Chapter 28: Louise - The Golden Hours

Louise and Stella were in the kitchen of their new flat – Primrose Hill, first floor, with a stucco-balustraded balcony and a view of too many trees to count – making tea, eating toast, wishing bloody Juliet would get up earlier. The sitting room (where she was currently camping out) got the morning sun and their Sunday habit was – had been – to take their breakfast in there and sit on the sofa, reading the papers and catching up with each other’s weeks.

Stella broke her news.

‘Oh,’ Louise said.

‘Well, there’s no point waiting around, at my age,’ Stella said.

‘But you’ve never wanted to get married.’

‘Haven’t I?’ Stella asked mildly.

‘No! Unless you’ve been pretending – have you?’

‘Not that I know of. But –’

‘You wouldn’t even be my bridesmaid, you were so against marriage!’ Louise said.

‘That was different.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘You were marrying the wrong person,’ said Stella.

‘But we didn’t know that,’ Louise said. ‘Then.’

Stella was silent.

‘What, you did know?’

Stella said nothing.

‘But you didn’t say anything?’ Louise pressed.

‘Would you say, now?’ Stella asked, impossibly, and Louise said that was different because Stella wasn’t a teenager and Jonathan was clearly every girl’s dream.

They hated arguing.

Louise crashed the plates in the sink.

‘Are you still in love?’ she said, more gently.

‘I think so,’ said Stella. ‘Of course, it’s different to how it was at the beginning. More real.’

‘Ah,’ said Louise. Then, ‘But, that doesn’t mean you have to marry him, does it?’

Stella’s face was developing a pained expression. Louise, deep in suds, glanced over her shoulder at her.

‘Are you pregnant?’ she asked.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Stella. ‘You’re worse than my mother. No, I’m not pregnant. But . . . perhaps I’d like to be.’

This possibility had never occurred to Louise.

‘But your job,’ she said.

‘I shall find a way,’ said Stella.

It only occurred to Louise later that this romance of Stella’s had coincided with their leaving Blandford Street and moving to Primrose Hill. Stella had moved house, with her, while imagining a future with Jonathan. Like Dad with Villy and Diana! Well, no, that wasn’t fair. Stella hadn’t known he’d propose. And obviously she could do what she wanted with her life – oh, it sounded mean, put that way. Of course, selfishly she wanted Stells to stay with her for ever. But equally, as a grown woman and a kind person she wanted her friend to be happy. Of course she did. She wasn’t a monster.

Well, perhaps a little bit.

She wanted her to stay, and for staying to be what made her happy.

And, oh God, it left her rather stymied about rent. And about Juliet.

They had been quietly pressing Juliet about when she was planning to move on. Originally it had been going to be a couple of weeks; it had already been months. Louise really hoped that Juliet wouldn’t come back after Christmas. Months of clothing lying around, of hot water used up, of endless tannin-stained mugs left in the kitchen sink, phone calls at all hours, giggling late-night entrances (and possibly exits), and heartfelt apologies when pulled up, followed by improved behaviour for a day or two, and then lapses. Juliet genuinely seemed not to realise that were she not in it, that room would still be Louise and Stella’s sitting room, where they could lounge on the sofa (currently Juliet’s bed) and kick off their shoes and talk and watch the telly (they’d got a telly! To watch Louise’s clients was the excuse) and have a glass of wine and a moment, please, of peace. Louise could see it was generational as much as anything, but even so. And Juliet had been hinting that with Stella travelling so much, perhaps she could use her room while she was away? Which was not at all the line Louise was pursuing. If Stella moved out, it would be much harder to move Juliet along.

Years ago Louise had played Gwendoline in The Importance of Being Ernest. She had been impressed by the usefulness of Bunbury, the imaginary ailing relative in the country who, whenever Ernest didn’t want to do something, suddenly desperately needed him. Louise was concocting a kind of Bunbury now: someone to whom she had promised Stella’s room, long ago. In reality, the only person who wanted to move in was Neville. Fat chance.

