by Anita Hughes
He poured another shot of brandy and sat on the striped love seat. He inhaled the brandy and suddenly thought he hated bloody sunshine. He tossed the notebook on the glass coffee table and leaned back against the silk cushions
chapter thirteen
JULIET STOOD ON THE BALCONY and watched the sun dip below the horizon. It was early evening and the sky was pink and orange and yellow. She saw the rugged cliffs and shimmering Mediterranean and thought that if only Lionel delivered his songs she would be so happy.
She walked inside and stood in front of her closet. It felt wonderful to put on a silk dress and strapless sandals. And she loved sitting across from Henry at a café and eating almond cake and vanilla ice cream.
Her phone rang and she picked it up.
“Juliet, it’s Gideon.” A male voice came over the line. “I get tired of corresponding by e-mail. Young people put a smiley face or a few exclamation marks after a sentence and think everything is all right. I want to know when Lionel is going to deliver the songs.”
Juliet gulped, thinking she would never put a smiley face in a business e-mail.
“We’re meeting every day,” she said evasively. “He is getting very close to fulfilling his contract.”
“He’s six months late. He’s not Chopin and he’s not writing a bloody opera,” Gideon snapped. “I sent you on a mission and I expect it to be successfully completed.”
“I’m sure I’ve gotten through to him.” Juliet fiddled with her earrings. “I just need more time.”
“I gave you two weeks,” Gideon replied. “If you want to keep your office with its view of the Hollywood sign and your own parking space, that better be enough.”
“You have my word,” Juliet said. “Lionel will fulfill his contract.”
She pressed END and sat at the dressing table. She had to convince Lionel to write the songs, she didn’t have a choice. She remembered Lydia asking her to talk to Gabriella and wondered how she could interfere when Gabriella was in love.
She rubbed her lips with pink lip-gloss and thought she wasn’t going to worry about Gideon or Gabriella. She suddenly remembered Lionel telling her to wear her diamond earrings, slipped them in her ears, and hurried down the wood staircase.
* * *
“Juliet, how wonderful to see you.” Gabriella beamed. She wore a navy dress and beige pumps. “I saved you a table next to the window, and my father prepared white truffle foie gras.”
“We’re glad to be here.” Juliet gazed at the crystal chandelier and mosaic ceiling. “I told Henry he has to try the linguini with Sóller prawns.”
“My father spent all afternoon stuffing quail and sautéing vegetables.” Gabriella smiled. “When he was a boy he wanted to be a tennis player, he’s more excited than when we served Prince Albert of Monaco.”
“Hitting a ball across a net hardly compares to running a principality.” Henry grinned. “But I’ll do my best to eat everything on the plate.”
* * *
They sat at a round table and ate butter lettuce with figs and shaved Parmesan cheese. Juliet drizzled olive oil on pearl tomatoes and took a small bite
“Gabriella’s grandparents started Casa Isabella and now her father is the chef and she and her mother run the dining room,” Juliet explained. “Gabriella is wonderful with people, she makes you feel like a guest at an intimate dinner party.”
“My father owns an accounting firm in Auckland,” Henry replied. “When I was fifteen I spent a summer pouring coffee and making photocopies and filing documents. But I forgot to turn off the coffeepot and I never remembered to refill the ink cartridge and sometimes I placed the documents in the wrong order.”
“I can’t imagine you cooped up in an office.” Juliet smiled.
“One day my father called me into his office and fired me. He said it didn’t matter what I did as long as I was passionate about it,” Henry continued. “I spent the rest of the summer hitting tennis balls, and in the fall a tennis scout gave me a Nike jersey and invited me to join the circuit.
“My parents are very supportive, my mother sends me care packages of thick white socks and tubes of suntan lotion. I buy her Belgian chocolate in Brussels and keep my father stocked with Nike running shoes.”
“My parents hoped I would be a language professor or go into publishing,” Juliet mused. “I love words but they have to have a rhythm behind them. When I listen to music, I’m like a kitten with a bowl of warm milk.”
