‘Oh, no.’ Lorcan flapped his hand and she noticed the friendship bracelet on his wrist; it looked like something one of the girls had made. ‘Do some babysitting for Emer or something. Feed their cat when they’re away.’
‘They go away?’
‘Not often.’ Lorcan caught the note of hopefulness in her voice and grinned. ‘Come on, now, this is a good shower. And your mam’s paying. I’d snatch her hand off meself.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Juliet, you’ve got long hair,’ he pointed out. ‘How are you washing it, if you don’t have a shower?’
‘Shower attachments,’ she said, without thinking. ‘On the bath taps.’ Which didn’t mix properly. And dribbled. She didn’t add that, though.
‘Shower attachments?’ Lorcan looked askance. ‘Are we in 1981? Come on. Everyone needs a good shower; it’s a human right. I can have this in before you can say, “Head and Shoulders.”’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Before teatime, anyway.’
Juliet had nothing to do, and there was no reason not to throw the door open and make Lorcan a cup of tea to get things moving, but she felt the barriers going up. And not just because she wasn’t dressed. ‘I’m about to go out for a walk,’ she said. ‘Well, I mean, not now, but soon. It’s not a good time. I’m not . . . ready to start with the shower. There’s other stuff needs doing first.’
‘Sheez, I can work around mess,’ said Lorcan. ‘You’ve seen next door.’
Juliet hugged herself. It seemed like such a small thing, a shower, but it wasn’t. Not to her. Showers were the only concrete aspect of the house that she and Ben had actually talked about properly; he wanted a proper Victorian shower, the size of a dinner plate. One they could stand under together.
Was there any point getting a big one now? Would getting a big one be a sign to Ben that she planned to shower with someone else in his place?
‘I’m not . . .’ she said, and her voice cracked. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s the first step. Probably doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s . . . you know.’
Lorcan’s cheeriness crumpled. ‘Fair enough. I just had a free morning and thought, after we’d talked about your bathroom the other day, you seemed OK about . . . Look, when would be a good time? I can leave the stuff here and pop round some other day. Or get someone else. Or not do it at all.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she gulped. ‘I’m not . . . It just comes and goes. I was fine when we went round the house! Honestly, I was fine. I am fine now.’
‘You’re not. It’s OK to be in bits. I understand.’ He was fiddling with the tape measure
Come on, Juliet, she urged herself.
Think of the lovely shower.
That I’ll never share.
‘Why don’t you leave it here,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll call round and talk about when’s a good time to fit it later. We can discuss the quote too. Talk about . . . whatever it is you talk about with building work.’
The words tumbled out of her, and she hardly knew what she was saying, but the worry lines around Lorcan’s eyes relaxed, and some of the confidence returned.
‘Grand,’ he said, shifting the bags into her porch. ‘I’m in and out – you’ve got my number.’
‘I have.’ Juliet started to close the door. ‘Thanks.’
‘Have a good walk.’ Lorcan winked, then sauntered off down the path, hands in his battered jeans.
Juliet closed the door as quietly as she could, so he wouldn’t think she was slamming it on him, but wanting it shut all the same. Her heart was hammering, and she felt agitated, as if she’d just defended the house from attack.
Minton came over and sniffed at the boxes as she sank back against the tiles of the porch wall. His eager nose moved the bag aside and she got a glimpse of the shower fitting.
It was a beautiful brass Victorian raincloud one. The exact same one she’d picked out of the interiors magazine.
Even though Coco didn’t need walking, Minton still went to the door at their usual time, and Juliet didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
She didn’t feel up to the park and the gardens, where people were bound to stop and talk to Minton, if not her. She didn’t feel up to running into Spaniel Man again either, and having to make some off-the-cuff, dog-owners-together quip about horny Hector.
Instead she headed for the far end of Longhampton’s footpath network, which snaked behind the 1930s Bishops Meadow estate and the pond that had probably once hosted a fairly active ducking stool, but was now mainly weed. There was no one around, but to be on the safe side, she plugged in her iPod and strode purposefully down the gentle hill, listening to an audiobook of Emma and engaging with Jane Austen in a way she’d never managed at school.