Anyway, it was idiotic to live with a client. Who was also a relative. And on top of that was the Neville thing.

What was the Neville thing? She couldn’t put a finger on it; it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. But she knew it when she saw it. Since she had been strict with him about Anne Palamountain, he had behaved impeccably. Juliet had again filled in for Anne on the advert; she and Neville both said it had gone well, the client was pleased, and Juliet perked up with being in demand. Neville meanwhile had taken to ringing Louise for a chat, or dropping in at the office, often around lunchtime.

If Louise had no lunch date, she would sometimes eat a sandwich with Neville at Gino’s. One such day, he asked her to take him on as a client. He was definitely not going back to New York; he needed representation, he’d been offered work assisting a successful young Irish director with a film about a girl who comes to London and – anyway, he needed an agent. He wanted to direct features, he said. He’d seen her being tough, and he wanted that.

Louise thought about it, she really did. But her instinct was not to take on any more of her family. At the agency it was Terence anyway who handled writers and directors. He represented Clary. He would be better.

‘You should talk to Terence,’ she said. ‘I’d be happy to facilitate that.’

No, Neville wanted her.

‘Neville,’ she said.

‘I want you, I want you,’ he sang, gazing at her softly. ‘Only you, will do oo oo . . .’ He did a little dance with his arms, twining his hands, swaying a little in his seat across the table. He’d be a good dancer, she thought.

She didn’t giggle, or melt. Again, he tongue-tipped his top lip.

‘My tough beautiful cousin,’ he said.

‘I have work to do,’ she said, pushing her chair back.

‘Mmm,’ he said, not standing, watching her leave.

‘Come dancing with me!’ he called.

If it had been any other man, even a younger one like Neville, she would have called it flirtation, a mild campaign of interest which he might or might not pursue, depending on her response. But from a young cousin? He was only seven years younger, but the history of that seven years was a shared childhood. He’d been eleven when she was a married woman. His dad was her dad’s brother. Flirtation was clearly impossible. So, her response was auntly and crisp. But if anything, he intensified his approach – so much that despite her internal protestations that he couldn’t possibly have that kind of thing in mind she slid her precautionary barriers into place: no being alone with him, no evening meetings, no physical contact. He’d helped her on with her jacket on one occasion and taken a deep draught of her neck, pulled her hair away from her collar and just for a moment clutched the blonde hank in his fist. Jet rays of alarm had shot through her. Even if he only wanted to play games, she was not up for it. It was rather disgusting.

She would not speak to Terence on his behalf. She didn’t want him attached to her workplace at all. And she gradually withdrew his familial privileges. The last time was a Sunday lunch at Primrose Hill. It was a blazing early autumn day; Stella was bringing Jonathan, and Juliet was away for the weekend, so they could tidy up the sitting room for once, roll up the bedding, hide the scattered clothing and make-up and, if it was warm enough, open the tall windows onto the balcony across the front of the house. They would eat out there: the long trestle table, the new geometric tablecloth, dappled shade from the plane trees on the street, the tired green slope of Primrose Hill across the road. They’d invited Archie in case he was lonely while Clary was away.

It would be the first time any of Louise’s family met Jonathan. She’d planned to get Italian ham and breadsticks from Camisa on Old Compton Street, and to ask Gino to ask his mother to make a vitello tonnato, cold veal with tunny fish and mayonnaise and capers and basil, very sophisticated, and Stella’s favourite. Stella had left food restrictions behind years ago (‘you cannot be Kosher under rationing’ was one of her lines, though God knows you’d never have vitello tonnato under rationing either). But Louise didn’t actually know about Jonathan’s religious dietary habits. She selected instead of ham a kind of very thin and delicious beef called bresaola. Gino said his mother could make a melanzane parmigiana and what he called Jewish artichokes. Louise, having no idea, just said yes and hoped for the best. And they were the best: oily and tasty and crunchy and quite, quite new.

