Chapter 9
Juliet quickly began work on the drawings for the cookery school website. Although there was no deadline, she felt enthused by the new project and wanted to earn the photography sessions that she felt in her gut were a doorway to a career expansion. For a week, she sat unobtrusively as Sylvia and Léo worked, sketching them as they chopped and stirred, assembled intricate pastries and burnt sauces that had to be started again from scratch. She also caught them laughing together, grimacing in frustration, picking herbs in the kitchen garden and sampling wines to match them to their dishes. It was only a few days before their first students came for the weekend, and the feeling in the kitchen was intense and purposeful, so she stayed in the background as much as possible. When she reviewed her work at the end of the week, she was thrilled with what she had achieved. Her acerbic political cartoons were more about lampooning people she had never met, exaggerating their flaws and idiosyncrasies and making sly, satirical digs. These cartoons, while humorous, were much gentler and more in tune with their subjects. She had drawn out the relationship between them, and amplified it, so that Léo looked particularly flamboyant and Sylvia steady and calming. Her favourite showed him weeping dramatically over a failed sauce, she serenely adding a touch more salt, whilst patting him on the shoulder.
On the weekend the students came, Juliet removed herself from the cookery school completely, knowing that both Léo and Sylvia were nervous, and assuming they wouldn’t want her getting under their feet. She considered going back to London – she had the offer of a spare bed and an upcoming party – but although she toyed with the idea, she found herself more drawn towards the flowers budding in the rose garden and the shafts of sunlight playing across the mossy tree trunks in the wood. She had been in touch with some country lifestyle magazines who wanted further examples of her work, and this seemed the perfect opportunity to prepare something, when everybody else was occupied with the cookery school students and nobody would start quizzing her about what she was doing, and why, and how it defined her as a person.
‘I don’t know why you keep disappearing,’ said Frankie, folding towels into messy lumps, which Martha patiently took and refolded, one after the other. ‘We could do with some help in the house. I know they’re only staying a couple of nights, and thank God they’re making their own meals, but they manage to generate a lot of work. Helping with the guests was meant to be part of the deal.’
‘I’m not really the welcoming BB owner type. Look at the disaster when I tried to make the beds, Martha had to redo them all.’
Martha pulled a face.
‘Yes, and you still haven’t found time to let me show you how to do it properly. It’s not difficult, Juliet.’
Juliet felt a pang of conscience. She may hate these domestic duties, but she knew that getting on with them – and getting better at them – was an important part of helping out.
‘Sorry, M, we can do it later, yeah? And I’ll be all right at cleaning up after they’ve gone. We should play to our strengths.’
But Frankie wasn’t letting up.
‘You’re going to have to learn how to do everything, we all are. We’re lucky to be living here, but look at the place. Every time you move a piece of furniture, there’s black mould behind it, and the attic is going to be a swimming pool in the winter if we can’t fix some of the leaks. You know how to use a washing machine, don’t you? At least go and put these towels in – programme five.’
With a sigh, Juliet scooped up the pile of towels and took them through to the small utility room that was off the kitchen. She stuffed them in, added detergent and fabric softener and set programme five running, although she was briefly tempted to choose something different and inappropriate, so that the towels all came out stiff as cardboard, or the size of handkerchiefs, and her sisters gave up on asking her to help. But, checking the time so she knew when to come back and put the towels in the drier, she knew that she would put in more of an effort, however much she hated it. She wanted to help save Feywood, but housework, she reflected as she walked back to her little studio, was not her forte; she had better hurry up and make a success of herself one way or another so that she could double her contribution to the household finances and skip the domestic labour part.
She slipped quietly into the old stable block, nodding a greeting to the students, who were gathered round Léo and hanging on his every word regarding crème fra?che, whatever that was, and went up the stairs, feeling the usual sense of peace and relief when she shut the door behind her. After boiling the kettle, she spent twenty minutes in her new favourite pursuit – drinking a cup of tea while staring out of the window thinking of nothing in particular – before getting to work on honing some of the soft watercolours she was sending to the magazine that afternoon.
By Sunday afternoon, when the students were preparing to leave, Juliet couldn’t fail to notice how tired Léo and Sylvia were looking, how tight their smiles had become. The normally pristine cookery school was now in need of a good scrub and tidy, which even Juliet felt she could tackle. Juliet smoothed down her black silk shirt and reasoned with herself that she would probably only break something, or not get it clean enough, making more work for the others in the long run, so she restricted herself to stacking the dishwasher. Then she ran down to the village and bought a couple of bottles of Prosecco and some nibbles, and was waiting with them apprehensively when Léo and Sylvia trudged back from waving their new protégées off up at the house.
‘Juliet, what’s all this?’ Sylvia’s tired face lit up.