After a while, her breathing got into a rhythm, and her brain zoned out, and all that filled her mind was the blue sky above her, the fresh, green-smelling summer air in her nose, and the words in her head. Minton skittered along happily next to her, keeping pace, and to Juliet’s surprise, the sun on her face made her heart lift in an innocent way.
But the sight of a friendly-looking elderly couple with three yapping Yorkshire terriers made her divert at the bottom. The road curved towards an old-fashioned parade of small shops and Juliet knew she could loop round on herself and rejoin her original route. They were already smiling, doing that ‘too far to speak now but we’re getting to you!’ eyebrow-jiggling.
Juliet didn’t want to be rude; she just really didn’t want to chat.
‘Come on, Minton,’ she said, tugging him away from a lamp-post. ‘Let’s see what’s new on South Parade.’
When Juliet was little, South Parade had had frumpy ladies-outfitters-type boutiques with warped cellophane in the bay windows. In the last few years, however, yummy mummies had colonised the big family houses nearby, and now the haberdasheries and wool shops had been made over into blackboarded delicatessens and pottery cafés. Diane had frequented Angela’s Hair for years; now it was rebranded as Angel Hair.
Juliet gazed at the sleek new exterior and tried to imagine that she’d once played with Velcro rollers and setting lotion on the floor of this – she peered at the sign – ‘authorised Aveda spa experience’.
I have to tell Ben that Angela’s doing hot stones, she thought. He could cut her a deal on really big pebbles . . .
A lump bulged in her throat.
Juliet looked for something to distract herself and her eye fell on the new pricelist. Lorcan’s comment about her hair had made her realise she hadn’t had a haircut for nearly a year. Her hair certainly hadn’t been tumbling then; it had been a neat, if curly bob.
Maybe it was time to get it cut, she thought, now I’m past the ‘shave it all off, I don’t care’ stage. The same book that had told her to she’d feel better in a year also warned against any sudden beauty decisions – radical haircuts, memorial tattoos and so on.
Juliet widened her eyes at the prices – the towels weren’t the only thing to have gone upmarket – but as she peered inside to see if there was any evidence of gold-plated hairdryers being used, she spotted her mother. Diane was paying at the cash register, and as she turned to pretend to consider the shampoo and conditioner being sold quite fiercely to her, she in turn spotted Juliet through the window.
Their eyes met.
Damn, thought Juliet. There was no sneaking off.
Juliet frowned and raised her eyebrows, racking her brains for something she needed to be getting back home for. She wasn’t even walking someone else’s dog. Maybe I could be going to collect Hector, she thought.
Diane flapped her hands, said something to the receptionist, then dashed out.
‘What are you doing here?’ She looked quite flustered.
‘Walking Minton. Is that big news?’
‘No, I just . . .’ Diane plastered a smile on her face. ‘It’s just nice to see you two out and about. Hello, Minton!’
Now she was out of the salon, Juliet could see her mother’s hair properly and sh
e was genuinely taken aback.
It was the first time in twenty years that she’d seen Diane with a style other than her usual mum-cut. This was freshly layered and shimmering with expensive highlights, and cut in a style that made her look like one of the attractive ‘older models’ in the Marks & Spencer catalogue.
‘Mum, have you had highlights?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Diane patted her blow-dry self-consciously. ‘Some honey lights, Angela said.’
‘And proper layers?’ Juliet knew she was staring. ‘It takes years off you.’
‘Does it? You could find a nicer way of putting that, Juliet, but . . . thank you. Sometimes it’s good to make . . . a few changes. Now, coffee? We can sit outside. And don’t pretend you’ve got something to be doing.’ Diane wagged a playful finger. ‘Unless you’re going to tell me you’ve escaped from some building work?’
‘I want to talk to you about that,’ said Juliet grimly.
‘Well, let’s do it over a coffee.’ Her mother dropped her voice. ‘Angela’s had one of those new machines put in. I didn’t like to say, but . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘Watery. We can walk Minton up to that place you like on the High Street, the one that lets you bring dogs in. What about that?’
