“What? No, you love them.”
“I can live without them for a day or two. Plus, if you keep them, it’ll give me a reason to see you again when you drop them off, and I’d really like that—to see you, that is.”
I throw on a quick smile at his kind words.
“Okay,” I tell him. “And thank you again.”
“It was a pleasure.”
Phillip gently closes the door, and I turn to walk away. Five seconds later, I’m strolling through the empty hallway with a tired dog, oversized Robin slippers, and a twinge of dread that I inadvertently might have just given hope to someone I have zero romantic interest in.
13
Handling Juliette’s emails is probably my least favorite task in my slew of responsibilities. Not because I mind the work, but because either I have to issue an unconditional surrender to the inbox and answer the emails constantly throughout the day, or I have to let them pile up to tackle later on, which, in turn, fills me with anxiety.
In London, I’ve been going with the latter option and am responding to my twelfth inquiry at the desk in the penthouse living room when I hear a sudden knock at the door. Startled that it’s an actual door knock and not an intercom buzz, my fingers stumble a bit against the keys as I turn my head towards the noise. Juliette is scheduled to do a podcast interview in about an hour, so I suppose whoever’s in the hall may have gotten into the building as someone walked out.
Typing a lightning-fast response, I close the laptop and cross the living room. I open the door and am once again startled when I find myself face-to-face with Isabelle, Juliette’s sister.
“Hi,” I say cheerfully, getting over my surprise. She’s wearing a gloriously tailored pantsuit, reminiscent of a low-key, contemporary queen. I look down at my jeans, Converse sneakers, and T-shirt and quickly realize that in this scenario, I’m Bessie, the shapeless yet charismatic scullery maid.
“Hello, Winnie,” Isabelle replies smoothly. “I’m sorry to pop over unannounced, but I was wondering if my sister was at home.”
“I’m sorry to say she’s not. She’s just finishing up at rehearsal, but she should be here in a few minutes. Come in.”
I pull the door back and step aside as Isabelle walks past me with a grateful smile.
“Thank you,” she says. “I tried calling her, but I suppose she missed it. I believe she’s doing an interview with a friend of mine this afternoon, so I figured I’d take a chance and swing by to listen in.”
“Of course. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
Isabelle gives me a small, disbelieving grin and sits down on the couch. I slide into my armchair, which also doubles as my dream home, across from her.
“Truth be told, I doubt she’ll be overly happy. I think it’s fairly obvious that I’m not my sister’s favorite person.”
“Juliette just has a tough exterior. You know her.”
“I used to know her. There was a time when we were very close. Thick as thieves, really.”
I’m desperately curious to hear more. To ask what the hell happened to them, but I know I have to tread lightly.
“Will you tell me about her then?” I ask instead. “About what she was like when she was younger?”
Isabelle shifts around a little, getting more comfortable on the couch, her posture relaxing by a slight degree. “She was wild,” she says wistfully. “We both were back then. We came to London with such a set of dreams for ourselves. She was going to be the world’s best playwright, and I was to be a famous actress. We had liked New York well enough growing up, but we always spent our summers in England. Our mother had an aunt who lived just outside Oxford, so as soon as school let out, we were off. On our flights home, we would swear that as soon as we graduated high school, we’d leave Manhattan behind for London. And that’s exactly what we did.”
“Sounds like quite the sisterly adventure.”
“Oh, it was. Did you know we both lived in the studio for two years together? We each had a twin bed pushed up against opposite walls like a rowdy girl’s dormitory.”
I sit forward a bit in the chair, viscerally thinking that if I get closer, I can somehow sneak into the stories myself. “I can’t imagine two people living in that studio. It’s a tight squeeze with just me and a cocker spaniel.”
“It was a tight squeeze, but we had such fun there. Believe it or not, we almost always had friends staying with us as well. It’s nice to remember—all of us laughing and drinking and chasing our ambitions. I often wish that I could go back for a day or two.”
“It sounds idyllic,” I muse.
“It was. But, of course, it wasn’t always perfect. When we moved over here, our father cut us off financially, so money was always incredibly tight. The bath would run out of hot water at an alarming rate, and whenever I was the most tired, that’s almost always when Juliette would be the most inspired to write. We fought like cats and dogs, but when so many years have passed, you tend to only think back on the good memories...which is nice, I think.”
“I think so, too.”
