by Frances Pye
Behind her, the party was in its last stages. Women were kissing each other’s artificially smooth cheeks, men were making soon-to-be-forgotten promises to have lunch. A group of about twenty were planning to go on to a nightclub. And over in one corner, a tall, graying man was sitting by himself, his eyes fixed on Jules as she finished off her wine.
When she held out her glass for the barman to refill it once more, the man got up and walked to the bar.
“Juliet.”
Too far gone to recognize the voice, Jules swung round to face him. And almost fell off her bar stool. “M…Michael?”
“Yes. Michael.” He pulled out the stool next to her and sat down. “Brandy and soda, please.”
ONE THING about eighteenth-century windows. They looked pretty but they did rattle. Lily was curled up in her study, by the fire, huddled under a fur throw, sipping water, attempting to ignore the remnants of one of the worst hangovers in creation and trying to forget about Terry whilst listening to the wind make her house creak at the seams. She was just wondering whether the only way to feel any better about the loss of her longtime best friend was to repeat the previous evening’s performance and get drunk again, when the doorbell rang. And rang.
Now, who the hell could that be in such a hurry on such a night? Lily jumped up and groaned at the renewed pounding of her head. She paced along the hallway and threw open the door. It was Mara.
“I’m sorry, I tried to call.”
“I know. I changed the number. Come in. It’s freezing out there.” Lily couldn’t help grinning at the sight of Mara. She’d been wondering how long she should leave her alone before going around and trying to make up. And here she was. “I am so pleased to see you.” Lily leaned forward, gave Mara a hug, then took her arm and led her along the corridor. “Come on. Let me get you a drink.”
Mara stopped and pulled away. “You’d better hear what I’ve got to tell you first. You may not want me to stay.”
“Have you killed the girls and buried them in the garden?”
Mara giggled, half shocked, half amused. “Course not.”
“Then you’re safe. Go in the den, sweetie. I’ll be up in a second.”
Mara was standing before the fire, warming her hands, when Lily returned, complete with glasses and a bottle of red wine.
“Here you go.” Lily poured the wine, handed Mara one of the glasses, then took a sip out of the other, grimaced, and set it aside. That had not been a good idea. “Now, sit down, tell me what’s happened.”
Mara sat. She took a swig of her drink and then started in. “Lily. I’ve done a terrible thing. I should have told you before, but I only just remembered when Amy mentioned your name and then it all came flooding back. I don’t know if we can stop it, it might be too late.”
“Hey. Hey. Calm down. It’s no problem, whatever it is. I’m just pleased you’re okay. You are okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“And you’ve forgiven me for telling you?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. It was a shock, but you were right. I needed to know.”
“You look exhausted again.”
“Exhausted. Yes. But I’m truly grateful you told me. You have no idea how difficult it is always living up to an icon.”
“There’s no need to be grateful. If we’d been braver, we’d have done it long ago.”
“No. I wouldn’t have heard you.” Mara reached out to hold her friend’s hand for a second. “Thank you,” she said.
“Is that what you came all this way in the wind and the rain to say?”
“Oh, no. I let you distract me. Lily, I’m so sorry. I told Clive.”
“Told him what? That you were angry with me? I don’t think even he can make a story out of that. Although I can see him trying.”
“No. No. About Sean.”
“Sean?”
“And the sharing.” Mara expected Lily to explode. When she didn’t, she rushed in to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean to. He arrived just after you left, saying his car had broken down, and I was in shock and I let him in and he sort of wormed it out of me.”
“He would. He’s very clever.”
“Can we stop it? We could call his editor, couldn’t we?”
“No. Oh, we could, but it would make no difference. No self-respecting editor would stop a story like this. He’d lose his job.”
“I’m so sorry. I’d understand if you wanted to stop being my friend.”
“It’s not your fault. Clive’s sharp even when you’ve got all your wits about you. When you’re upset, it’s no wonder he got what he wanted. And maybe it’s not so bad.”
“How can it be not so bad?”
A slow smile spread over Lily’s face. “Well, I hate being in the tabloids on principle, but ultimately, who cares? Compared to some of the things they print, it’s positively positive.”
“Lily…”
“No. Listen. What we did wasn’t terrible. In fact, it was sort of cool. Okay, it didn’t work, but we were brave to try it. Not many women would. We were in the forefront of modern life, an advance guard showing the way for others.”
“Do you really think that?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I do.”
“You’re amazing.”
“And cool.”
“And very, very cool. Should we call the others?”
“Hmm. Yes, we’d better try and warn Jules.”
“And Terry.”
“No.”
“No?”
“She’s stolen Sean from me.”
Mara couldn’t escape a twinge of guilt. It had been she who had sent Sean to Terry. But they looked like an ideal couple. “Forgive me, but is that such a bad thing? You didn’t really want him that much, did you?”
“Maybe I didn’t. But I didn’t want him stolen. It should have been my choice to give him up.”
“Yes, of course. But if Terry’s happy?”
“Fuck Terry. Let her face Sean with no warning.”
“Sean?”
