by Anita Hughes
Now she inhaled the scent of jasmine and hibiscus and wondered why Gideon and Lionel had had a falling out. She thought of all the photos she had seen of them together: riding in Gideon’s white Bentley to the Grammys, arriving at the Montreux Jazz Festival, dining at Nobu with Chris Martin.
Juliet remembered the articles she’d read about Lionel: Lionel at his Malibu beach house, displaying his framed Julian Schnabel. Lionel in his pied-à-terre in Manhattan, sitting at his Steinway baby grand piano. Lionel standing in front of his bookshelf in his flat in Chelsea, wearing a Gieves and Hawkes suit. She remembered his quote saying his two great indulgences were a library of signed first editions and a closet of Salvatore Ferragamo loafers.
She pictured Lionel in his rumpled silk pajamas and John Lobb suede slippers. She saw his hair uncombed and his chin covered with stubble. She saw the filled ashtrays and empty shot glasses and brightly colored candy wrappers. She remembered the sudden pain in his eyes when he told his story and shivered.
* * *
“You have the right idea,” a male voice said. “I spent the day getting heatstroke on the tennis court. My coach is Swedish and doesn’t believe in siestas. But he sits on the sidelines with a straw hat and a pitcher of lemonade.”
Juliet looked up and saw Henry’s blond hair and thick chest. He wore a blue T-shirt and white shorts. He carried his tennis racquet in one hand and a water bottle in the other.
“You have the pool to yourself, I was just drying off.” Juliet blushed, instinctively wrapping herself in the towel. “I have to go upstairs and catch up on my e-mails.”
“A friend of mine owns a restaurant in Palma,” Henry said. “It just was awarded a Michelin star, I wondered if you’d join me for dinner.”
“I’d love to but I’m meeting a friend and her boyfriend.” Juliet hesitated. “She canceled last night because she had to work.”
“Perhaps they could join us,” Henry suggested. “He makes a delicious tuna tartar and his passion fruit sorbet is famous.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Her face lit up in a smile. “I’d love to.”
* * *
Juliet stood in front of her closet and selected a turquoise chiffon dress. She fastened diamond earrings in her ears and spritzed her wrists with Estée Lauder Lovely.
She glanced at the ceramic fruit bowl on the coffee table and realized she was starving. She hadn’t eaten all day except for Lionel’s blueberry muffins. She pictured him carrying a tray of orange juice and warm muffins and pots of butter. She wondered what he’d say when she told him she had a date and giggled. Then she grabbed her purse and ran down the wood staircase.
* * *
They drove in Henry’s yellow Fiat through the tunnel to Palma. Gabriella and Hugo sat in the back, chatting about his uncle’s hotel and Casa Isabella. Juliet gripped the dashboard and felt like she was on Space Mountain. When the car emerged into the Plaza Maya she gazed up at La Seu Cathedral and finally exhaled.
Henry parked under an olive tree and they strolled along the Paseo del Borne. Juliet gazed at the wide promenade with its outdoor cafés and stone fountains and thought she was in Paris. She browsed in the windows of Céline and Gucci and felt light and young and happy.
They turned into a narrow cobblestoned street lined with art galleries and florists. She felt Henry’s arm brush her elbow and a tingle ran down her spine. She watched Hugo slip his arm around Gabriella’s waist and felt like she had joined some secret club.
“My grandmother brought me to Paseo del Borne every Saturday,” Gabriella said. She wore a red dress and white sandals. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders and she wore red lipstick. “She spent all morning trying on clothes at Chanel and Dior. She said even though she lived on an island she adored fashion. Afterward we had tea at the Hotel Can Alomar. I ate persimmon and yogurt and thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.”
They stopped in front of a restaurant with a striped awning and tinted windows. Henry opened the door and Juliet saw paneled walls and a beamed ceiling.
“Patrick opened the restaurant two years ago. We played on the tennis circuit together,” Henry explained. “I lost my luggage at Heathrow Airport and he leant me his lucky shirt. I won my matches 6-0, 6-1, 6-0 and qualified for the semifinals at Wimbledon.”