‘Look, I’ve seen how hard you’ve both worked this weekend. Your students looked like they were having the time of their lives, and I just wanted to say well done. Sit down and have a drink; I’ll start work on some of the cleaning.’ She shrugged, feeling awkward now at having made the gesture.
‘That was very thoughtful of you, merci. I could murder a glass of Prosecco.’
Juliet busied herself ripping the foil off the first bottle and pouring the wine. Not wanting to add making a toast to her embarrassment, she waved her glass vaguely at the other two, muttered a well done and took a big gulp, then turned away and busied herself spraying down the work surfaces. As the Prosecco wound its way down her body, she started to relax. Maybe this hadn’t been a terrible idea; they seemed pleased and surprised, both of which she had hoped for.
‘I also wondered if we could put in a time for our first photography session, now that the students have gone?’
To Juliet’s surprise, Léo roared with laughter and held up his glass in an exaggerated toast.
‘Ah, an ulterior motive. Of course.’
Stung, Juliet put down her cloth and squared her shoulders.
‘Not at all. I wanted to congratulate you on the weekend. But now that it’s over, isn’t it time to think about the next thing?’
‘Can we not just enjoy the moment, even for a moment?’
Juliet glared at his laughing face – laughing at her, again.
‘I know you think I’m some sort of workaholic, but it’s not true. I’m perfectly capable of enjoying myself, but I also don’t see why we shouldn’t get the next thing in motion. Time just slips away, otherwise, and all you’ve done is drink champagne and chat, rather than achieving anything.’
‘Sounds okay to me right now,’ said Léo, topping up his glass. ‘I do not think I can be accused of frittering away time, after the work I have put in to get this school up and running.’
‘Juliet, Léo.’ Sylvia’s calm voice drifted across the table. ‘You are more alike than you think, both with admirable work ethics and plenty of drive. Juliet, darling, I know that you will feel calmer if we put in a time to start the photographs. Léo, that can be done quickly and easily and then we can toast our success until dawn if you like. Well…you can at least. I’m exhausted, but you take my point.’
Juliet bristled at her aunt’s swift dissection of the situation but couldn’t deny the truth of it: she would feel less panicked knowing that there was a firm date in the diary for the photos to start; she didn’t like nebulous arrangements that might never happen. But it was Léo who spoke first.
‘Of course, Sylvia. We can do that. Tomorrow will be spent sorting out the school, and on Tuesday, I have business in Oxford. What about Wednesday?’
‘I can’t do Wednesday, I’m afraid, and the latter part of the week is busy too, but why don’t you and Juliet make a start then? We can always arrange another time for my close-up, darling, and this would get the ball rolling.’
For a moment, Juliet wrestled with her opposing feelings: she wanted to get working on the photographs as soon as possible but didn’t really want to spend time alone with Léo – she had been relying on having her aunt there. Her need to work won.
‘All right,’ she said, regretting the grudging tone of her own voice but unable, somehow, to lighten it. ‘Wednesday it is. We can start after breakfast. Thanks.’
Léo grinned that infuriating grin again and lolled back in his chair.
‘Parfait. I always knew my model looks would be put to good use. I look forward to working with you, Juliet.’
Juliet spent the next couple of days rigorously planning the photo shoot. She didn’t want to give Léo any more reasons to be so enragingly smug, although she suspected that he would probably manage it anyway, without any help from her. It was the way he looked at her as if he saw straight through her that she hated the most. She’d had, she thought as she wrote out her list of suggested shots for the third time, quite enough of men who thought they had some sort of superior knowledge of her. Briefly, she let her thoughts wander to Toby, who not only had asserted that he knew her better than she knew herself, but that he also knew what was best for her. And she had believed him, at first. How could she have? she berated herself for the thousandth time. Why, why had she let him control and manipulate her to the point that her head spun with confusion? For a while, she had truly believed that he had her best interests at heart and that she was a poor judge of how she should run her own life. She had believed him when he told her what her failings were, then clung gratefully to any shred of a compliment he might have tossed her way, even if it was always qualified with a nasty dig to water it down. Her talent had been nothing more than inherited; her beauty not to everyone’s taste and of the sort that needed a lot of help anyway; her sense of humour too caustic and spiteful, revealing her true nature, even if people did laugh and pretend to like her. She threw her pen down and dropped her face into her hands. Why did she still let him get to her? He was gone, and she was never going to fall into a trap like that again. She called to mind the words of a therapist she’d seen and of the books and articles she had read about coercive control, reminding herself of their insistence that it had not been her fault, but his. Slowly, she started to pull herself away from the memories, and the blame, and stuffed away that tiny kernel of contempt for herself that remained, and returned to her work, her blessed work.
