Chapter 1
Juliet raised her head an inch from the brocade sofa cushion and instantly regretted it.
It was throbbing with pain and the room spun sickeningly.
She dropped it again, feeling the raised pattern settle back into the grooves it had left on her cheek.
Maybe she could just stay here for – oh, about a hundred years, until she felt better?
But she could feel someone looking at her, and she opened her right eye a fraction to see who it could be.
Her eye met two dark brown ones, staring at her keenly.
‘Oh, it’s you, Moriarty,’ she croaked, lifting a feeble hand to pat his head. He was a small, hairy black dog of indeterminate breed. ‘Morning. Ugh, I suppose I’d better get up…’
Hauling herself to a sitting position, she wiped away a little trickle of dribble from the side of her mouth and made sure to open both eyes.
Then, under Moriarty’s confused gaze, she picked up a discarded circular silver tray from a large, buttoned leather pouffe, rubbed it with a corner of the cushion to wipe away the drinks rings and contemplated her smeary reflection.
Good grief. Last night she had aimed for a Louise Brooks/vintage Hollywood sort of look, with her severe dark bob and pale skin, but today she looked more like a vampire in need of some blood.
She tugged fruitlessly at her hair, which was either sticking out at strange angles or stuck to her cushion-imprinted cheek, and peered at her blotchy skin.
Lifting a tentative hand to her mouth, she huffed experimentally and recoiled at her own foul breath.
No wonder poor Moriarty looked concerned.
She groaned as the door opened. Who was it now?
‘Morning, Juliet.’
‘Oh, God, do you have to speak so loudly?’
It was her sisters, Martha and Frankie, both looking as appalling as she did, in their own way.
Frankie probably pulled it off the best, as she usually rocked a sort of dishevelled chic anyway, with her short dyed blonde crop and uniform of torn jeans and band T-shirts.
The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual, and her skin a sickly shade of greenish white, but her mischievous grin was undiminished.
Martha was usually the freshest-looking of the three, with her innocent, rounded face and long chestnut hair with its fringe that she was permanently pushing away from her eyes, as she never got around to having it cut.
Neither was dressed, but at least they had managed to crawl into pyjamas and not just pass out on the sofa fully clothed.
Mind you, Juliet had done it in the most spectacular beaded and sequinned dress, hired for the occasion, which had helped to make her the undisputed belle of her Bright Young Things-themed party.
Despite how she looked now, last night she had oozed chic.
‘Morning, girls.’ She winced as pain shot through her head. ‘Do you feel as bloody awful as I do?’
‘Worse,’ declared Frankie, producing a strip of tablets from her breast pocket – where, Juliet suspected, there was always useful medication of some sort or another – and popping two out into Juliet’s hand. ‘What was in those cocktails? Happy birthday, by the way.’
‘Thanks. And God knows. Dad was pouring them, so it could have been almost anything.’
Martha lowered herself gingerly into a fraying tapestried armchair.
‘Happy birthday, Jools. Those cocktails were delicious but lethal. Oh, hello, Moriarty, come on up.’
He immediately sprang onto Martha’s lap and snuggled down with a sigh of pleasure. Juliet managed to raise a small smile at the sight of him so content there with her sister.
‘At least he’s happy, but I suppose he didn’t touch those poisonous cocktails.’
‘Sensible creature,’ said Frankie. ‘I wonder how many more of these I can take in one go?’ She inspected the strip of pills, then swallowed one. ‘I feel like I’ve been put through a giant mangle.’
Juliet was just about to lie down again to rest her still-aching head, when a pile of faux fur blankets in the corner suddenly moved and a man appeared, stared wildly around at them all, and then dashed from the room.
‘Who on earth was he?’ asked Frankie.
‘No idea.’ Juliet shrugged.
‘Well,’ said Frankie, going to the window. ‘Whoever he is, he’s off down the drive.’
The heavy oak door opened again, but this time a most welcome sight appeared.
‘Good morning, girls, and happy birthday, Juliet! You’re all looking radiant, I must say.’
Their aunt entered, carrying an enormous tray laden with breakfast, and grinning at the sorry state of her nieces. She was a slight woman, in her sixties, with elegant silver bobbed hair and kind eyes.
