Walking Back to Happiness (38 page)

Then she got up again, unable to settle when Louise was radiating such distress. ‘Do you need a drink? Brandy? Sweet tea?’

Coco stirred in her basket, saw Louise and curled up again, afraid of being ejected.

‘Just tell me whether you knew.’

‘I swear to God,’ she said slowly, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, please, tell me.’

Louise seemed to believe her, because she put her head in her hands and groaned like an animal. ‘There’s a photograph in that exhibition Michael took you to – of us. Me and him, on a park bench.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Juliet’s mouth dropped open. How had she missed that? ‘Are you sure it’s you?’

‘Yes, it’s us. You
honestly
didn’t see it when you went?’

‘No. There were loads of people there, and my feet were killing me – we didn’t go round the whole thing.’ Juliet didn’t add, ‘We skipped half of it so we could go outside and flirt and drink wine.’

She felt a sick wave of responsibility. This was her fault. She could have stopped this, bought the photo, anything.

If she hadn’t been distracted by her ‘date’. If she hadn’t worn those boots. If she’d bothered to look at the photographs properly, not just ticking off the landmarks she already knew . . .

‘When did you find out?’ asked Juliet. ‘Did someone tell you?’

‘No. Peter took me there as part of our date tonight. We saw it at the same time.’

Juliet hissed with horror and racked her brain for comforting thoughts. ‘But it’s been up for ages now. Surely if it’s
obviously
you, someone would have seen . . .’

‘It’s a silhouette, but it’s definitely me. You can tell. Peter saw straight away; there was no point denying it.’ Louise started to cry, big gulping sobs that shook her shoulders. ‘What am I going to do, Jools? He just looked at it, and looked at me, and he walked off. He didn’t even shout.’

‘But what are you doing in this photo? Are you . . . kissing?’

‘We’re
talking
.’ Louise wiped her nose, bitterly. ‘Just talking.’

Just talking? How bad could that be? Juliet wondered if Louise’s guilty reaction had told Peter more than he’d have guessed on his own.

‘But did he actually say . . . ?’

‘Juliet, Peter knows. He’s not stupid. I could tell – he looked at me as if I was something he’d trodden in.’

‘I . . .’ Juliet started, then realised she had no more comforting things to say, other than that at least she didn’t have to worry about telling him.

Still, that was it, pointed out a voice in her head. The worst was over: Peter knew.

It was like the moment when the doctor appeared at the side of Ben’s cubicle, pulling the curtain aside with that solemn expression clouding his bloodhound face. This is the worst moment, and it’s over, she’d thought then, as if she was hovering serenely over her shell-shocked body, slumped in the orange plastic chair. Nothing can ever happen to me that’ll hurt more than this does now.

Juliet crouched at her sister’s feet and took her hands in hers. They were smooth and long, compared with her DIY-scuffed hands. Louise’s rings glittered in the lamplight: engagement solitaire, wedding band, the eternity ring Peter had bought her when Toby was born.

‘Is Toby still at Mum’s?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Louise looked up, despair etching lines around her mascara-smeared eyes. ‘Oh God, should I go and get him? Can
you
go and get him, bring him here?’

Juliet was about to ask, ‘What, with Coco and Minton on the loose?’ but for once she bit down on it. Not the right time.

‘Tell Mum I’ve asked you to fetch him,’ Louise added. ‘Please? Before Peter goes round.’

Juliet could imagine the hysterical panic that would trigger in her mother, Juliet pitching up in her van to collect Toby for no apparent reason. ‘Lou, I don’t have the right car seat,’ she said gently. ‘And anyway, he’s fine there with Mum. She won’t be expecting you to collect him till tomorrow.’

‘What if Peter’s phoned her?’ Louise looked horrified. ‘I don’t want Mum and Dad to know. Not yet. Not till we’ve . . .’

‘I’ll phone Peter too,’ said Juliet, before she could think what a teeth-clenching conversation that would be. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’

‘Thanks, Jools.’ Louise managed a half-smile and then looked as if she was about to burst into tears again, this time with gratitude and bewilderment that Juliet was the one taking charge.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Juliet. It sounded a bit weird, coming out of her mouth, instead of someone else’s. She understood now why she’d been offered pot after pot of the stuff; it was an automatic reaction, to do something, however small, that might help. ‘You need a cup of hot sweet tea.’