“He’s not going to be very happy about this. To put it mildly.”
“Lily. She’s our friend.”
“No. And as penance for having told Clive, you’re not leaving here until you promise not to call her yourself.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Lily waited for the promise. When it didn’t come, she advanced on Mara, trying hard to look threatening. “Mara. Mara. I’ll lock you in the attic.”
Mara laughed.
“I mean it. Bread and water.”
“Think of poor Terry.”
“I am. She’s got what she wanted.” Mara looked as if she were about to argue. Lily held up her hand. “No. I’m serious about this. I don’t want you telling her.”
Finally, Mara had to give in. After what she’d done, she definitely owed Lily. There would be no story if it hadn’t been for her. “All right. I promise. But I don’t think it’s fair.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But it’s the way it is. Terry broke the rules. So she pays.”
“The rules?”
“Of friendship. Remember?” Lily reached out, picked up the phone. “Let’s try Jules.”
JULES WASN’T in. Jules was in the road outside her house, being helped out of a cab by Michael.
“Here, Juliet. Give me your hands. Good. Now, one foot down.”
“I’m not that drunk.”
“Of course you’re not. One foot down. Good. And the other. There. Right, put your arm round my shoulders. Hold on a moment.” He reached behind him and closed the door to the cab. “And forward.”
Behind them, the driver put his vehicle in gear and it shuddered off down the street.
“I can walk on my own.”
“I know. Of course you can.” Michael ignored Jules and continued to prop her up while he looked around the street at the row of nearly identical houses. “Now, which one is yours?…Juliet, it’s cold and windy and I would be prepared to bet it’s about to rain. Which house is yours
?”
Jules had had what seven glasses of wine told her was a brilliant idea. And the more her three-quarters sozzled brain thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. She and Michael should go to bed together. He was more good-looking than ever. He had been so nice to her tonight. And she deserved a treat. Something to cheer her up. Why not Michael?
“Juliet. What’s your address?”
“Number 5, Bellingham Road, London SW3 4RJ,” Jules answered automatically.
Michael smiled. No matter how far gone, there were certain questions people always answered. He walked Jules to her door, hesitated before rummaging in her bag—there was something about a woman’s handbag that was sacred, he could still remember his mother shouting at him for looking in hers—but when Jules made no move to find her keys, he realized that it was up to him. He waded through tissues and lip gloss and diary and mobile phone before locating them in the side pocket. He held Jules upright, squinted to see which key went where, and finally succeeded in opening the door.
Jules stumbled in. And Michael followed her, as she’d known he would. Having seen her safe this far, he wasn’t going to abandon her now.
No question, the cold night air had sobered Jules up a little. She wasn’t as drunk as she appeared. Oh, she’d had way too much and she was going to feel dreadful the next day, but she wasn’t about to pass out. Or to pass up this opportunity. Her conscience had disappeared somewhere around the sixth glass. Maybe she was making a big mistake. Maybe she’d regret it deeply in the morning. But right at that moment, seducing Michael seemed like the most sensible idea she’d ever had.
Deliberately, she swayed a little. “I need to go to bed.”
“You do. And you should drink some water or you’ll have a dreadful head tomorrow.”
“Can you help me? It’s upstairs.” Jules allowed herself to fall toward Michael. He caught her and lifted her against his chest. She put her arms around his neck.
As they climbed the stairs, Jules laid her head on his shoulder and nuzzled into his neck. If she’d been a cat, she’d have purred. He walked into her bedroom, laid her down on the bed, and tried to move away. But Jules wouldn’t let go. She pulled his head down to hers.
“Juliet—”
“Shhh. Don’t argue. Just kiss me.”
When he held back, Jules raised herself and pulled him toward her. “Kiss me.”
Michael knew he shouldn’t. Juliet might appear less drunk than she had a few minutes earlier, but she was far from sober. And he wasn’t exactly clearheaded either. Neither of them was in any state to be making decisions.
On the other hand, he had never forgotten what it had been like with her. He’d had lots of girlfriends after her and been married and divorced since their time together, but nothing had wiped out his memories of her. Looking down at her, her flushed face, her disheveled hair, her glittering eyes, he realized that he didn’t have the strength to refuse her. If nothing else, he had to find out if it had been as good as he remembered.
A COUPLE of hours later, he was lying, wide awake, next to a sleeping Jules. And berating himself for having given in to her. He hadn’t even put up any real resistance. She’d asked and he’d jumped. Yes, he’d been drinking, but he’d not been drunk. He should have been able to say no, gently but firmly, and leave. Instead he’d leapt at her offer.
In the restaurant, as he watched her systematically falling deeper and deeper under the influence, he kept thinking of the last time he had seen her, in the club. Of the way she’d staggered out, held up by her sister Alice, her legs bloodstained, her face twisted with pain. Of her monster mother, who was more interested in her own social standing than in her daughter’s health. He’d called Alice’s husband, an old school friend, the following day to make sure Juliet was all right and discovered that she’d had a miscarriage. Full of sympathy—he could still remember how he’d felt when his wife lost a baby—he’d been tempted to send flowers, even to visit, but had resisted. Had pushed all thought of her from his mind.