This was quite a concession, Juliet knew; Louise and Diane weren’t convinced about the hygiene in the Wild Dog Café, despite its spotless surfaces and perfect cappuccinos. Juliet loved it, but she hadn’t been in for a while: it reminded her too much of taking Minton there with Ben.
‘Let’s just go to whatever the Coffee Pot’s calling itself now,’ she said, nodding towards the end of the shops.
Juliet allowed her mother to steer her down to the café at the end, which had once served lukewarm Crusha milkshakes, and which now served 327 variations on a cappuccino and called itself The Pantry. Minton curled up under the table and tried not to be noticed.
‘Mum, why did you buy me a shower and then send Lorcan round with it?’ said Juliet, when the coffees had arrived, in huge cups with too-small handles.
‘You make it sound so bossy! I just called him to see how he’d got on with your estimates, because your father wanted to know, and he mentioned he had a shower going begging. I said, “What a good idea. We’ll take that off your hands,” and there you have it.’
That sounded rehearsed to Juliet. ‘He just happened to have exactly the shower that Ben and I were looking at?’
‘Is it?’ Diane seemed surprised. ‘Well, then. It’s meant to be.’
‘Mum, I really appreciate you doing this, but—’
‘You can do what you want with the rest of the house,’ said Diane, ‘but no daughter of mine is going to live without proper shower facilities, and that’s that.’ She paused, and her voice changed. ‘Please. Just let him install it. It’d make me feel better.’
Juliet dipped her biscuit into the froth. Even she could see it was churlish to argue; it was the shower they’d have put in anyway. Or rather the shower they’d have bought and then left lying around for eight months, while she nagged Ben to install it.
She frowned at herself. That was mean. He’d have put it in by now.
‘OK, Mum,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you. I’ll see when Lorcan can come and install it.’
‘Good!’ Diane reached over and patted her hand. ‘Good. He’s a nice chap, Lorcan. Reminds me of Ben.’
‘Mum, why does everyone have to look like someone else?’ demanded Juliet, pulling her hand back as if it were hot. ‘Can’t you let people be themselves?’
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘You do! Peter’s “got a look of Tom Cruise”. Dad’s the dead spit of Paul Newman. If he lost all his hair.’ Juliet paused sardonically. ‘Ruth still hasn’t forgiven you for telling her she reminded you of Carol Vorderman. Ben is nothing like Lorcan. I mean, Lorcan’s nothing . . .’ She swallowed and started again. ‘Lorcan’s dark-haired. Ben was blond. Lorcan’s too thick to wear gloves to tackle roses. His eyes are a different colour. He’s shorter than Ben . . . Do you want me to go on?’
‘I didn’t mean physically,’ said Diane, patting her lips with a paper napkin. She was wearing lipstick again, Juliet noted. ‘There’s just something about him that reminds me. He seems . . . capable. Kind.’
‘Well, I don’t see it,’ said Juliet, stubbornly.
Diane seemed to realise she’d said the wrong thing. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway,’ she went on, changing the subject as delicately as an oil-tanker. ‘I saw Kim today in the supermarket. Have you told her when you’re going back to work?’
‘Sort of. She said I should ring her when I felt up to it. She doesn’t want a repeat of the cupcakes.’
In an attempt to ease Juliet back into work a few months ago, Kim had asked her to make a hundred cupcakes for a wedding reception. Juliet was used to knocking out two hundred in a morning, but these had been sad and flat and awful. Louise and Diane had ended up baking them through the night for her.
‘But how’s she managing without you?’ Diane persisted. ‘It’s your busiest time of year.’
‘I know, Mum.’
Wedding season hovered in the air between them.
Juliet stirred her coffee. The honest truth was, she didn’t like people at the moment. Happy, living, married people. That’s why Minton and Coco were infinitely preferable. They were highly unlikely to get married on her, or tell her she just needed to get back in the saddle, or something equally unhelpful.
‘You might find it helps,’ Diane went on. ‘My friend Jean went straight back to the library when Philip died. She said thinking about something else took her mind off it.’
