“The last thing I need,” Juliet cut across her, “is a lecture from you.”
“From me?” Lucy blinked, looking hurt. “Ouch.”
“I’m fine,” Juliet snapped, and she almost believed it.
Yet standing by the sitting room window, watching Peter drive by in his Land Rover before she ducked behind the net curtains, she knew she wasn’t. She was miserable and she missed him; something had opened up inside her and no matter how she tried to close it again, she couldn’t. It felt like a gaping wound, a yearning she hadn’t let herself feel before.
“He came over maybe three times,” she told herself crossly one afternoon as she waxed the hall floor, another attempt to stay busy. “Get over yourself.”
“Talking to yourself is a bad sign, you know,” Lucy told her cheerfully as she came into the house. “But I’ve been doing it for ages. Why do you need to get over yourself?”
Juliet sat back on her heels and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. Yes, Lucy was looking very cheerful these days. She even did a little twirl as she hung up her coat.
“You’re in a good mood,” she remarked sourly. They’d reached a holding pattern in their relationship; they weren’t doing each other’s nails, but neither were they arguing or ignoring each other.
“Is that a crime?” Lucy countered, and walked right across Juliet’s newly waxed floor into the kitchen. Juliet heaved herself up from the floor and followed her sister.
Lucy was putting the kettle on top of the Aga, whistling as she did so. Her good mood was becoming seriously aggravating. She turned to glance at Juliet. “Cup of tea?” she asked, and Juliet nodded reluctantly. She didn’t really want to have a cozy chat with Lucy about her sister’s promising love life, but neither didshe want to exist in this vacuum of loneliness. She leaned against the radiator and folded her arms.
“So what’s got you in such a good mood?”
“Nothing in particular,” Lucy said in a tone that made Juliet think it was very much something in particular. “It’s not raining for once. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“It hasn’t rained for a week.” Drizzling didn’t count.
Lucy shrugged as she got out the mugs and the milk. “Even more of a reason, then.” She turned around, a smile tugging her mouth upwards. “I also taught my first art class today, and it wasn’t terrible.”
“Sorry I forgot,” Juliet said gruffly. “So, not terrible, eh?”
“I think that’s fair to say.”
“I’m sure it was better than that,” Juliet answered, “judging by your grin.”
“I enjoyed it,” Lucy admitted. “And it felt—I don’t know—validating. After Mum . . .” She trailed off, her smile starting to slip.
“Don’t tell me you take anything our mother has to say seriously.”
Lucy turned to her with a sudden, surprisingly bleak look. “Don’t you?”
“No—,” Juliet began, only to stop as she realized she did take what Fiona had said seriously. Not the ridiculous posturing for the press, but the flatly stated fact.I never wanted you, Juliet.
Yes, she’d taken that rather seriously.
“Juliet?” Lucy’s voice held a lilt of uncertainty and Juliet tried to shake off the dark mood that threatened to fall on her like a shroud. She didn’t want to think about Fiona now, not on top of everything else.
“Fiona does everything for show these days,” Juliet said, keeping her voice brisk. “You know that. I’m sure the only reason she rubbished your artwork in the news is because it would gainher more coverage, and all the while she could say it was because she was protecting her integrity.” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy managed a small smile, but she didn’t exactly look convinced.
The kettle began to whistle shrilly and Lucy turned to move it off the hot plate. Juliet watched her, frowning.
“I’ve never actually seen one of your paintings,” she said. “What are they like, anyway?”
“Nothing spectacular,” Lucy answered, her back still to her. “Just insipid little watercolors of wildflowers.”
“That’s how you describe your own work?”
“Well . . .” Lucy turned around. “That’s how Mum described it.”
“How about you let me judge for myself?” Juliet suggested, and Lucy’s eyes widened.
