum, Dad, I don’t think Martha wants to talk about it. Leave her alone.’
But she had not been in time to stop her sister’s hot tears of humiliation, which sent her rushing from the table before pudding was eaten.
‘Look what you’ve done now,’ her mother had said, managing to deflect attention from her own contribution and make it look like Juliet’s fault that Martha had fled.
As Juliet turned off the water and grabbed a towel, the familiar feelings of impotence in the face of her mother’s brazenness, fury at her own weakness in feeling too afraid to defend herself and guilt at the relief that her mother was dead battled for precedence.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said aloud, picking up her toothbrush and feeling glad that no one was there to hear her talking to herself again. ‘Don’t let her get to you.’
Used to pushing away uncomfortable feelings, she soon managed to change the subject in her head, instead thinking about the week in London that awaited her once she could get away from Feywood. Two industry parties, a dinner and a gallery opening, all of which would be full of familiar faces, hopefully none of them Toby’s. He worked in the advertising department of the newspaper she drew cartoons for, so their paths crossed more often than she would have liked. Even without him there, none of the events was something to look forward to, in her opinion, but they would keep her busy and distracted when she wasn’t working, and she could keep being the Juliet Carlisle that her London friends seemed to want. It had served her well enough up till now and would be particularly useful this week, to stop her thinking any more profoundly about what sheactuallywanted to do – and be – now she had turned thirty.
Pulling on her smart black trousers and a soft black cashmere jumper she had picked up for a few pounds in a charity shop,she surveyed herself in the mirror. Not even the people she knew in London would be able to guess how often she bought clothes second-hand, and she thanked her artist’s eye for her ability to spot a quality bargain. The androgynous clothes, sharp haircut and lack of make-up that had become her signature look was easy to hide behind, but, not for the first time, the thought crept in that some comfortable joggers and a cosy fleece would be good to crawl into, especially on this hangover. But it would arouse comment, and Juliet couldn’t bear that, even – or maybe especially – from her own family.
She left the room and closed the door softly behind her, walked along the threadbare deep green carpet towards the stairs and rested her hand lightly on the banister, its wood glowing with centuries of hands slipping along its polished smoothness.
‘Are y’all ready for this?’ came a voice behind her, and she turned to see Frankie grinning, looking almost as dishevelled as she had earlier, but at least dressed. In that instant, Martha also appeared, face scrubbed and her hair pulled back, wearing one of her denim smocks that left no clue as to her figure underneath.
‘It can’t bethatbad, can it?’
