Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Juliet
In the week after Peter stormed out of the pub, Juliet retreated into a familiar, comforting blanket of numbness.
It was how she’d reacted during the worst hurts inflicted by her mother: the Leavers’ Day at the end of Year Six, when Juliet was the only one there without a parent; the teacher in primary school who had, in front of Juliet’s entire class, shouted at Fiona for missing every single parent/teacher conference, and Fiona had simply stared at her, stonily indifferent.
When she’d been twenty-six and in hospital, her baby bleeding out of her, and she’d had absolutely no one to call or come to visit.
So this wasn’t that bad, in comparison. It wasn’t as if she’d actually been friends with Peter. He’d turned down her offer, fine. She’d find someone else, or she’d cough up the money to get a donor from the US, pick a profile from the book at the clinic.
Except as the days passed, she didn’t call the clinic; she didn’t even let herself think about the clinic. She tried not to think about anything.
She kept busy, though; busy was good. She had a steady stream of walkers who came hoping for autumnal color; the wind tended to blow the leaves from the trees in Hartley-by-the-Sea before they’d turned, but Juliet promised her disappointed guests that it was better towards Keswick, and the walks around Crummock Water and Buttermere, two of the nearest lakes, were spectacular.
She dug over the old stone troughs she used as flower beds in front of the house, and filled them with chrysanthemums in a riot of reds and yellows.
She redesigned the B the local authority, which had to approve the fireworks; and the primary school, which sold the tickets.
For the last she simply gave the tickets to Lucy with strict instructions to keep the money separate from the school dinner money.
“I think I can manage that,” Lucy had said with a smile, and it had occurred to Juliet how much more confident and relaxed and even happy her sister seemed.
Hartley-by-the-Sea was good for her; Lucy clearly enjoyed working at the school, and if her secretive little smile was anything to go by, she was becoming friendlier with Alex Kincaid.
It seemed both ironic and fitting that Lucy’s life was getting better and bigger while Juliet’s was falling apart.
Except she wasn’t going to think about that.
Yet she found she couldn’t not think about it.
At night she lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattling the windowpanes as she went over in excruciating detail the last conversation she’d had with Peter.
She remembered the look of scornful disgust on his face, the way he’d shaken his head at her and raised his voice so it had practically rung through the pub.
Remembering it all, she vacillated between self-righteous anger—her request hadn’t been that unreasonable—and shame. A shame she hated to feel, and so she clung to her anger and pretended she didn’t feel it.
She also avoided Peter as much as she could, which was aggravatingly difficult in a village the size of the Hartley-by-the-Sea.
When she walked into the post office shop, he was buying a newspaper, and she kept her head lowered and intently studied the cover of Cumbria Life until Dan Trenton had given Peter his change.
Peter walked out without a word for her, and she saw Dan raise his eyebrows at her before he sold her some stamps.
If even surly, silent Dan Trenton noticed something was going on between her and Peter, things had to be bad.
When she walked the dogs down at the beach, avoiding the lane to Bega Farm, Peter was emptying his recycling into the bins by the promenade.
He stared at her for a moment across several yards of concrete before turning back to chuck empty milk cartons into the big metal bin. Juliet pulled the dogs towards the sea.
She cried off the pub quiz the following week; Lucy informed her, with a narrowed look, that Peter hadn’t shown up, either.
“We had to join Liz Benson and Tara Dunwell,” Lucy said. “I like Tara, and I know she’s had a hard time, but she talks constantly. Even Rachel couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”
“Liz is good value,” Juliet answered, not meeting Lucy’s eye, but her half sister would not be put off.
“Has something happened between you and Peter?”
“What do you mean?” Juliet asked, and then hurried on without waiting for Lucy to clarify. “We’re acquaintances. How could something have happened?”
“I thought you were friends.” Juliet said nothing. “Rachel thought something was happening between the two of you. Something a little more than friendship—”
“Rachel should mind her own business.”
“Seriously, Juliet. If you want to have friends, you’ve got to—”
“The last thing I need,” Juliet cut across her, “is a lecture from you.”
“From me?” Lucy blinked, looking hurt. “Ouch.”