Until the restaurant. When he’d seen Juliet so unhappy, he couldn’t help remembering what Jocelyn Hannesford-Jones had said to him. It had been several weeks after she had seen him walk away from Juliet at that drinks party that the woman had made a point of searching him out. He had to give her full marks for nerve. No one mentioned his ex-fiancée to him, either unwilling to offend him or unaware that the two had any connection. But Jocelyn had been determined to tell him what she thought. What had the meddling old witch said? “I can tell she holds you in high esteem, and I know how much it would mean to her if she could believe that you had forgiven her.”
And so he hadn’t been able to stop himself going over to her to do just what Mrs. Hannesford-Jones had suggested. It had seemed little enough, after all, and he’d decided that if it cheered Juliet up even the smallest amount, it would be worth it. And to begin with, it was. But look where it had led him. Here. In bed with the woman who had walked out on him the day before they were supposed to get married. Leaving him to deal with five hundred guests, rooms full of presents, and a passel of eminent bishops. To explain that there wasn’t going to be a wedding after all. And to cope with the fact that the woman he loved didn’t love him.
He had known when he’d asked her to marry him that it was a mistake. She was far too young. Every instinct he possessed told him that he should wait until she’d had time to grow up, to have some fun and freedom living in London, before he talked marriage. But he couldn’t resist. Just like tonight, he had wanted her so much that he had ignored his better judgment and gone ahead. When she’d agreed to marry him, he had allowed himself to believe that she felt about him as he did about her. But she hadn’t. And deep down, he’d known it.
In a way, that had made it worse. After his initial coruscating rage and deep embarrassment, try though he might, he couldn’t blame Juliet alone. It had been his fault too. If he had only trusted his own intuition. But he hadn’t. He’d been weak. And he still was where she was concerned.
Even more so after tonight, after finding out that his memories of them together had faded over the years. Or that they were even better in bed now than they had been then. Either way, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t afford to let it.
Jules stirred, shifted, turned toward him, laid her head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. He waited for her to say something, but she was silent. And still asleep.
He longed to make love to her again. But if he wasn’t very careful, he could see what had happened in the past repeating itself. His falling for her, her playing with him for a bit, then moving on, unhurt. Leaving him to cope without her again.
Michael rolled Jules away from him, ignoring her sleepy protests. He knew he shouldn’t hold her responsible. Her life was obviously in turmoil, she’d simply gotten drunk and taken comfort where she could, but he found it impossible to forgive her. Not for what she’d done so much as for the hold she still had over him. And the fact that what meant so much to him mattered so little to her.
Jules had curled up on the other side of the bed, still fast asleep. Michael looked at her for a moment, resisting the urge to curl up with her, to stay the night and be there to make love in the morning. He forced himself to turn away from her and get out of bed. He would not let her do this to him. If he couldn’t be in command of his own emotions where she was concerned—and he had to admit, hard though it was, that he couldn’t—then he wouldn’t see her. Ever. It was as simple as that.
He collected his clothes and walked out. Without a good-bye kiss, without a note explaining his absence, without even a backward look.
sixty-six
Sean supposed he would soon get tired of the tinny music and high-pitched zaps and squeals. But right at that moment, the Beatles couldn’t have sounded better. He’d spent the night on Isobel’s sofa and had got up at dawn, keen to get home, a part of him still afraid that she would change her mind. Now he was back in England, driving to London, his car
piled high with clothes and toys and books. And two young boys who were sitting in the back, playing a portable video game.
In the end, there had been no need to negotiate with Isobel. Steve Jones, her lover, had given her an ultimatum. He’d had enough of France. When she’d panicked after Sean had found out about her leaving the boys alone and decided that they all had to flee England, it had been her choice to go to Brittany. She came from Canada, she spoke French fluently, and an old friend of hers from her Vancouver days taught at the high school in Cancale and would help them settle in. Steve had been reluctant at first, but eventually she’d managed to persuade him that moving abroad with the boys would be a bit of a lark.
It had turned out to be anything but. When they’d arrived in Cancale, Steve spoke not a word of French, and though he had picked up a bit here and there, he still needed Isobel to help him communicate. He’d managed the work all right—plumbing terms weren’t all that different in French—but he’d missed the banter on-site, missed going out to the pub for a drink with his friends afterward, missed the football on Saturdays, missed fish and chips, and plain roast beef, and curries.
More than that, he’d had enough of living as a parent. Time enough for Saturday nights in and weekends camping when he was closer to forty and ready to settle down.
Finally, desperate to go home, he’d insisted that Isobel had to choose between him and the children. And she had chosen him. Maybe because she was still desperate to hold on to her younger man. Maybe because she too had had enough of life in a small French town. Or maybe because she had wanted to give the boys up all along and had finally found someone to take the blame for her doing so. Sean had no idea. And he didn’t care. He had Mark and Ben back. Isobel would come to see the boys once or twice a month, but otherwise, they were his. And, he hoped, Terry’s.