* * *
They ate cold pumpkin soup and talked about music and food and tennis. Juliet tasted baby yams and thought it was lovely not having to worry about Lionel’s contract or about convincing Gabriella to record a song. It was wonderful to feel the flush of wine and inhale the scent of citrus and olives.
“When I was young all I needed was tennis,” Henry mused. “The rush of being on the court was like riding a magic carpet. But I’d go back to my hotel room and watch movies in German and Italian and realize I’d give anything to have someone to talk to.”
“I remember the first time I met Gabriella.” Hugo tore apart a baguette. “I walked up the steps of Casa Isabella and saw a young woman standing in the foyer. She had dark hair and green eyes and a smile that lit up the room.” He touched Gabriella’s palm. “I know her grandmother thinks I should hurry and propose. But marriage is serious and I want the resources to make her happy. I want every day to be filled with good food and laughter and the feeling we are building something together.”
My parents have been married for thirty-one years.” Juliet nibbled scallops and avocado cream. “My father is a linguistics professor and my mother writes a column for The New Yorker. They met at a reading at her apartment. He saw her long brown hair and green eyes across the room and knew he was going to marry her before he introduced himself.”
“That’s the great thing about love.” Henry studied her diamond earrings. “You never know when you’ll find it, but when you do you feel like you’ve waited all your life for that moment.”
* * *
They paid the check and walked onto the street. The sky was dark velvet and stars twinkled like a thousand fireflies. Juliet gazed at stone buildings covered in ivy and window boxes filled with tulips and wanted to keep walking.
They entered Paseo del Boneo and saw lights strung over the plaza. A band played and couples danced on the cobblestones. Juliet heard people clapping and saw children playing hopscotch.
“What’s going on?” Juliet asked.
“Every Friday night Palma has a street party,” said Gabriella, taking Hugo’s hand. “Come, let’s dance.”
“I’m not allowed to dance during training.” Henry stood on the pavement. “My coach is afraid I’ll injure my back.”
Juliet watched Hugo put his hands on Gabriella’s waist and spin her around the fountain. Gabriella and Hugo moved in perfect rhythm, as if they had danced together forever. She inhaled the scent of cigarettes and sweat and thought it must be wonderful to know someone so well you moved like one person.
She remembered Lionel describing his first proper date with Samantha. She remembered him saying he was so excited he couldn’t decide between buying flowers or chocolate. She inhaled Henry’s musk aftershave and felt something well up deep inside her.
* * *
Juliet entered the Hotel Salvia and took a deep breath. It was almost midnight and the living room was empty. She saw flickering candles and a mahogany sideboard set with a silver coffeepot and porcelain cups and a pitcher of cream.
“I had a lovely time.” She turned to Henry. “I’m going upstairs to bed.”
“You’re going to think I’m old-fashioned.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I wondered if I could kiss you good night.”
“Here?” Juliet raised her eyebrow.
“The concierge has gone to bed and even the maids have gone home.” He leaned forward and touched her hair. “I’d ask to see you to your room but I don’t trust myself to leave you at the door.”
Juliet glanced at the French doors and marble fireplace and brocade sofas. She studied Henry’s brown eyes and wide shoulders. She nodded and moved closer.
“I�
�d like that.”
* * *
Juliet entered her room and slipped off her sandals. She tossed her purse on the glass end table and walked to the balcony. It had been delicious to feel Henry’s mouth on her lips and his hands in his hair. She had wanted him to follow her up the narrow staircase, but deep down she knew it was best to wait.
She walked inside and unzipped her dress. She slipped on a cotton robe and climbed onto the four-poster bed. She leaned against the down pillows and fell asleep, a smile playing on her lips.
chapter ten
THE SUN GLEAMED ON THE tile counter and Lionel stirred a bowl of porridge. He added sliced banana and nutmeg. He found a spoon and carried it to the round table.