“I’m fine,” Juliet snapped, and she almost believed it.
Yet standing by the sitting room window, watching Peter drive by in his Land Rover before she ducked behind the net curtains, she knew she wasn’t.
She was miserable and she missed him; something had opened up inside her and no matter how she tried to close it again, she couldn’t.
It felt like a gaping wound, a yearning she hadn’t let herself feel before.
“He came over maybe three times,” she told herself crossly one afternoon as she waxed the hall floor, another attempt to stay busy. “Get over yourself.”
“Talking to yourself is a bad sign, you know,” Lucy told her cheerfully as she came into the house. “But I’ve been doing it for ages. Why do you need to get over yourself?”
Juliet sat back on her heels and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. Yes, Lucy was looking very cheerful these days. She even did a little twirl as she hung up her coat.
“You’re in a good mood,” she remarked sourly. They’d reached a holding pattern in their relationship; they weren’t doing each other’s nails, but neither were they arguing or ignoring each other.
“Is that a crime?” Lucy countered, and walked right across Juliet’s newly waxed floor into the kitchen. Juliet heaved herself up from the floor and followed her sister.
Lucy was putting the kettle on top of the Aga, whistling as she did so.
Her good mood was becoming seriously aggravating.
She turned to glance at Juliet. “Cup of tea?” she asked, and Juliet nodded reluctantly.
She didn’t really want to have a cozy chat with Lucy about her sister’s promising love life, but neither did she want to exist in this vacuum of loneliness.
She leaned against the radiator and folded her arms.
“So what’s got you in such a good mood?”
“Nothing in particular,” Lucy said in a tone that made Juliet think it was very much something in particular. “It’s not raining for once. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“It hasn’t rained for a week.” Drizzling didn’t count.
Lucy shrugged as she got out the mugs and the milk. “Even more of a reason, then.” She turned around, a smile tugging her mouth upwards. “I also taught my first art class today, and it wasn’t terrible.”
“Sorry I forgot,” Juliet said gruffly. “So, not terrible, eh?”
“I think that’s fair to say.”
“I’m sure it was better than that,” Juliet answered, “judging by your grin.”
“I enjoyed it,” Lucy admitted. “And it felt—I don’t know—validating. After Mum . . .” She trailed off, her smile starting to slip.
“Don’t tell me you take anything our mother has to say seriously.”
Lucy turned to her with a sudden, surprisingly bleak look. “Don’t you?”
“No—,” Juliet began, only to stop as she realized she did take what Fiona had said seriously. Not the ridiculous posturing for the press, but the flatly stated fact. I never wanted you, Juliet.
Yes, she’d taken that rather seriously.
“Juliet?” Lucy’s voice held a lilt of uncertainty and Juliet tried to shake off the dark mood that threatened to fall on her like a shroud. She didn’t want to think about Fiona now, not on top of everything else.
“Fiona does everything for show these days,” Juliet said, keeping her voice brisk.
“You know that. I’m sure the only reason she rubbished your artwork in the news is because it would gain her more coverage, and all the while she could say it was because she was protecting her integrity.
” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy managed a small smile, but she didn’t exactly look convinced.
The kettle began to whistle shrilly and Lucy turned to move it off the hot plate. Juliet watched her, frowning.
“I’ve never actually seen one of your paintings,” she said. “What are they like, anyway?”
“Nothing spectacular,” Lucy answered, her back still to her. “Just insipid little watercolors of wildflowers.”
“That’s how you describe your own work?”
“Well . . .” Lucy turned around. “That’s how Mum described it.”
“How about you let me judge for myself?” Juliet suggested, and Lucy’s eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I don’t actually have a painting here,” she hastened to explain. “I mean, I don’t lug them around or anything. But I set up a catalog online, in case anyone . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip. “Well, you know, to be professional.”
“So show me,” Juliet said, even as she wondered why she was asking. Did she really care about Lucy’s paintings, insipid or not? Then, to her surprise, she realized she did.
“Okay,” Lucy said. “Let me get my laptop.”
Juliet finished making their tea as Lucy went upstairs. At least Lucy’s paintings would provide a distraction from her own gloomy thoughts.