On Wednesday morning, she felt nervous as she got dressed and gathered her equipment together. She had decided against going to breakfast up at the house that morning, buying in some pastries and fruit instead, which she ate curled up in front of some mindless morning TV, which gave her the space and comfort she needed to keep her anxiety under control. But now she could hear Léo moving around downstairs, and she berated herself for her nervousness, firmly reminding herself that this was just another professional job, nothing to get worried about. A final check in the mirror reassured that, if nothing else, she certainly looked the part. She had chosen to wear a pair of black, three-quarter length trousers, with a crease down the front so sharp you could cut yourself on it, and a boat-necked jumper she had pinched from Frankie a couple of years ago, also black. She slid her feet into some black ballet shoes, applied minimal make-up and brushed her dark hair until it was sleek and shiny. The rituals calmed her, and she was pleased with her appearance when she looked in the mirror: professional and businesslike.
She stepped out of her door and was downstairs on the dot of nine o’clock. The smell of fresh coffee wafted across the room, and she saw Léo sitting at the central island.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Juliet. I have made some coffee, again from my own beans. I hope you will have some?’
‘Thank you. I’ve brought a list of shots I would like to try, so maybe we could go through it?’
‘But of course.’
As they drank their coffee, Juliet took him over the list of photographs she wanted to try, some she thought would work on the website, if they were any good, and some that she needed practice with.
‘These close-ups of your hands chopping and sprinkling herbs and so on will be highly effective, if I can get them right, and the formal portraits should be straightforward, as long as I can figure out the lighting. The sun this afternoon should be right for the kitchen garden shots, but they’re the ones I’m most worried about, as they’re a real departure for me. I do want to try some of you looking as if you’re teaching, but if that feels too awkward, then I can ask Martha and Frankie to come down and pretend to be students.’
Léo nodded and drained his coffee cup.
‘Juliet, you have thought all this out so carefully, but all you do is worry about what might go wrong. Come, we will have a good day and these photographs will be magnifique. And if they are not, we can try again, no matter. I am developing a sauce which will be delicious when it is ready – when I have ‘cracked it’, as you say – but I have made at least thirteen different attempts and still it does not taste right, or it curdles, or splits, or otherwise misbehaves itself.’ He shrugged melodramatically, and Juliet wondered if that really was a French ‘thing’ or if he was playing a part. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I am a chef, and the sauce is a sauce. I will win in the end. And so it is with you. You are an artist and will conquer this new form, even if not immediately.’
Juliet didn’t know what to say, feeling that any of her own words would be inadequate after this lyrical outpouring, but she appreciated his kindness, and even felt reassured. She still felt she had something to prove – to herself and to everyone – but maybe that didn’t have to be accomplished instantly.
‘Thanks. Right, let’s get started. I’d like to make the most of the light coming in through that window, so if you could start over there?’
Obediently, Léo went over to the window and the shoot commenced. Barking orders and following her plan rigorously, Juliet was pleased with how things were progressing and felt that, regardless of the photos she produced, she had at least managed to organise everything in a professional manner. But studying him and working with him for several hours, she also couldn’t help but notice how pleasant and accommodating Léo was, how he treated her like a pro, how his sense of fun shone through. Like it or not, the time spent staring at him also revealed what she had, up till now, tried to avoid – that he was, as Frankie had said, extremely attractive. His eyes were friendly and merry when they darted towards the lens, his smile warm and easy. He had great cheekbones and a well-shaped face in general, and with her artist’s eye fully engaged, she couldn’t keep pretending that he was unappealingly scruffy, as she had done up until now. She did a series of close-ups of him chopping onions and so deft was he with the scimitar-sharp knife that she had to ask him to slow down so that the photos were not a blur. His skill was admirable, but she was distracted by his hands: they were big and strong, but nimble, and showed the rigours of his job in their old and new scars left by burns and blades.
By lunchtime, they were both tired and went up to the house to eat.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Martha, as they piled their plates with local cheese, homegrown salad, Sylvia’s perfectly sweet and sharp pickle and some bread Léo had brought up with him.
‘Really well,’ answered Juliet. ‘I won’t be able to tell properly until I can look at the photos on my computer screen, or develop the ones I’ve taken with film, but it’s been useful. I hope there’s something for the website too.’
‘Have you got much more to do?’
‘Kitchen garden this afternoon, then some portraits, and that should be it for now. I’m going to do Sylvia next week, I think.’
‘How about you, Léo?’ asked Frankie, with her sly cat’s grin. ‘Is our Juliet cracking the whip?’
‘She is wonderful. I have done several photoshoots in my career, and she is tremendously professional and organised. It puts me at ease. I just hope that I am a good subject?’
He looked at Juliet with a single raised eyebrow, and she felt an unwelcome dart of desire in her stomach. Pushing away the image of those capable, rough hands, she tried to distract her mind by thinking about shutter speeds.
‘Yes, excellent. Have you finished eating? We’ve got lots to get through this afternoon.’
With a smile that was difficult to read, he nodded, and they left to continue their work.