He had stayed awake all night playing old CDs. He paced around the Oriental rug listening to Samantha’s voice fill the living room. He pressed stop after each song, promising himself he’d go to bed, and then played another.
He took a small bite and knew he should have thrown the CDs out long ago. But they were like an old teddy bear or a favorite pair of slippers; just knowing they were at the bottom of his drawers made him happy.
He heard a knock on the door and walked to the entry.
“The bloody gardeners woke me hours ago,” he grumbled. “I never understood gardening. Why do grown men spend half the day mowing the lawn and clipping the bushes when they have to come back and do it tomorrow? Kipling had the right idea, we should all live in a jungle.”
“It smells wonderful in here.” Juliet entered the kitchen.
“My mother used to make porridge when I was sick.” He filled a bowl and handed it to Juliet. “Something about holding the warm bowl always made me feel better.”
“No thank you.” She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You have circles under your eyes.” He frowned. “I hope you didn’t have a relapse.”
“I had a date,” Juliet replied. “I didn’t get home until midnight.”
“I knew you’d find a young Spaniard to seduce you,” Lionel exclaimed. “Does he have dark curly hair and flashing eyes and play guitar?”
“He’s not Spanish and I wasn’t seduced. We had a lovely dinner in Palma.” She blushed. “After dinner we discovered a street party. There was wonderful music and everyone danced.”
“Let me guess, you listened to the throbbing music and thought you never wanted to be anywhere else.” He put his spoon in the bowl. “This morning you got up and hummed the same song in the shower. By the time you dried off you realized you were in love.
“Do you know why people can tell you the name of the song they listened to when they fell in love?” he continued. “Because music is more seductive than girlie magazines and X-rated movies.
“Girls hear a song on a jukebox and think they’re in love with the boy with a bad haircut sitting opposite them. They get married and play ‘their song’ at the reception. It’s not until their first anniversary when the guy can’t get up to turn off the telly and the garbage never gets taken out she realizes she was never in love, she just got swept away by George Michael crooning ‘Careless Whisper.’”
“I’m not in love, I just enjoyed his company.” Juliet blushed. “And how can you say that about music? You wrote the greatest love songs of the last two decades.”
“They started off as mine but they got shaped and molded like a department store mannequin.” Lionel sighed.
“I met Gideon in the dining room of Claridge’s. He was one of the hottest young record producers in London and every day he came in and ordered a Cobb salad and a gin and tonic.” He sat down and stretched his long legs in front of him. I slipped him Samantha’s CD with the keys to his Jaguar. A few days later he called and told me to buy a Patek Philippe watch. I didn’t realize when I finally heard our song on the radio that my mother wouldn’t recognize it. But Gideon was right, of course; he knew exactly what made money.”
* * *
Lionel stood in front of the mirror and gazed at his Henry Poole white dinner jacket. He knew he should have waited until he received his advance check but he couldn’t resist entering the shop on Saville Row with the plaque reading ESTABLISHED 1860 above the door. He stood while the tailor took his measurements and felt like a prizefighter waiting to go in the ring. Now he studied the satin lapel and thought it was the most beautiful piece of clothing he owned.
He smoothed his hair and wished he had convinced Samantha to buy a dress from Givenchy or Dior. But she gave him a cool stare and said she wasn’t going to spend an advance they haven’t received, and when she did, she would buy a study guide for her entrance exams and send the rest to her parents in Cleggan.
Lionel shrugged and bit his tongue. He knew she was picturing his parents eating eggs Benedict on Royal Doulton china. They didn’t need Lionel’s checks and he already abandoned his university education. He pictured Samantha’s blue eyes and small pink mouth and thought of the little things she did that drove him crazy but made him want her even more.
* * *
“I don’t understand why we have to meet Gideon for dinner.” Samantha strode along Bond Street. “We spent all last week with him in the recording studio.”
“He has something to tell us, he probably got maximum rotation on Capital FM.” He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. “Is it so difficult to sit in the dining room of the Connaught and eat Cornish hens and blueberry tart?”