Neville didn’t do anything actually wrong. He was distracted, bouncy, unfocussed, in a way which meant that sustained conversation kept slipping beyond reach. He wasn’t interested in Stella or Archie, but wanted to hear about Clary in Hollywood – ‘Who’s she working with? What’s she doing?’ – and got on all right with Jonathan, who made polite enquiries about Neville’s work, and made him laugh. He ate a lot, drank little and complimented Louise extravagantly on the meal. The sun drifted down towards the hill. Later a car drew up below; the sound rose up of voices and a door slamming shut. Neville at this point had gone in to use the loo. Soon, Juliet was letting herself into the flat, and coming out to the table to join them. When Neville returned, she was sitting where he had been, chatting with Archie.

Neville greeted her warmly, with real pleasure, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘Lovely Juliet!’ he said, smiling down at the top of her sleek auburn head. And she went quite white. Frozen, was the only word Louise could come up with to describe it, then or later. Unreadable. Then as Neville pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, a hundred per cent affable, she made a strange movement, her torso coiling away from him as her head turned towards him, as if to examine him from a safe distance.

‘Juliet?’ Louise said, and Juliet turned to her and murmured, ‘Awfully tired. Long drive . . .’ before rising and slipping back inside the flat. Louise followed her; she had taken herself to the bathroom, and locked the door. ‘Don’t want to disturb the party,’ Juliet said. ‘Just need a little rest.’ Louise said, ‘Go and lie on my bed,’ but Juliet said, quietly, ‘No, you don’t want me.’

Louise went back outside, ready to comment on this unusual interlude, but things had moved on. Jonathan and Neville were arguing happily about Jack Kerouac, Jonathan saying wasn’t he the future? And Neville saying no, he was just grubby. Stella wondered quietly who washed Kerouac’s socks and cooked his dinner while he was so busy being revolutionary, but the men didn’t hear her. Perhaps the others hadn’t seen Juliet’s reaction. Only Archie looked up; Louise shrugged and said ‘tired after the drive’, to which he nodded, and on the afternoon wended.

That evening, after the guests had left, everything was cleared up and Stella had gone to have a bath, Louise came and sat with Juliet.

‘What was that about?’ she asked.

‘What?’ said Juliet.

‘Oh darling, don’t give me any runaround. Why are you upset with your brother?’

‘Half-brother,’ Juliet said, automatically.

Louise waited.

‘I’m not,’ Juliet tried, quavering with pretended brightness.

Louise gave her a look. Rested it on her and didn’t move it.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Juliet whispered.

‘What wouldn’t I understand?’ said Louise, thinking she had understood for thirty years what an ass Neville could be, motherless child or not. I mean, Clary’s motherless too and she’s hardly annoying at all.

Juliet went silent. ‘I really do need to rest now,’ she said after a moment, with what was clearly meant to be an appealing smile.

Louise left her to it. Suit yourself, she thought. Louise could not abide an atmosphere. Her working life was full of them, and she did not want one at home.

In the morning, when Louise looked in on her before leaving for work, Juliet was under a bundle of bedding on the sofa, and the last of the lunch wine bottles rolled empty on the rug beside her among a storm of scrunched-up paper handkerchiefs. The windows were closed and the curtains drawn. It was the ashtray, on the floor, full to overflowing, that caused Louise to breathe out in a very controlled manner.

A few nights later, Juliet and Louise almost had a terrible row. Juliet arrived home with a bottle of Mateus Rosé which she took into the sitting room alone, shutting the door behind her. Louise knocked – on her own sitting room door! – and stepped in. Juliet was cross-legged on the floor in a T-shirt and knickers, smoking and drinking. She didn’t even turn round as she cried out, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you just leave me alone for one minute?’