‘Mum, I don’t want to let Kim down by being useless. That does neither of us any favours. Maybe in the autumn.’
After the year’s up. After my life gets rebooted.
Diane wasn’t giving in. ‘Louise says Peter’s looking for extra staff at Techmate now this new project’s got the green light.’
Juliet made a noise.
‘Or there’s volunteer work. I was talking to Rachel at book group and she was saying the rescue’s desperately short of volunteer walkers over the summer months, when everyone’s on holiday. And you’re so good with dogs. In fact . . .’ Diane pulled her handbag up onto the table and started searching through it. ‘I did tell Mrs Cox you’d give her a call.’
Juliet racked her brains. Diane’s book group had a large cast, and usually spent the discussion part discussing the people who hadn’t made it, rather than the novel. ‘Mrs Cox . . . my old piano teacher?’
‘Yes, she comes along most months. She’s amazing for over eighty. She’s the only one who’s read the book, and doesn’t mind giving us what for. It’s like being back in school again!’
God, it was unfair, thought Juliet, momentarily distracted from her annoyance at Diane’s nagging. How come piano teachers could make it past eighty, while fit, outdoorsy gardeners only got thirty-two years?
‘But she doesn’t have dogs,’ she pointed out. ‘Hasn’t she got cats? Those big, white Persian cats – the ones who ate cream from the good tea service, while you lot got horrible old chipped mugs the time you did The Kite Runner?’
‘They’re the ones! They are a bit . . . special. Anyway, Mrs Cox is going on one of those Scandinavian cruises and would rather they didn’t go into a cattery. They cry, poor things. I said you’d give her a ring and see about popping in to feed them while she’s off.’
‘Mum!’ Juliet felt hemmed in. ‘Why did you say I’d do that?’
‘Oh, don’t be like that, Juliet. She’s only a few doors down from you in Rosehill. You could do it on your way back from walking Minton and Coco. Here, this is her number. Go on.’
Diane pushed the paper at Juliet. ‘It’s not care in the community,’ she added. ‘She’d pay you. And it’s good for you to get out.’
That, Juliet realised, was the point of all this. Getting her out.
‘I’m out now, aren’t I?’ Juliet glared mutinously over the
coffees.
It wasn’t so much the act of feeding Mrs Cox’s cats – she didn’t mind that – it was being shoved into someone else’s routine. Making their routine hers, when she’d spent the last few months protecting herself from people and their demands and questions. Juliet could feel her carefully constructed wall of programmes and naps being interrupted and it unsettled her.
‘Think of the cats,’ said Diane. ‘All alone in the cattery, with no home comforts. They hate it. I bet Minton would hate it too. You’d be doing them a favour as much as Mrs Cox. Half an hour twice a day. Come on.’
Juliet took the piece of paper. There didn’t seem to be much point in refusing; she could always ring Mrs Cox and find a good reason to let her down gently. And, she had to admit, the image of the lonely cats did strike a chord. Even if part of that chord was one of fear that she was headed for a life of spoiled pets who needed babysitting while she took herself on singles cruises.
‘Why don’t you call her now?’ said Diane firmly. It wasn’t a request.
Juliet tried to resist, but her energy had gone again. ‘Fine,’ she said.
Mrs Cox sounded delighted to hear from her, which made Juliet suspect that Diane had pre-brokered the deal, and invited her to drop in the following afternoon, ‘to meet my furry dictators’. Minton, she assured Juliet, wouldn’t be a problem, if she wanted to bring him too.
‘They saw off a Labrador at the vet’s last week,’ she chuckled indulgently. ‘They’re no shrinking violets.’
Juliet glanced down at Minton as she finished the call. He was lying by her feet, muzzle on his paws. ‘Poor Mints,’ she said. ‘No one’s asked you if you mind sharing, have they?’
‘He’s a good boy,’ said Diane, and slipped him a bit of croissant under the table.
‘And that’s why Coco’s on a diet,’ said Juliet, before she could stop herself.
Back in Rosehill, Juliet let Minton scuttle inside ahead of her to check for intruders or mice, as he always did, as the new man of the house.