‘But Léo, you haven’t done anything wrong. She doesn’t really think there’s anything to that photo, you know, she’s smart enough to know how these things can look when there’s nothing to see. She was just a bit upset that you hadn’t given her a bit more, that’s all. Why didn’t you?’
She turned casually back to her saucepan, but Léo knew the momentum of the question, even if she apparently didn’t.
‘Please, Sylvia, sit down and I will explain. The photo, it brought back many difficult memories. Of Veronique, the woman I had been seeing in France who turned out to be married and has made my name dirt throughout the country. I do not deserve any reputation as a marriage wrecker, but if this new photograph goes far, then what is already out there will be compounded. Juliet does not deserve to be dragged along in something like that, however baseless it is. And maybe itispartly my fault. Maybe I am a very, very poor judge of these things.’ He looked glumly into his tea, and Sylvia patted his arm.
‘Oh Léo, you can’t really think for a moment that you are to blame for any of it. I was there, remember; you did absolutely nothing – and neither did Pandora. It was just an unlucky shot, and it is her friend who has displayed poor judgement in posting it. Juliet won’t care a jot, I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps. But I am also concerned that she is not being true to herself anyway. She did not want to come back to Feywood, we know this. Perhaps her heart still lies in London, and with Toby. She was, I think, more angry than necessary over the photo. I wonder if she will take this opportunity to return.’
‘You don’t honestly believe that. She has been staunch in her refusal to take Toby back, she’s seen through him.’
‘Maybe, but maybe he really has changed. They have much history together. She refuses to delete his number.’
‘If anyone has changed, it’s Juliet. But she hasn’t become a different person, she’s returned to being herself, to being the person she was when she was a little girl, before everything went so wrong with her mother. In going back, she has gone forward, and I believe you can be part of that – if you allow yourself to be.’
Léo drained his tea.
‘Thank you, Sylvia. I love Juliet and I want nothing more than to be with her, here at Feywood. But it is not all about what I want. I must bow to her wishes and hope that she is honest enough with me – and with herself – to recognise them.’
He didn’t go upstairs then, but back to his room in the house. He went to check the French press and Pandora’s friend’s social media, but the photograph seemed to have disappeared and not been reproduced anywhere of note. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had been lucky this time, but he was not going to be the architect of Juliet’s downfall. He had almost convinced himself that she would be far better off without him.
TWENTY-FOUR
After the evening of ‘the photo’, Juliet decided against saying anything else to Léo. When they had seen each other the next day, he drew her into a warm hug, and she hugged him back. This felt enough of an apology not to pursue asking him to explain something she truly believed needed no explanation. She trusted him. She would have rather discussed it, but he was trying to keep his moods lighter, she could tell, and she didn’t want to spoil things now that they were going better again. She shook off the feeling that things were still not quite as easy between them as they had been, and instead put her energies into worrying about the memorial for her mother, which was fast approaching.
‘Jools, have you decided yet if you’re going to create a piece in Mum’s memory?’ asked Martha, on what felt like a daily basis. ‘I want to include the details in the programmes for the afternoon if you have and Imustget them printed up.’
‘Yes,’ said Juliet slowly. ‘I have got something. It’s a photographic montage called ‘Memories of Feywood’. Probably a bit sentimental, but I know you wanted me to knock something up.’
‘It sounds lovely. Can I see it?’
‘Sure. It’s in my flat, come and see any time.’
Juliet was trying to resist attaching too much emotion to this work, but the truth was it had drained her. She hadn’t been sure whether to create a tribute or not, but had decided that to go back in time to the days when her and her mother’s relationship had been happy would be the only fitting thing she could do that would honour both Lilith and her. So she had worked hard to produce a photograph of Feywood, taken early one morning recently, and blend in pictures of the family from twenty-five years earlier. It showed them working and playing, enjoying each other’s company and the house. It was joyful, yet atmospheric, and gave her goosebumps when she looked at it. She knew it was a strong piece and was already trying to distance herself from it with her apparently casual attitude. She told herself that she would happily sell it to any bidder but knew it would never leave Feywood. Martha’s reaction when she came to see it almost overwhelmed her.
‘Juliet, oh Juliet.’ She stepped closer to the photo and scrutinised every angle, before moving back to take it in in its entirety. Tears poured down her cheeks. ‘It’s so, so beautiful, I love it. Oh Juliet, this iswonderful.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Bit soppy, but I suppose it’ll do.’
‘Iadoreit, and Dad will too. And it’snotsoppy,’ she added fiercely. ‘It’s incredibly powerful. It knocks spots off what Frankie and I have done. Mine’s just a boring old portrait, as usual, and Frankie has done a rather…unusualsculpture called “Motherhood”, with a lot of strange angles and bulging bits. That probablyismotherhood, not that I’m sure I’ll ever know.’
Relieved to move the subject along, Juliet hugged her sister.
‘Of course you will. I have every faith. Now, what’s left to do for this bloody memorial? It’s only two days away.’
Another morning golden with autumn sunshine welcomed them that Saturday, and Feywood was quickly busy with different people coming and going. Chairs were put out with rugs draped over the backs in case the afternoon grew chilly, awnings set up and caterers rushed about setting up the drinks and dishes that were going to supplement the food provided by Léo and Sylvia. Will had worked hard getting the garden looking immaculate – well, thought Juliet rather uncharitably, the bit of the garden that people were going to see. The other parts, including the formal gardens where she had first met Léo, were still messy and overgrown. Even Ava had had a special wash and brush up for the occasion. Frankie had tied a yellow bow around her neck, but the spirited little dog had soon clawed it off, and it now lay in a streak across the perfectly mown lawn.
‘How many people have you got coming?’ asked Juliet, as more chairs and tables were set up.
Martha pushed her hair back from her sweaty face.
‘No idea,’ she replied, looking panicked. ‘Responses were still coming in this morning, half of them from people I don’t even remember inviting. You know what the art world’s like – everyone just passes invitations along and then they all roll up and drink the place dry whether you were expecting them or not. Most of the village is coming, too, so I hope they’ll all get along all right. What if we run out of chairs?’
‘We’ve got all those blankets stuffed away somewhere,’ said Juliet. ‘Why don’t we dig those out and people can sit on them if they need to? Thank goodness it’s going to be dry today.’
‘Good idea.’ Martha looked pleadingly at her sister. ‘Will you find them? And find Frankie at the same time – she’s been no help whatsoever.’
Juliet wandered off, glad for a job. She had woken up that morning with very mixed feelings about the day ahead: far more emotional than she had ever imagined she would be. She hadbeen avoiding her own photograph since she created it, but as well as the artworks in tribute to Lilith, Rousseau had put up a large collage of pictures of her from throughout her life in the hallway, and it had almost floored Juliet when she saw it. Photo after photo of her difficult, arrogant, talented, selfish, hilarious, stylish, cruel, complicated mother confronted her, and she saw herself over and over again in the woman’s face and bearing. Were they so similar? Had that been the problem? Had she been unfair, criticising the things in her mother that she recognised and despised in herself? She had been glad when Léo came in and broke the spell, and just as glad when he quickly disappeared to the cookery school, where he would be cloistered away for most of the morning.