Louise didn’t feel kind. Her best friend was deserting her and she was meant to be happy about it; her household was upside down; Terence had been two hours late again and she’d had to cover for him all morning. She just wanted to go out onto the balcony she paid rent for and have a moment’s peace in the cool of the evening looking at a tree. All she’d done was try to help her cousin. A phrase came back to her which she’d never understood before: ‘Why do you hate me? I never helped you.’ But she didn’t think Jules was even acting on anything as sophisticated as ‘no good deed goes unpunished’. She thought she was being a bit of a brat, presumably because she was upset about something. She really is childish for her age, Louise thought. And she seems to think – if she’s even thinking – that she can take things out on me because I’m family and can’t get rid of her. She thinks I’m safe to be horrible to. Well.

‘Juliet,’ she said. ‘If you can’t be civil and behave like an adult woman, do you want me to speak to your parents and suggest you move back home?’

Juliet didn’t move.

‘Jules, stand up and look at me.’

Nothing.

The mess, finally, made Louise furious.

‘You need to clean all this up,’ she said. ‘And open a window, for God’s sake. There’s no servants here and I’m not your mother.’

‘My mother!’ cried Juliet.

Her tone was so full of pain that Louise halted her attack. ‘Do you want me to talk to your mother?’ she said. ‘And to Rupert?’

Juliet howled.

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ Louise continued.

Juliet howled again.

‘So tell me,’ Louise said, her voice charged with neutrality, ‘what on earth is going on.’

There was a moment of ghastly silence between them. And then Juliet’s pent-up dam burst.

After two hours of halting confession, helpless tears and slow-burning shock, Louise knew it all. How deeply in love Juliet was with Neville; the kisses, embraces, declarations and promises he had given her when she was fifteen, how he’d left for New York without a word and now returned without a word, how he was treating her so casually, one moment giggling with her and paying compliments and the next heading off with some other girl, as if nothing had happened, after she’d waited all these years . . .

‘What did happen?’ Louise asked, hollow with distaste and horror. Her head was reeling but she was calm enough to want facts.

‘Oh, not that. We didn’t – I mean, I was only fifteen, he was a gentleman; he said not till we were married –’

Louise sat down.

‘– and that when we were older, we’d live on a houseboat together in Chelsea, or in a warehouse on the river, and –’

A gentleman!

‘And what?’

‘I told you!’ she said. ‘We’ll get married!’

‘Juliet,’ Louise said. ‘You can’t marry your brother.’

‘Half-brother,’ Juliet said, as if she’d said it a thousand times before.

‘You can’t marry your half-brother.’

‘Pharaohs do,’ Juliet said quietly.

‘You’re neither Egyptian nor ancient,’ said Louise. Then, ‘Is that what he said?’

Juliet didn’t reply. She had gone somehow out of focus, soft. Louise was sitting by her now. She put her arm round her shoulder. ‘Jules?’ she said. ‘Darling? I’m not cross with you.’

‘You’re cross with him,’ Juliet said. ‘But it’s not his fault. Nobody can help falling in love.’

Her eyes were dry and bright, looking up at Louise. ‘There’s nothing to be done!’ she said, and her voice grew light for a moment. ‘You understand! You know about love. And he does love me. He just – well, he didn’t use to care about laws, but perhaps he has to now, I don’t know. Of course I know we can’t marry. But we could still be together. I know we can. Because our love is real. That’s why he’s so odd with me.’

‘How so?’ asked Louise.

‘Blowing hot and cold,’ Juliet said with a smile. ‘If he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t need to be so cold. And I know he does . . .’

‘How?’

‘When he blows hot . . .’ she murmured.

Louise thought she might throw up. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

‘Like when he put his hands on my shoulders and called me lovely!’ Juliet cried, and she looked fifteen again, the glow of happiness on her face.

Louise – God help me, she thought – felt relief.

‘Juliet,’ she said, ‘you get some sleep. I’m glad you’ve told me.’

