‘I’m heading home,’ she announced. ‘Loulou, are you sure you don’t want to get a cab with me? You’re on my way.’
‘I don’t wanna get cab!’ shouted Loulou, flailing her hands about furiously. ‘Whaddo I wanna get cab for? You not get cab either, Jools, have more drinkies! Come dancing at Glisten! And find lovely, lovely man to take home, hooray!’
The group echoed her cheer and Juliet smiled.
‘Enjoy yourself, guys, I’m done, I’m afraid. Happy birthday!’
She had swiftly exited enough events to have become an expert at it, and she was up and weaving her way to the door before anyone could protest further. The night air was cold, but it felt refreshing, and Juliet decided to walk a little way before trying to get a cab. She had to try and stop everything swirling around her head and her body before she dared get into a moving vehicle, and it was about fifteen minutes later that she felt confident of keeping the contents of her stomach where they were. Her taxi app informed her coldly that there was nothing available for another thirty-five minutes, so she gritted her teeth and hailed a black cab. At the rate she was spending money,having been back in London for less than twenty-four hours, she could replace Feywood’s roof within a fortnight, but there was no way she was getting a night bus or the Tube: she just needed to be home.
Fifteen grateful minutes later, she opened the front door and kicked off her punishing shoes, stripping off her dress as she walked through to the kitchen to put the kettle on for a large cup of tea and a bowl of pasta. She hadn’t felt hungry until now – she supposed that all the drinks had kept her blood sugar going – but she was starving. As the pasta cooked, she stepped into the shower and washed the evening away, then pulled on the soft pyjamas she was pathetically grateful she had brought with her, one of the few ‘new Juliet’ items that had made the cut. She sank onto the sofa and turned on the TV, scrolling through the channels until she found something anodyne enough to give her some background comfort while she ate and her mind roamed over the events of the evening. It had been fun, in some ways, but utterly exhausting holding her own amongst all the bitchy repartee. She knew she had redeemed herself, burst back into flames as the Juliet they had all known, but there was no satisfaction in it. They had probably forgotten she had even been there once they moved on to the club, their affections shallow and existing only in the moment. Tears rolled rapidly down her cheeks, and she had to stop eating as the sobs rose in her throat. What had she done, cutting herself off from everyone at Feywood? Maybe they would never trust her again, and she would be out in the world alone, left with the likes of Dex and Loulou. Would that be so bad? Maybe she could find a way to live in London that was more substantial; it must be possible, thousands of people did it after all. She had to know. She would throw herself into work, avoid drinking buckets of cocktails again and speak to Toby about the flat and job. What she mustn’t do was simply return to the life she had walkedaway from previously, just because it was familiar. She couldn’t let her old friends define her any more than her family. Thus resolved, the tears subsided, and she started eating again, only wobbling when she thought of dear, sweet Ava, her silky ears probably now being stroked by Léo’s workworn hands…This was hopeless. She switched off the TV. The only thing to do now was to go to bed, pray the hangover wouldn’t be too bad and make tomorrow her own.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Léo put away the last of the pans and sat down heavily at the island in the cookery school. It had been a week since Juliet had left for London, without even saying goodbye, and he felt no better now than he had that morning when he had come up to the house and Rousseau had gently broken it to him that she had gone.
‘Try not to give it too much thought,’ said the older man. ‘She’s trying to sort out her feelings. She’ll be in touch.’
‘No,’ said Léo firmly. ‘I am giving it no thought whatsoever. Juliet has done the right thing for her, and I am so happy for her. I am going to think only of my work; that will give me solace.’
Frankie, back on one of her flying visits which now took her to London, looked thinner and paler than ever, but her tongue was just as sharp.
‘If you’re so sure she’s done the right thing, you need to drop the Cistercian monk act and get back out there. Honestly, between you and Juliet, you could start your own soap opera, her flouncing off to London, you nobly bearing your pain in silent labour. The pair of you need to stop looking for problems and just get on with it.’
Martha, although she wouldn’t have put it quite like that, privately agreed with her sister. When Frankie had left again, Martha had tried to get hold of Juliet, but the phone just went to voicemail and her texts were responded to hours later with brief, dashed-off messages about being horribly busy. She hated seeing Léo so sad, but she thought the solution was simple.
‘Just go and find her and tell her how you feel.’
‘She knows how I feel,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘I will not push myself onto her; she can make her own decisions and her answer is clear.’