“Have you ever thought of giving it up?” Henry asked.
“Giving it up?”
“Sometimes I wish I came home to a boiling pot of spaghetti on the stove and a pile of shirts in the laundry, instead of living in hotels with fitted sheets and baskets of fruit and cheeses.” He fiddled with his napkin. “It’s hard to start a family when your passport has more stamps than a child’s coloring book.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Juliet felt a lump in her throat.
“I didn’t use to.” Henry looked at Juliet and a smile lit up his face. “But lately it’s all I think about.”
* * *
Gabriella’s father appeared and insisted they open a bottle of Ferrer Merlot. He and Henry sipped the full-bodied red wine and discussed the French Open and Forest Lawn. Juliet saw Gabriella disappear into the kitchen and strode quickly down the hallway.
“It was a delicious meal.” Juliet entered the kitchen. “The rack of lamb with plum confit was superb.”
“I hope my father didn’t interrupt dessert.” Gabriella laughed. “I had to convince him not to ask Henry to sign a napkin.”
“Henry loves discussing tennis.” Juliet smiled. “He can tell you who won Wimbledon for the last thirty years.”
“He’s very handsome.” Gabriella loaded dishes into the sink. “And he’s in love with you.”
“Your grandmother said the same thing.” Juliet blushed. “We had dinner with her last night.”
“She told me she invited you.” Gabriella nodded. “I think she misses working all day on the farm. She said the best moment of the day was at sunset, when she slipped on a cashmere sweater and soft leather loafers and fixed herself a martini.”
“She thinks you should record a tape and send it to Gideon,” Juliet said slowly. “She doesn’t want you to miss out on having beautiful clothes and fabulous jewels and owning homes all over the world.”
“When I was a girl, Lydia took me to see American movies with Spanish subtitles because she said it was a good way to learn English. But the real reason we went was because she imagined herself living on a grand estate like Grace Kelly in High Society.
“She read American Vogue and Town & Country and owned a black cocktail dress and pearls like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Sometimes she’d have parties and everyone would drink old-fashioneds and listen to Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby.
“But for me there is nothing more exciting than seeing Hugo walk through the door. He’s more handsome than an American movie star, and when we’re together, I never want to be anywhere else.”
“You have the most beautiful voice,” Juliet urged. “People should hear it.”
“I sing when I fold the laundry and do the dishes and fix my hair.” Gabriella shrugged. “I don’t need to perform on a stage.”
“Lydia only wants you to be happy. She’s afraid you’ll regret missing a great adventure.”
“My great adventure is marrying the man I love and opening our restaurant and starting a family.” Gabriella stacked the dishes on the tile counter. “I’d never forgive myself if I missed that.”
* * *
“I hope I didn’t miss anything.” Juliet appeared at the table. “Gabriella let me sample the caramel flan and dark chocolate and sea salt ice cream.”
Henry studied Juliet’s turquoise chiffon dress and gold sandals. He saw her slender neck and small waist and long legs. “I was telling Felipe how much I love Majorca. The temperature is balmy and the food is delicious and the local scene
ry is gorgeous.”
Juliet blushed and picked up her wineglass.
She nodded. “I agree. I love everything about it.”
* * *
They sat on the tram back to Sóller and Juliet gazed at the twinkling lights of the harbor. She saw stone farmhouses and the distant outline of Cap Gros lighthouse. She remembered standing in Casa Isabella’s kitchen and let her shoulders relax.
She didn’t want to worry about going home in two weeks. She wanted to go wine tasting in Binisalem and visit four-hundred-year-old dairies in Porreres. She longed to sit on the back of a scooter with her arms around Henry’s waist. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair and inhale the scent of oranges and never want to be anywhere else.
She wondered if her cheeks flushed and her eyes lit up when she looked at Henry the way Gabriella’s did when Hugo entered a room. She remembered Lionel saying one couldn’t fight love; it was the best feeling in the world. She felt Henry’s hand brush her thigh and sucked in her breath.