Then, when she’d forced a mug on to Louise, she picked up the phone and steeled herself to call Peter and then Diane.

As the dialling tone sounded in her ear, Juliet made a note to thank her dad, for making all the calls she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t even been aware of him taking the phone off her. She just remembered her father’s broad back, turning away from the bedside with his shoulders set, heading out to make the calls.

Juliet’s heart expanded, realising just how lucky she’d been to have her family around her. How much she loved them for filling in gaps in her grief that she’d never noticed, for slowly nudging her back to life when she’d wanted to die too.

‘Hello?’

Juliet swallowed. ‘Peter,’ she said, ‘Louise is here with me . . .’

Chapter 24

‘I thought we agreed, no rubbish paintings. You’re going to cover up my immaculate handiwork.’

Lorcan made his ‘outraged camp interior designer’ face as Juliet unbuckled Minton from his harness and held him over the mat to towel his paws, wet from their morning walk. It had rained again, and he loved a puddle.

‘My handiwork, you mean,’ she replied, unfastening her own thick jacket. ‘I’m just letting you tidy it up.’

The front sitting room was nearly finished now. The walls had all been painted the soothing sage green, with creamy skirting boards and pine bookshelves fitted into the recesses alongside the chimney breast. One of her pet-sitting clients, Mina Garnett, had offered her some heavy silk curtains that she was getting rid of, following her revamp of her beautiful garden flat.

Juliet took them gratefully, and didn’t let on she’d noticed that the revamp coincided with a registered letter from the Premium Bonds company.

‘So what’s that, just delivered about an hour ago?’ Lorcan demanded. ‘And is that the kettle I hear going on? I’m gasping for a cup of tea.’

‘I have no idea, and no.’ Juliet spotted what he was talking about: a huge bubble-wrapped parcel propped up against the far wall. Her excitement flickered for a second, but then it dawned on her. I bet I know what this is, she thought with a heavy heart, and went into the kitchen for a pair of scissors.

As an afterthought, she flicked on the kettle. They’d both need a strong cup of tea if this were what she thought it was.

‘Present?’ asked Lorcan. ‘From an admirer?’

‘You’ve been spending too long around Emer.’ Juliet hacked away. ‘My admirers send me complimentary poo bags.’

The first layer of plastic came away to reveal the silver edge of a framed photograph. From the bit she could see, it was of two people on a park bench.

Juliet bit her lip. Michael hadn’t wasted any time. She’d only spoken to him an hour and a half ago; she’d called as soon as it was polite, well out of earshot of Louise, who was finally asleep in her bed. His reaction had been about the same as Juliet’s – panic, mingled with abject guilt for not spotting it sooner – and he’d promised to ‘sort things out’.

Juliet hadn’t expected results this fast, but then again, he seemed like the kind of man who made calls and got things done. If the situation hadn’t been so miserable, she’d have been impressed.

‘What is it? Don’t tell me it’s that nudey one of your man with the baby,’ asked Lorcan cheerfully.

‘Give me credit. Go and make the tea, there’s a good builder,’ she replied, grinning, but when Lorcan was safely in the kitchen, her smile faded as she pulled off the rest of the wrapping and studied the romantic image in front of her.

Oh, Louise, she thought, aghast. It was a heart-stopping photograph – it captured a moment between two people who’d clearly forgotten anyone else existed. Even though the faces were nearly in shadow, their attraction shimmered out from the frame. But it was a
private
moment. Juliet suddenly understood Louise’s strange half-scared, half-delirious expression when she’d nearly confessed that night before Ben died. She even understood her weird lurking around Michael’s house.

With that tiny tilt of Michael’s head, and the laugh in Louise’s mouth, the photographer had captured the shared-breath intimacy of a flirtation teetering on the brink of something more so perfectly that Juliet felt like a peeping Tom. This was what Louise had been trying to explain – the listening. The friendship. The excitement. It wasn’t just a tacky bunk-up in the woods; it was a real connection.

Juliet couldn’t help feeling a tremor of jealousy, but she pushed it away. God, she’d rather be single for the rest of her life than have to deal with what Louise did now.

‘What a mess,’ breathed Juliet to herself.

‘Blimey,’ said Lorcan, over her shoulder. ‘I take it back – that’s a great photo. Hang that wherever you want.’

‘I’m not hanging it anywhere,’ said Juliet, pulling the bubble-wrap back over it like a shield. ‘I’m going to get rid of it.’