“You’re making a scene.” Samantha giggled.
“I want to shout from the rooftops.” Lionel ran his hand over her breasts. “I’m in love with the most beautiful girl in the world.”
Samantha pushed his hand away and smoothed her skirt. “Let’s get to dinner without being arrested.”
* * *
They entered the dining room of the Connaught and Lionel saw marble pillars and thick velvet wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling and silk tablecloths were set with gold inlaid china.
“Here are my two favorite people in the music business.” Gideon stood up. “I ordered plum foie gras and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé Chardonnay.”
Lionel studied Gideon’s Dolce and Gabana suit and Prada shoes. He was only twenty-six and had already produced four gold records. He never mentioned his past and Lionel sometimes imagined him emerging from the womb in a Zegna suit and Gucci loafers.
“Samantha, you look ravishing.” Gideon admired her ivory crepe dress. “When are you going to convince this boy he’s not Mick Jagger and needs a haircut?”
“Yesterday he gave me a list of places where we need to be seen.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse. “Annabel’s and The Groucho and The Arts Club.”
“We don’t want people to know our songs but not remember our faces,” Lionel protested.
Gideon ate rabbit and mustard cauliflower. “You better add the Viper Room and Château Marmont to that list.”
“It would be great to break into America.” Lionel nibbled grilled Dover sole. “But we’re not even on the radio in England.”
“Actually, I’ve been asked to run the Los Angeles office,” Gideon explained. “You should see the size of the palm trees, it’s like landing on Lilliput.”
“You can’t go to California,” Lionel implored. “We signed a contract.”
“I’m taking you both with me.” Gideon waved his hand. “We’ll rent you a bungalow in the Hollywood Hills and a Cadillac convertible. We’ll even throw in driving lessons so you learn to drive on the right side of the road and don’t steer straight into the Pacific.
“We’ll have to change the lyrics, Americans don’t want to listen to a song about dreary British weather.” Gideon rubbed his wineglass. “It will be about a girl who goes to Hollywood to become a star. She hooks up with a guy who makes soft porn and runs back to her boyfriend on Catalina Island. But he sailed away with a Greek heiress on her thirty-foot yacht.”
“But the song is about a young woman who goes to London to become a nanny,” Lionel spluttered. “She misses
her family so she returns to her Irish fishing village. When she arrives she discovers her old boyfriend. He went to Argentina to make his fortune but realized he couldn’t live without her.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. It can’t have a happy ending, you’re not writing a Disney sound track. And it needs a catchy title, something Americans will love.” He tapped his gold Rolex. “We’ll call it ‘Going to Catalina.’”
“I can’t go to California,” Samantha interrupted. “I’m still working for Georgina and applying to university. I shouldn’t have taken time off to record the song; I missed Abigail’s gymkhana.”
She had been so quiet; Lionel forgot she was there. Now he gazed across the silk tablecloth and saw her cheeks were pale and her eyes flickered.
“With your voice and Lionel’s lyrics, you can buy as many degrees as you like,” Gideon replied. “You’ll invite Abigail to Los Angeles and take her to Disneyland and Universal Studios. Send her home with Mickey Mouse ears and a signed autograph of Harrison Ford.”
“I’m afraid we have to break the contract,” Samantha insisted. “My family is in Ireland, I can’t move six thousand miles away.”
“I’m sure Gideon only means for a year or so,” Lionel said quickly. “You can still apply to university and start next fall.”
Gideon nodded, sipping his wine. “You’ll record an album and do a nationwide tour and some television spots. After that I don’t mind if you live in Biarritz or Monaco.”
“You see, it will work out perfectly.” Lionel picked up the dessert menu and turned to Samantha. “They serve your favorite spiced apple trifle, let’s have a piece to celebrate.”
* * *
“How dare you tell Gideon we’re moving to Los Angeles?” Samantha demanded.
They had walked back to Belgravia without saying a word. Now Samantha paced around Lionel’s room, clicking her heels on the white wool rug.