‘Morning, Aunt Sylvia.’ Juliet got up to help her with the tray, swiftly scooping the debris of glasses, napkins, a single pink satin glove and a man’s dress shirt collar off the pouffe so she could set it down.
‘Ooh, Aunt Sylvia, you knew just what we needed: carbs, carbs, fat and more carbs,’ said Frankie, eyeing up the tray greedily.
Looks like the pills have kicked in, thought Juliet, although she had to admit that whatever they were, they were starting to perk her up too.
Even Martha, who had probably been suffering more than any of them as she almost never drank, was looking more cheerful at the sight of the heaving plates of buttered toast, hash browns, beans and clouds of scrambled eggs.
A cafetière steamed gently and just the smell of the hot, fresh brew settled Juliet’s rolling tummy.
‘Come on then, girls, tuck in before it gets cold.’
Sylvia unstacked plates and cups as the three sisters gathered round to partake of the feast. Juliet would never normally eat so much – especially all those greasy, delicious carbs – but this hangover, and the fact that today was her actual birthday, demanded it.
For a moment or two, they ate in silence, then Frankie let out a happy groan.
‘Aunt Sylvia, I don’t know how you do it. These scrambled eggs are delicious. Mine always go grey and rubbery.’
‘Thank you, dear. Is the food all right for you, Juliet?’ asked Sylvia, concerned. ‘You do look a bit green around the gills. You don’t feel sick, do you?’
Bless Aunt Sylvia, always so kind and observant, quite the opposite of how Juliet’s mother had been.
‘I’m okay, thank you, and I’ll be better once I’ve eaten this. Thanks for bringing it.’
‘My pleasure. Now, tell me what happened at the party after I gave up far too early and went to bed,’ said Sylvia.
‘It looked as though you were all having a wonderful time, although I did have to extract our neighbours’ sons from the rose bushes.
Our lovely estate manager, Will, would have been furious if they’d squashed his Gertrude Jekylls. ’
‘Will is a bore,’ said Frankie, pouring herself a second cup of coffee and looking at her now-empty tablet strip with disappointment.
‘He’s not! He’s kind and very conscientious,’ said Martha. ‘And he does love those roses. The party was really fun, Aunt Sylvia – it was a shame you left so early.’
Juliet smiled, looking down at her dress and remembering how she and her sisters had gone completely over the top with their outfits so that they looked like film stars – she dark and severe, Frankie sexy and dissipated as Jean Harlow and Martha all soft waves and melting eyes like Olivia de Havilland.
The invitation had stated ‘fancy dress if you want’, but most of the guests had turned up in jeans, like they would to any local party, making the three of them stand out even more.
‘Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of the place. How are we going to get it all cleaned up? You haven’t forgotten that Rousseau has called a family meeting, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t, and don’t worry about the clear-up.
’ A smile spread across Juliet’s face. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be in any fit state this morning to deal with it, so I’ve organised for Agnes and her crack team of cleaners to come and sort it out.
They may have an average age of ninety-five, but they’ve got more energy than I had when I was four.
’ The doorbell rang. ‘Oh, maybe that’s them now. ’
Sylvia went into the hall to answer it. She returned swiftly, not with a gaggle of lively nonagenarians clutching dusters, but a vast bouquet of flowers.
Martha jumped up to burrow around in the acres of tissue paper for a card.
‘Ooh, birthday flowers! I wonder who they’re from? Look, here it is.’
She handed the tiny envelope to Juliet, who was trying to stay cool but was excited to find out who had sent her such an extravagant present. She flipped open the flap and pulled out the card, the message written centrally, the edges decorated with an ornate but tasteful pressed pattern.
‘Read it out,’ said Martha.
Juliet’s smile at her sister’s unquenchable romanticism quickly changed to a frown as she saw who had sent the gift. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone, today of all days? She stuffed the card back into the envelope and tossed it onto the tray full of dirty plates.
‘They’re from Toby.’
She glanced again at the bouquet. She should have realised.
Beautiful though it was, it was laden with creamy oriental lilies, which she hated, finding them cloying and sickly.
