‘Merci. Rousseau. I think all will work itself out. We will go now and let you work. Sylvia, I must show you some of my ideas for the vegan entrées we want to teach.’
Sylvia smiled gratefully at him.
‘You head back, Léo, and I’ll catch you up. You girls go and find your sister, she needs your support.’
The room emptied behind him as Léo strode out and through the house, exiting through the large kitchen to walk across to the old stable block which had been converted into Sylvia’s – and now his – cooking school. As he crunched along the gravel path, he shook his head in anger at Juliet’s reaction to the news.
Selfish woman. Doesn’t she understand that until now she has been given far too much, and that what she is being offered is incredible? Who could resent returning to this wonderful house, being given living quarters, a studio, food? She’s happy enough to use it as a party venue, but it’s not good enough for her to live in? But what was it her sisters had said about Juliet’srelationship with their mother? Not enough to understand, but enough to be an interesting puzzle. And the tears that had sprung to her eyes were intriguing. Maybe there was more to this Juliet than there seemed?
He reached the door of the school and stepped into its familiar warmth, the centuries-old flagstones burnished and worn beneath his feet, the smell of garlic and fresh basil in the air from the salad he had been developing earlier that day. He had been up since dawn after struggling to sleep, as usual, his mind relentlessly turning over the events of the past six months, digging and worrying away to see if there was anything he could have done differently, anything that could have saved such fallout and protected him from blame and humiliation, that had eventually forced him to flee France for this secluded country house where there was not apaparazzopoking his camera through every window. As he removed a smooth ball of pastry from the fridge and began swiftly working to create a crust for his experimental filling – he had raided the kitchen garden and beyond for pansies, phlox and lilac flowers to complement the goat’s cheese and rainbow radishes – his anger diminished, as he had known it would. She may well be selfish and spoiled, this Juliet, but she was very pretty indeed with her sharp hair and her sulky face and that mysterious body under the tailored, mannish clothes. Maybe having her living upstairs would not be such a terrible thing.
FOUR
Juliet splashed cool water on her face and surveyed herself in the tarnished mirror. Not too bad. She had always considered herself lucky not to be an ugly crier; it was when her pale skin really came into its own, instantly sucking any redness away and leaving her as porcelain-complexioned as ever. She was patting her face with a towel when she heard knocking at the bedroom door and her sisters’ overly cheery voices. Was Frankie singing?
‘Juli-eeeettt! Darling Juli-eeettt!’
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’
They rattled the doorknob as they slowly pushed their way in; bless them, they knew to give her plenty of warning so she could compose herself or hide, whichever was most necessary. In the end, she did neither, instead coming out of the bathroom and sinking onto her bed. She felt wiped out. Frankie restlessly paced by the window as Martha sat down next to her.
‘Poor Juliet, are you all right? Oh no, silly question, of course you’re not all right. I’m sorry that all this is affecting you so much.’
‘Did you know about it?’
‘No, not before that meeting. Dad and Will have been whispering in corners a lot though, so, as I said, I did wonder if something might be up.’
‘Which, of course, it was,’ broke in Frankie. ‘They’ll have to finally put the village tenants’ rent up. Dad’s so soft-hearted he hasn’t increased it for years. Come on, let’s go down to the pub, we could all do with something to eat and the hair of the dog. Or are you dying to get back to London?’
Juliet had thought she was, but now that London was being snatched away from her, she wasn’t so sure. That sense of belonging that she had worked so hard to establish had been pulled from under her feet, and the thought of the capital wasn’t the welcome escape it had been an hour ago; it seemed more like shifting sands, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to step onto them.
‘I’ll stay one more night – I don’t feel up to it right now. I suppose a drink would do us good.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
Frankie grabbed one of her sisters’ hands in each of hers and pulled them to standing.
‘At least we can avoid Wet Will and Léo…although I must say that accent is sexy, even if it is clichéd.’
Martha poked her.
‘You can hardly accuse him of having a clichéd accent, he can’t help it, he is actually French. I think he’s nice.’
‘I suppose so, but what’s he doing here, running a cookery school with Aunt Sylvia in the middle of nowhere? I thought he was a big shot chef.’
Juliet grabbed a black blazer from the back of a chair.
‘Come on, we can Google him at the pub. Let’s get away from Feywood, at least for a while.’
The sisters trooped downstairs and scuttled out of the big front door. Juliet was glad not to see anybody else; she didn’t feel like being questioned again about what had happened, however gently or sympathetically. And then there was Léo, who had been shooting her daggers and obviously thought she was a precious princess living off Daddy’s money. At least a trip to the village pub would stop her having to think about all that for a while.
As the three girls walked down the drive, some figures appeared, walking towards them. Juliet waved.
‘Agnes! Thank you so much for coming on a Sunday. I’m afraid it’s hellish up there.’
The tiny, aged lady, who was carrying what must have been her own bodyweight in buckets, mops, brushes and colourful spray bottles, just laughed.
‘Don’t you worry about that, Juliet – keeps us busy, doesn’t it, girls?’