‘Why?’

Juliet had gone beyond the point of filtering things to Lorcan. She might edit a bit for Emer, but Lorcan had a way of relaxing her into full confession, whether she was aware of it or not.

‘It’s Louise. And Spaniel Man.’ Juliet explained as quickly as she could, and Lorcan’s eyes widened briefly, then turned sympathetic.

‘Not great,’ he said succinctly. ‘But it happens.’

‘Not in our family,’ sighed Juliet. ‘We’ve only had one divorce in the last thirty years, and there was cross-dressing involved. Mum’s going to be beside herself.’

‘Your mum doesn’t know?’

Juliet shook her head. ‘Nope. Louise wants me to go with her to tell her. She hasn’t needed me to do that since she broke Mum’s Carmen rollers in 1988.’

The loo flushed upstairs.

‘Hey, hey? Who’ve you got upstairs, then? You dark horse.’ Lorcan started to pantomime shock, but then realised that she
might
have someone staying, and struggled to look disinterested.

Juliet batted him. ‘It’s Louise. I gave her one of the emergency sleeping pills Ben’s mother forced on me. She probably didn’t hear you let yourself in.’ She gripped her hair and pulled a face. ‘Once I’ve taken her to get Toby from Mum’s, I’ve got to take her home. Peter’s not there, thank God. I don’t think I’m up to refereeing that one.’

The phone call to Peter had been the biggest favour she’d ever done Louise. He’d sounded as if he was talking to her from inside a well, answering only in half-sentences. He was, he said, going to stay with his friend Hugh for a few nights. To think.

‘Do you want me to make myself scarce?’ asked Lorcan, gesturing to the paint. ‘I mean, this can wait. We can do it another time.’

Juliet shook her head emphatically. ‘Please don’t. It’s only the thought of having a fully decorated sitting room for Christmas that’s keeping me going.’

Lorcan patted her arm. ‘I’ll make that tea for when you’re back. And I’ll stick this in the shed, right?’

‘Would you?’ said Juliet. ‘Right at the back. Cheers.’

Louise tried to get her thoughts in order as Juliet drove towards her house, but had to give up after ten silent minutes. Her thoughts refused to go into list form. Instead, horrible images pushed past the practicalities: Peter’s stricken face, Toby shuttling between divorced parents, her mum and dad blaming themselves, having to tell people . . .

All her fault. Despair compressed her head, crunching down on her shoulders. No to-do list was going to sort this out. Where were you even meant to start?

‘Did you enjoy the shower?’ Juliet asked, randomly.

‘What?’

‘The shower. It’s good, isn’t it?’

Louise vaguely remembered standing under Juliet’s shower this morning. In her dopey state, she’d forgotten to admire the magnificent bathroom she’d spent months secretly supplying.

It had been a nice shower, now she thought about it. Powerful.

‘It makes me so happy,’ Juliet went on, ‘to have a proper shower in the mornings. I’d forgotten how nice it is not to have to juggle spray attachments. Emer told me that. Take time to enjoy the little things. A good, strong shower. Cherry blossom. Green traffic lights—’

Louise stopped her before she started listing things indefinitely. ‘Is that meant to be some kind of comment on my current situation?’

‘Not at all.’ Juliet indicated and turned left onto the one-way system, lurching into a gap Louise would have held back from. Coco protested in the back of the van; Minton, wedged in by her feet, braced himself. ‘I just find it helps, when everything else seems to be going totally wrong. Little things.’

Louise bit her lip, not wanting to snap at Juliet. What was the point of little things right now? When her marriage had collapsed, and her family was imploding, and she wasn’t even the person she thought she was? And, more to the point, everyone in Longhampton who’d been to that exhibition knew that too?

Juliet pulled up outside the house. The Picasso was still there; Peter obviously hadn’t taken it. Or maybe he was still there. Acid rose up in Louise’s throat.

Juliet turned in her seat. She scanned her face with concern, and spoke quickly, as if she was wary about giving advice.

‘Listen, two things. One, only people who know you very, very well would know that’s you in the photograph, OK? And let’s face it, they’re not the sort of people who go to photographic exhibitions. So stop thinking the whole town’s talking about you, because they’re not.’

‘How do you—’

‘I’ve got it in the shed. Michael had it biked round. Forget the photo – it’s gone.’

Louise felt a featherweight of stress lift off her shoulders.