Her horrible, controlling ex-boyfriend Toby had always thought they were elegant and – she nearly gagged – ladylike, and that she should like them, so he always forced them on her, another small step to make her into a different – better – person.
The smell was drifting over to her now, and she felt her breakfast rising in her throat.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Sylvia, can you take them away? Please. Put them somewhere I can’t see – or smell – them.’
She let her eyes slide away, rather than meet her aunt’s concerned gaze.
‘Of course, darling. I’ll find somewhere for them. Forget they ever arrived.’
When she had left the room, the sisters sat in silence for a moment. It was Frankie who spoke first.
‘Bastard. I’m so glad you finally broke up with him.’
‘So am I,’ said Martha. ‘Even though you both know how much I love a happy ending. Although I really do think that not being with him is the happiest thing.’
Juliet sat in silence, pressing down the surge of unwelcome feelings as shame battled fear and sadness and rage.
Martha continued.
‘Are you sure he won’t worm his way back in? I worry – shared friends, working at the same paper, attending the same parties… It can’t be good for you.’
Juliet sighed. She just wanted this to stop now.
She was suddenly desperate to get back to London, to be away from the sympathy, the kind looks, the expectations.
To be somewhere she could be herself. Couldn’t she?
Well, anyway, somewhere she could be the sharp, witty, hard-shelled version of herself that worked perfectly well.
It did. Really it did, she told herself firmly.
‘All right, thanks, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Hadn’t we better think about getting ready for this meeting? You’ll have to tip that dopey dog off your lap first, Martha. Look at him, he’s set in for the day.’
Subject cunningly changed. All three sisters were always happy to be distracted by animal talk, particularly if it was about their precious dogs.
‘I wish I was too. Look at him, he’s so cosy.’ Martha smiled down fondly at the scruffy dog.
Frankie sighed.
‘I still miss Gulliver, though; he was such a… presence.’
Juliet certainly couldn’t argue with that.
Gulliver had been a Flemish Giant Rabbit, about the size of a spaniel, and had lolloped around the house charming and confusing visitors in equal measure.
He had been docile and biddable, even house-trained, but had got on the wrong side of their father by taking a liking to the Tudor wooden panelling, which he had gnawed almost back to the brick in some places.
But now Gulliver had gone to the great rabbit hutch in the sky, and Frankie often mused about what to replace him with.
Recently, she had been threatening to investigate micropigs, which were at least, thought Juliet, unlikely to chew the fixtures and fittings.
Her sister was just drawing breath to start discussing her next potential pet, when the door opened again.
Not Sylvia this time, but Rousseau, their father.
How on earth was he so fresh and well-turned-out?
He drank more than the rest of them put together last night, and was last seen at three o’clock in the morning charming the woman who ran the Post Office with promises of a portrait and fulminations over the angle of her cheekbones.
He may be nudging seventy, but, Juliet had to admit, he had lost none of his magnetism.
She supposed that charisma never aged and felt that familiar tug of inadequacy that she didn’t have much natural charm – as Toby had never hesitated to drive home to her.
Who she really was had been hidden so successfully behind the haircut and all-black wardrobe as well as satirical cartoons she drew for a living that even she wasn’t sure any more who she really was, or even wanted to be.
Oh well, it wasn’t like fast-paced London life left much time for personal reflection.
It was being here, back at her family home of Feywood, that made her more contemplative, and that meant it was time to leave.
Rousseau came over and kissed her.
‘Happy birthday, darling. But why are you all still lolling around here in your pyjamas – and you still in your glad rags, Juliet? Fabulous dress, by the way, my dear. Anyway, I want you all in this family meeting in an hour, dressed, if possible.’
Grumbling, the sisters made feeble moves towards getting up, pushing aside dogs, plates and cushions. As Rousseau opened the door to leave, Frankie lurched forward, pushed him to one side and dashed out, her hand clamped to her mouth.
Juliet grinned after her, then turned to her father.
‘Why do we have to have a meeting so urgently, Dad? It’s my birthday, don’t I get a free pass?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Her usually cheerful father’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘We all need to be there. I’ll see you in an hour.’