* * *
“I had a wonderful time,” Juliet said, standing at the top of the staircase.
They had gotten off the tram and strolled through the plaza. They sat at a wrought iron table and drank aperitifs and nibbled pistachios. Juliet listened to soft jazz and felt warm and light and happy.
Now she gazed at his navy shirt and beige slacks and felt suddenly nervous. Was she ready to go to bed with him?
“I did too.” Henry slipped his hands in his pockets. “The prawns were succulent and the duck was tender and the lobster aubergine was perfect.”
“Would you like to come inside?” Juliet asked. “The maid always leaves a tray of hazelnut truffles and milky cappuccinos. I can’t imagine drinking coffee at midnight but the concierge says a little caffeine with warm milk gives you pleasant dreams.”
“I can’t. Some journalists are coming to watch me play a practice match tomorrow morning.” Henry shook his head. “Sometimes I think they want me to fail so they can write a story that I’m washed up and introduce the new, hot young thing.”
“I read an article in Tennis Today that your opponents are so afraid of your serve, they wish they could wear a shield like the knights in the Middle Ages.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a black-velvet jewelry case.
“When I told Felipe I loved the scenery in Majorca, I wasn’t talking about the green hills and white beaches and limestone caves,” he began. “I was picturing your blue eyes and the way your face lights up when you smile.”
He opened the box and drew out a string of pearls with an antique clasp.
“Majorcan pearls are unique. They are man-made, but more breathtaking than anything you’ll find in the ocean. I saw these at a jeweler in Palma and had to buy them.” He fastened them around Juliet’s neck. “I never thought I’d come to Majorca to fall in love, but all I want to do is sit across from you at a café and share platters of oysters and bottles of rosé.”
He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. He tucked her hair behind her ear and ran his thumb over her mouth.
“Can I take a rain check?” he whispered.
Juliet put the key in the door and smiled.
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”
* * *
Juliet gazed in the mirror at her flushed cheeks and smudged lip-gloss and ivory necklace. She studied the necklace more closely, admiring the luscious pearls and ruby and gold clasp. She took a deep breath and felt strangely unsettled, as if she were perched on top of a Ferris wheel.
She walked to the closet and unzipped her dress, slipped on a cotton robe, and climbed onto the four-poster bed. She unfastened the necklace and placed it in the black velvet jewelry case. She let out her breath and fell asleep.
chapter fourteen
LIONEL OPENED THE FRIDGE AND took out a loaf of whole wheat bread. He spread it thickly with marmite and sat at the round kitchen table. He took a large bite and grimaced.
He stirred Ovaltine into a tall glass and glanced at the folder of glossy photos. He had dug them out of the closet to show Juliet his publicity shots. But now he couldn’t look at the young man with curly dark hair and smooth cheeks without his stomach turning and the feeling that something was pressing on his chest.
He picked one up and frowned. He looked so arrogant, like a scratch golfer who expected to make every putt. He glanced at his reflection in the fridge and thought he hadn’t really changed: his hair was still dark and his stomach was flat and he only had a few lines on his forehead.
But the expectation that his good looks and education would provide him every luxury had fizzled like dud firecrackers on Guy Fawkes Day. He turned the photograph over and wondered if every twenty-something young man with long eyelashes and a knowledge of Descartes expected the world to shower him with riches.
He ate another bite of his sandwich and thought it wasn’t riches he missed. He had the Alfa Romeo sports car and Malibu beach house and pied-à-terre in on the Upper West Side. What he missed was the youthful ambition, the need to slip on leather loafers and grab a croissant and go out to make your mark on the world.
He heard a knock at the door and called: “Come in.”
“I’d ask if you’d like a sandwich but unless you start eating marmite in nursery school, you couldn’t swallow a bite,” Lionel said.
He glanced at Juliet’s floral dress and strapless sandals and thought she never looked so young and pretty.
