Chapter 27
Léo put away the last of the pans and sat down heavily at the island in the cookery school. It had been a week since Juliet had left for London, without even saying goodbye, and he felt no better now than he had that morning when he had come up to the house and Rousseau had gently broken it to him that she had gone.
‘Try not to give it too much thought,’ said the older man. ‘She’s trying to sort out her feelings. She’ll be in touch.’
‘No,’ said Léo firmly. ‘I am giving it no thought whatsoever. Juliet has done the right thing for her, and I am so happy for her. I am going to think only of my work; that will give me solace.’
Frankie, back on one of her flying visits which now took her to London, looked thinner and paler than ever, but her tongue was just as sharp.
‘If you’re so sure she’s done the right thing, you need to drop the Cistercian monk act and get back out there. Honestly, between you and Juliet, you could start your own soap opera, her flouncing off to London, you nobly bearing your pain in silent labour. The pair of you need to stop looking for problems and just get on with it.’
Martha, although she wouldn’t have put it quite like that, privately agreed with her sister. When Frankie had left again, Martha had tried to get hold of Juliet, but the phone just went to voicemail and her texts were responded to hours later with brief, dashed-off messages about being horribly busy. She hated seeing Léo so sad, but she thought the solution was simple.
‘Just go and find her and tell her how you feel.’
‘She knows how I feel,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘I will not push myself onto her; she can make her own decisions and her answer is clear.’
Martha might have tried harder, but instead she told him how seriously worried she was about Frankie, who was still seeing her new boyfriend and still refusing to tell anyone who he was, on the basis that they would all disapprove of him, and she couldn’t be bothered arguing about it.
‘Let her do love her own way,’ was Léo’s response. ‘We must all find our paths ourselves in the end.’
He had been sorry when even the patient Martha had rolled her eyes at him and gone to take her feelings out on an innocent canvas, but he remained stoic. At least this way he knew that he wasn’t bringing any more calumny on Juliet’s head, that she could not hold him responsible as Veronique had done. If any sin was to be his, it would be of omission, not commission. With this comforting thought, he scooped Ava up onto his knees and picked up his phone. He and Sylvia had been working on building up a social media platform for the cookery school, mostly for promotional reasons but also because he felt that he could better control his own image if he were in the lair of the beast, so to speak. He tapped through to upload a photo of the incredible prawn curry he had made earlier, smirking as he added the hashtags #prawnpanic and #crustaceanfrustration in reference to the number of queries he always got about how long to cook the shellfish for, and how to know when they were ready. Pleased with his efforts, he started idly scrolling through the people their account followed, admiring various kitchens and dishes. But he sat up when a picture of Juliet appeared. He hadn’t even known she had an Instagram account, or that Sylvia had followed it, for he certainly hadn’t. As the initial shock of seeing her ebbed away, he looked again at the photo. She looked incredible: she had cut her hair and was wearing a tight grey dress which showed off her slim shoulders. Her arm was slung around a rather cross-eyed blonde woman with smudged mascara, who was beaming and holding up a drink. Juliet was also smiling, but her face was more reserved. You are the Juliet I first met, thought Léo, staring at the little screen. I hope you are happy, chèrie, I hope you have found what you want. He stood up, cuddling Ava close to his chest.
‘Come on, little one, it is time you and I turned in for the night, we are so tired, aren’t we?’
It was only nine o’clock, but despite his assertion of exhaustion, he was going to bed earlier and earlier, as waking hours only brought constant thoughts of running to Juliet, which he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do.