‘And I have loved being here, Martha, if I’m honest. But it’s not going so well. Things with Léo are – difficult. I think I may have misjudged him, or our relationship, or both. And the opportunities that Toby is offering…They would mean I could still give Dad money for Feywood, but I could be back in London, not just with my old life but maybe with an amazing new job. I don’t think I can pass it up. Coming back here – it was never meant to be permanent.’
‘I know,’ replied Martha, wiping away tears. ‘But we all so hoped it was, and then when you and Léo got together, everything seemed so perfect.’
‘Well, life isn’t some perfect fairytale,’ said Juliet, more harshly than she had intended. ‘Especially not mine. But Icanrely on work. The job atRoundUpwould be a dream come true, if it happens, but there’s my book as well, and I’ve had some other people interested. I’m sorry, Martha, but my mind’s made up.’
‘When will you go?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Martha gasped.
‘So soon?’
‘I’ve already contacted my old landlord, and I got lucky: the flat’s vacant at the moment for a short let while I work things out. I have to. If I doubt myself, or let other people try to talk me out of it, I’ll lose my strength. I can’t let that happen. I’m sorry.’
And she was sorry, sorry to have upset her sweet sister, sorry that things had soured at Feywood, sorry that she was, for now at least, turning to Toby for help. When Martha had gone, Juliet stepped into the shower, trying to picture this new, glittering future and resolutely pushing away the creeping feeling that the shine she imagined might tarnish very rapidly.
TWENTY-SIX
The next morning, Juliet woke early. She packed up a couple of bags and then went to find her father, who was preparing breakfast.
‘Morning, Dad.’
‘Ah, good morning. Thank you so much for yesterday, what a wonderful day it was. I feel that your mother’s spirit can now be quite free, and so can ours.’
‘Mmm. It was a good day. And Dad…’
Her father looked up from the pomegranate he was bashing and smiled at her.
‘Yes? Oh, what are those bags? Are you and Léo going somewhere?’
‘Just me, Dad. I’m going back to London, for a while at least. I’ll still send the money I promised. And – will you look after Ava?’ Her voice was threatening to break; she would miss the friendly little dog more than she could express.
‘Of course I will. But darling, why this sudden up and leaving?’
‘Do you mind if I don’t go into it now? I just need to go, think about some stuff.’
Rousseau nodded.
‘I understand, even if I haven’t got the faintest idea what’s going on. Will you have some breakfast first?’
‘No, I just want to go. I’ll catch one of the early trains.’
‘Well, at least let me give you a lift to the station. No, I insist. It’s a cold breakfast and ready anyway. Anyone who wants it will doubtless find it, they always do. Come on, my darling, you look like you’re itching to dash off.’
Feeling intensely grateful for her father’s unquestioning support, Juliet waved him off and went to wait for the train, feeling only tired as she climbed on board for the journey to London. She pulled out her phone and sent a businesslike – she hoped – message to Toby, letting him know she had decided to come back to the capital and asking if he could put her in touch with his contacts. As she typed, she could almost feel her fingers resistant to forming the words; it felt wrong to be approaching him, but what else could she do now that she had made the leap to come back to London? One thing she did know: she wasn’t going back to him. That was one opportunity she definitely didn’t want to take up. But maybe they could reach a place of some civility; after all, they had known one another for several years. She arrived at the flat just before ten o’clock, put in the correct combination on the key safe and pushed open the door to find it immaculately tidy, far tidier than it had ever been when she lived there. It was musty, though, and she threw open the windows to let in some fresh autumn air. The next thing she did was to open up her laptop, take a deep breath and turn to the only thing that ever gave her comfort: work. Not knowing now what would happen with the cookery book, she decided to focus on her own project, the children’s book she had been contracted to write. She had done some of the preliminary work, but looking through it agitated her. It was to be a funny and charmingstory about fairies in the forest at Feywood, complete with her signature line drawings, softened for a younger audience, but every sketch reminded her of home – was it still home? – and of Léo. As a double-decker bus thundered past under her window, she pictured the dappled sunlight coming through the trees, the morning dew on the lawn, Léo’s arms around her…
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she muttered, and grabbed her phone. There were plenty of people who would claim to be delighted to see her back in London, and she would start with Dex, who was always up for a party. She checked the time: ten thirty. Hopefully, he would be awake. The phone didn’t go straight to voicemail, which was a start.
‘Hello?’
‘Dex, hi, it’s Juliet.’
‘Darling. It’s been years, how are you?’
‘I am fine – and back in London.’
‘How long for?’