“The things we learn to love as children last us the rest of our lives. My mother used to pack marmite on white bread and an apple in my lunch box.” He dusted crumbs from his slacks. “Even when I was at Cambridge I kept a jar of marmite in my room. I’m glad I never had children, I would hate to subject a new generation to soggy white bread and those little packets of raisins.”
“What are these?” Juliet glanced at the photos.
“Gideon insisted we take publicity shots.” Lionel handed one to Juliet. “God, have you ever seen such arrogance? I have the strong desire to smack those perfectly shaven cheeks.”
“Your shirt isn’t as tight and your hair doesn’t touch your collar but you look the same,” Juliet mused.
“I don’t care about the hair, and if I had to walk around with my stomach sucked in, I’d rather be fed by an intravenous tube.” Lionel shuddered. “It’s the feeling of being important I miss. When you’re twenty-three you’re certain everyone you meet: the waitress offering you sunny side eggs, the drycleaner who presses your Turnbull & Asser shirts, the kid you hire to keep your sports car waxed, are put on this earth to please you.
“Then you turn forty and realize they didn’t give a shit if you liked your eggs over easy or starch in your collars or lemon scent on your upholstery. They were just doing their job and they’ll find some other young punk with too much money to work for.”
“You’re still one of the greatest songwriters of the twenty-first century,” Juliet protested.
“Even if I did write another song I’ve lost that youthful arrogance.” Lionel shrugged. “You have to believe you’re the best at what you do or you’d never get out of bed. Do you think Ben Franklin would have run outside in a storm if he thought someone else could discover electricity? Would Madame Curie have carried radium around in her pocket if she trusted her husband to discover radiation? The young labor under the assumption they are the only ones who can achieve what they do.”
He ate another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with Ovaltine. He stretched his long legs in front of him and his eyes clouded over.
“If only I had realized someone else could write pretty verses, I would have hightailed it back to England while I still had the only thing that mattered.”
“What did Gideon do to you?” Juliet asked. “You couldn’t return to England if you had a contract. ‘Going to Catalina’ was poised to be a success, why would you want to leave?”
“I’m getting to that part of the story,” Lionel grumbled.
Lionel stretched his long legs in front of him and looked at Juliet. “Gideon still has a lot to learn.”
* * *
“Why does Gideon want to see you alone?” Samantha asked.
Lionel stood in front of the closet and glanced around the hotel suite. It was almost 10 A.M., and room service had delivered poached eggs and sausages and blueberry pancakes. There was a pitcher of maple syrup and pots of orange marmalade.
He gazed at Samantha’s ivory silk robe and thought he was glad Gideon hadn’t found them an apartment. He enjoyed having The Observer delivered with his pineapple juice and his shirts wrapped in tissue paper. Mostly he loved seeing Samantha step out of the marble bathtub, her skin glistening with expensive lotions.
“He wants to discuss the music video.” Lionel smoothed his collar. “Donovan probably wants to show me how to hold the harmonica. Yesterday we did twenty takes; I wanted to shove it down his throat. I feel like a street performer in occupied France; these days no one plays a bloody harmonica.”
“It suits you.” Samantha stood behind him. “You could buy a beret and smoke gaulioses and drink absinthe.”
“You’re trying to seduce me.” Lionel turned around and kissed her softly on the mouth. He slipped his hand under her robe and brushed her nipples. “I’ll be back soon and we can have club sandwiches and gin and tonics by the pool.”
“I can’t.” Samantha shook her head. “I have a noon history class at UCLA.”
“You’re taking a class at UCLA?”
Samantha pulled on a pair of capris and a yellow cotton sweater. She wound her hair into a bun and secured it with a ceramic chopstick.
“I’m not going to sit here reading movie magazines while Gideon decides what color lipstick I should wear in the music video,” she said. “If I want to apply to university, I have to keep up with my studies. I’m taking a course on Elizabethan England.”