She went to her room and rolled her eyes to heaven. What! Cleaning her teeth, brushing her hair, spreading her night cream across her face. Is my cousin stupid? Or insane? Or deluded? What the hell am I going to say to Rupert and Zoë?

Tomorrow, she told herself. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

She strode into work early the next day, in a fury, wet from sudden autumn rain. She’d very much not wanted to be ambushed by Juliet first thing, so had hurried out without breakfast. Imogen had a headache, and Terence wasn’t in yet. Her boots were leaking.

‘Where is he?’ Louise demanded of Imogen, who flinched, so Louise felt bad, then Imogen gave her a pile of contracts to go over. The joy!

She got up and went down to Gino’s where she ordered coffee and a delightful dish of tiramisu for her breakfast. Anyway, tiramisu beat toast any day. She told Gino to tell his mother that the food on Sunday had gone down well, and Jonathan had been fascinated by the artichokes. Gino smiled and Louise felt as if she hadn’t been smiled at for days. Which was nonsense of course. But how lovely is a haven, she thought. Red leatherette banquettes, formica tables, the giant plastic tomatoes full of the English ketchup which Gino so disdained he refused to touch them. The strong coffee put her back in focus; the creamy pudding soothed her. She took a newspaper from the rack, glanced at the headlines, dropped her shoulders, and when it was time to head back upstairs called, ‘Put it on the account, would you, darling?’

Back in the office Imogen was still sulking. ‘Anything happen?’ Louise asked, hoping nothing bloody had, unless it was that Terence had come in and was doing some work.

‘A boy came in,’ said Imogen. ‘Didn’t leave his name.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Louise, diving into her cubby-hole and the pile of contracts.

‘He was jolly good-looking,’ Imogen called after her.

‘Of course he was!’ Louise shouted back. ‘They’re all bloody good-looking. I’ve had it up to here with good-looking.’

‘American, with a suntan!’ Imogen said.

Louise didn’t know who to speak to about it, and couldn’t imagine dealing with it alone. Rupert, obviously, but to be honest, since he’d been to France he’d been even vaguer than usual. Last time she’d gone to Mortlake for supper he’d hardly appeared, Zoë’d been miserable, and meanwhile Clary was gadding around Hollywood while simultaneously moving house. Louise almost admired her for that. What technique! Just go away during the hard bits. Archie had filled her in on it all. Dear God, the complexities of others!

She had tried to talk to Rupert, but her words, conciliatory and friendly – ‘Uncle Rupe, could I have a word? I’m a bit concerned about Juliet, and Neville’ – produced just a ghastly smile before he dissolved up the stairs. She had tried again, at which point Zoë had said, rather smartly, ‘There’s absolutely no point, my dear. He’s turned into melted butter somehow.’ Her face had the tight pretty look that Louise remembered from years ago: Zoë locked in. No, she couldn’t tell Zoë before speaking to Rupert. And similarly, she couldn’t confide in Archie before telling Clary. Who was away.

Then Juliet had upped and left the flat, without a word, and then pitched up again a week later, still refusing – or unable? – to talk about Neville, spending hours on the phone. She was no longer crying in the sitting room all the time, though, which Louise couldn’t help thinking was a good sign. The responsible thing, she felt, would be to try not to be too angry, keep a close eye on Juliet, ban Neville, and wait for Clary’s return. Neville kept ringing for a few weeks but seemed to get the message in the end. She remembered a saying of Teddy’s hilariously inappropriate Texan wife Bernadine: ‘Not my rodeo, not my clowns.’ Louise told herself this was the case here, but it wouldn’t stick. This was her rodeo, and these were her clowns. And then when Clary came back, she and Archie were settling into the new (to them) house, plus it was almost Christmas: not the time! Imagine, everyone at Fakenham getting involved. No. And, Juliet had finally said outright that she wasn’t seeing him, and Louise believed her. All was quiet. Time is the best healer, Louise told herself. Perhaps it would be best after all not to stir it up again.