Martha might have tried harder, but instead she told him how seriously worried she was about Frankie, who was still seeing her new boyfriend and still refusing to tell anyone who he was, on the basis that they would all disapprove of him, and she couldn’t be bothered arguing about it.
‘Let her do love her own way,’ was Léo’s response. ‘We must all find our paths ourselves in the end.’
He had been sorry when even the patient Martha had rolled her eyes at him and gone to take her feelings out on an innocent canvas, but he remained stoic. At least this way he knew that he wasn’t bringing any more calumny on Juliet’s head, that she could not hold him responsible as Veronique had done. If any sin was to be his, it would be of omission, not commission. With this comforting thought, he scooped Ava up onto his knees and picked up his phone. He and Sylvia had been working on building up a social media platform for the cookery school, mostly for promotional reasons but also because he felt that he could better control his own image if he were in the lair of the beast, so to speak. He tapped through to upload a photo of the incredible prawn curry he had made earlier, smirking as he added the hashtags #prawnpanic and #crustaceanfrustration in reference to the number of queries he always got about how long to cook the shellfish for, and how to know when they wereready. Pleased with his efforts, he started idly scrolling through the people their account followed, admiring various kitchens and dishes. But he sat up when a picture of Juliet appeared. He hadn’t even known she had an Instagram account, or that Sylvia had followed it, for he certainly hadn’t. As the initial shock of seeing her ebbed away, he looked again at the photo. She looked incredible: she had cut her hair and was wearing a tight grey dress which showed off her slim shoulders. Her arm was slung around a rather cross-eyed blonde woman with smudged mascara, who was beaming and holding up a drink. Juliet was also smiling, but her face was more reserved.You are the Juliet I first met, thought Léo, staring at the little screen.I hope you are happy, chèrie, I hope you have found what you want.He stood up, cuddling Ava close to his chest.
‘Come on, little one, it is time you and I turned in for the night, we are so tired, aren’t we?’
It was only nine o’clock, but despite his assertion of exhaustion, he was going to bed earlier and earlier, as waking hours only brought constant thoughts of running to Juliet, which he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Juliet’s hangover had been absolutely punishing, but once it had passed, she began to feel more positive again. She returned Dex’s and Loulou’s texts and agreed to another night out the following week, although she was determined to drink far, far less. She had put up a single photo on Instagram in which she looked reasonably sober, although Loulou was a bit worse for wear, and had been flattered by how many people had commented to say they were thrilled she was back in town. After her message to Toby, all the help he had offered came with a proviso: come out for dinner with me so that we can discuss it. Not confident of putting herself in that position, and fearful of what might be the next thing he insisted on, she had sent a polite holding email back to him and ignored his subsequent attempts to get in touch. The idea of the flat and the job introduction had been tempting, but she didn’t want him to feel she owed him anything; no, she would work this out without anyone else’s help. Work was going well on her children’s book, and she had had another meeting with the publisher, who was pleased with her progress. She had tried to arrange a meeting with Petra Sharpe atRoundUp, but – surprise, surprise – no one there had ever heard of her. When she followed up with an email, she wassent a standard response, saying that she could submit examples of her work and not to expect a reply in less than three months’ time, if at all. She had put together some pieces but didn’t hold out much hope. Time was ticking away on the flat, and she knew she had to dedicate some energy into looking for something she could afford. One morning she was searching through the adverts and realising she had to be significantly less picky if she wanted to stay anywhere inside the M25, let alone central London, when her mobile rang: Martha.
‘Hi there, what’s up?’
‘Oh, Juliet, I’m so glad you picked up.’
‘What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?’ Juliet could hear her sister’s worry vibrating down the line. ‘It’s not Dad, is it, or Sylvia…or Léo?’ She was washed with panic herself. Surely nothing had happened to them while she dealt with her pathetic existential crisis in London? She would never forgive herself. But she didn’t have time to dwell on the thought.
‘No, it’s none of them, it’s Frankie.’
‘Frankie? What’s wrong with her?’
‘Well, I don’t actuallyknowthat there’s anything wrong, but Juliet, I’m so worried. You know she’s had this boyfriend for ages, and she won’t tell any of us who he is?’
‘Yes…’
‘Well, I think I found out and it’s not good news, and now I can’t get hold of her at all, and she hasn’t been home for ages.’
