Good question.
‘Forever.’
‘We must celebrate! Look, your timing’s bloody impeccable, as ever. It’s Loulou’s thirty-first tonight, she’s devastated to be so comprehensively out of her twenties, so it’s bound to be the most terrific car crash. It’s at a new place called Nostrum just off Park Lane, do say you’ll come.’
‘Loulou won’t mind me turning up, will she?’
‘Loulou will be blotto by seven thirty and she won’t mind anyway. Just make sure you bring her a present that makes her feel young.’
Juliet laughed.
‘I’ll do my best. All right, thanks Dex, I’ll see you there later.’
‘Mwah mwah, see you later, so glad you’re back, it’s been boring without you.’
Juliet felt better for the conversation, not to mention the invitation. Maybe a return to London lifewasjust what she needed. Pushing aside an unbidden image of sitting in the untidy kitchen at Feywood, socked feet up on a chair while she gossiped with Martha over a cup of tea, she picked up her phone again.
‘Santos Hair, Jenna speaking?’
‘Jenna, it’s Juliet Carlisle. Is there the tiniest chance I could be squeezed in today? I know it’s horribly lastminute.com, but I’d be so grateful.’
As she walked down the street on her way to the hairdresser, she passed a small cemetery she had never noticed before. She had a few minutes, so slipped through the crooked iron gate and ventured between the gravestones. Most were illegible, faded and worn by time, and many had collapsed altogether, but on one or two she could make out names and dates – beloved William, 1812-1873; Hetty, wife of James, taken by our Lord in 1902. As Juliet reached for her phone, she thought she would take some preliminary photos before coming back with her proper camera: the ivy creeping over every surface was irresistible and the pathos of the crumbling stone cried out to be captured. Then she remembered with a jolt that she had left her camera at Feywood, determined to take back with her only the things she would need to further her career. The cemetery pictures wouldn’t have been of much commercial interest, it was true, but oh! How she would have loved to capture the atmosphere in that place. She squared her shoulders. Too bad. She had moved back in order to move forward, so she had better get on with it.
The bar she was going to that night, Nostrum, was – according to its website – ‘the place you’ve been waiting for. Why drownyour sorrows, when we can make them float away on a sea of the best cocktails and longest wine list London has to offer?’ When she skimmed the drinks menu, she certainly hoped it was worth it. Had she really forgotten in such a short time how expensive the city was? Another memory popped up, and she smacked it down like a whack-a-mole. Thinking about swigging cheapish wine with her sisters in the village pub wasn’t going to help. No, she would raid her savings and enjoy herself tonight, even if cocktails were – gulp – seventeen quid a pop. As the Tube drew into Green Park station, she felt an uncharacteristic jerk of nerves. After all, she hadn’t seen the London crowd for what felt like an age, and none of them, herself included, had bothered much with keeping in touch. At least she knew she looked good, even if she was horribly uncomfortable in the tight-fitting grey dress and high heels. She kept touching her hair, which hadn’t gone for so long without a cut in years. It felt smooth, blunt, familiar, but she also kind of missed the wispy tendrils that had started to drift out of it, softening her look. As she strode through the door of the bar, held open for her by a uniformed doorman, she almost turned on her heel and strode right out again, but a voice shrieked ‘Juliet!’ and was joined by another, and another and she was surrounded by familiar faces, all of which looked delighted to see her back in town. Somebody pushed a drink into her hand – ‘it’s called a Devil May Care,fearfullystrong, but we’re all guzzling them to help Loulou forget how ancient she is’ – and she, in turn, thrust her gift at the birthday girl.
‘Oh, Jools, Iadoreit,’ she trilled, showing everyone the white leather lipstick case. ‘So chic, so very you and also so very me. Youareclever! Come on, let’s have another drink to celebrate.’
Juliet was mildly surprised to see that she had nearly finished her cocktail.
‘Good idea. Or shall we do shots this time?’
‘So good to have you back!’ screamed Loulou. ‘You haven’t changed a jot. We all knew you’d be bored silly in the country, or is the place simply littered with gruff but handsome gamekeepers to keep you occupied?’
Images of first Will and then Léo flitted through Juliet’s mind.
‘OhGod, no!’ she replied, before downing the tequila she had been handed. ‘It’s all ancient vicars and Labradors. But I intend to make up for lost time.’
A cheer went up and someone handed her another Devil May Care.
‘You are what you drink!’ she yelled, toasting the group who all whooped and followed suit.
The evening continued on repeat as everyone drank and gossiped until Juliet glanced at her watch and realised it was nearly one in the morning.
‘I think I’d better go home,’ she slurred to Dex, who was leaning on her shoulder, nearly asleep.
‘Mmm, home,’ he agreed amiably, and snuggled down further.
‘Come on.’ She hoisted him up. ‘Wake up, I think you’d better go home too.’
He awoke suddenly and grinned at her.
‘Home, Jools, no way. I’ve had my little power nap – thanks for propping me up, by the way – and I’m ready to go on now. Hey, Loulou!’ Juliet followed his gaze to where the birthday girl sat, cross-eyed with alcohol and tiredness. ‘Time to move on? Glisten should be open now, and Nathan can get us in.’
Loulou raised her glass, spilling half the contents over the girl sitting next to her, who didn’t notice.
‘Yeah, Glisten, love it, less go,’ she croaked.
Juliet didn’t know what Glisten was, but she knew one thing categorically: she didn’t want to go there. The cocktails had lefta sour taste in her mouth, her stomach was heaving, and the room appeared to be jolting about in front of her eyes. The people who had seemed so witty and fascinating only an hour ago now looked as booze-sodden and dissipated as she imagined she did. Designer clothes were rumpled, make-up smeared and hair beginning to escape from its bondage of clips, ties, gel and spray. All she wanted to do was go home. As this thought came, so with it appeared an image of her cosy little flat at Feywood, the windows open to the summer night air. Home. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she snatched a little mirror from her handbag to dab at them with a napkin. None of these people would notice if she cried them a river, but she couldn’t bear the idea of looking pitiful all the same. When she had composed herself, she stood up shakily.
