Where had the sketch been all these years since Grandi’s death? Dad had inherited two paintings from his mother, Juliet knew that much; he and Mum had retired to France on the proceeds. But the sketch wasn’t one of them. When Grandi had died, Dad had come back from France, and he and her friend Frederic had cleared out the house. She wished she understood what had happened, now, but she had only recently returned to work, Bea had been ill, a viral infection and croup, nothing really serious but still terrifying, involving a midnight dash to hospital, all of that. By the time she’d resurfaced, two months later, Dad was back in France, the house had been sorted out and someone else was living there.
Juliet was left the doll’s house. She didn’t expect any more; she and her grandmother had fallen out a year before her death, and she had left, saying she’d never return, sobbing helplessly on Matt’s shoulder in the lane above the house.
She remembered the delivery man who worked for Frederic arriving at the house himself one chilly autumnal evening not long after she and Matt had moved into Dulcie Street. He’d helped Juliet to carefully move it into baby Bea’s room as she slept. The driver had cooed over her, and still she hadn’t woken.
‘That’s a nice present for her when she wakes up,’ he’d said, and he’d gone, though she’d tried to persuade him to have a cup of tea. ‘No, I’m to get back to Godstow tonight, Mr Frederic wants me early tomorrow morning’, and the thought of him, driving back along the M40, back towards Nightingale House, filled her with a desperate jealousy that took her by surprise. ‘He says to tell you you’re to stay in touch, my dear. Says to tell you you’re to come and visit him.’
But she hadn’t, of course; life got in the way and what was there now to take her back there? She thought of her life as a series of expanding ripples in a pond – feeding, clothing and supervising three children on a daily basis was at the centre, Frederic a rippling circle just too far out, vanishing into the calm of the outer edges. One day, she’d get in touch with him, drive down for lunch. Perhaps she and Matt, on their anniversary in a couple of months. If she made more of an effort. One day –
The door opened, suddenly, making Juliet jump. She glanced at the live feed and saw the screen was blank, then at the doorway and saw Henry Cudlip, hands pressed together, rubbing, pointing, shark-like again.
‘So, Juliet.’ He kicked the door shut behind him, leaned against it, then pushed himself away from it, slightly too hard. She stood up, as if to mirror him, then cursed herself for doing so. She should have sat still, arms folded, smirking as he reverberated from the door frame into the bookcase, rubbing his arm. She should have pointed out the sweat stains which had now reached the breast of his pink shirt. She should have –
‘Listen, I need to talk to you.’
‘Right.’
‘This is serious, I’m afraid. I’ve spoken to Lord and Lady Dawnay to clear up the misunderstanding about this morning.’
All Juliet’s bravado vanished, like air escaping a balloon. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
‘There’s been some reorganisation in the department. Now, it will probably come as no great surprise that unfortunately you and I have to have a little chat about the future, my dear. You’d better sit down.’
‘Yes,’ said Juliet, sinking back into her chair. ‘I had, hadn’t I.’
Chapter Three
Juliet kicked the dry leaves gathered at the steps of the church. Why were there still dead leaves in May? She quickened her pace, though her shoes hurt. Her throat was dry. She wanted to get home, out of sight. Her uncleaned teeth felt furry. She would clean them when she got home, clean them till her gums bled.
‘A parting of the ways,’ Henry had called it, as if it was a mutual decision. ‘We’ve outgrown one another, haven’t we? Very sad.’
‘You’re not sad,’ she’d said, furiously. ‘You’re snookering me to get this past HR. You say you’re restructuring the department and making my position redundant and then you offer me a terrible job at a vastly reduced pay grade and position so I can’t possibly accept it—’
‘You could, my dear. I wish you would.’ Henry had looked at his nails. ‘I’ve worked with the HR team for weeks to try to create an enticing package for you—’
‘You know it’s not enticing, Henry. It’s insulting. You want me to take a pay cut and reduce my hours and report in to some new bod who’s getting what’s effectively my job only renamed. It’s bollocks.’ She had chuckled at Gemma, a mum at school, who had ranted for ages after exactly this had happened to her last year. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid, G?’ she’d asked her.
Remembering this now, walking through the empty park, Juliet glowed with shame.
‘So you decline the offer?’ Henry had asked her in a flat voice, his jowly cheeks rendering emotion hard to read.
Juliet had laughed, and raised her hands in outrage; she could feel anger, rising up inside her again.
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying this isn’t fair. If I hadn’t come to the rescue about that crack on that awful bloody frame it’d have been your job on the line.’
‘This is my point, my dear.’ Henry had leaned against the wall. ‘You seem to be forgetting your job is appraising and selling Victorian and Edwardian art. Not commenting on framing choices, or buyers’ choices.’
‘What about The Garden of Lost and Found?’ Juliet said suddenly. ‘It is Irons who’s bought it, isn’t it?’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’ll just put it in a vault in Geneva and let it appreciate. Doesn’t that bother you, Henry? That the sketch for the greatest lost painting in British art will just gather metaphorical dust in some metal-lined basement for the rest of time?’
‘It’s. Their. Money.’ Henry shook his head, smiling. ‘You’re late every day, you’re disorganised, you rush at things full pelt, and you argue with me constantly. And I wouldn’t mind, if you were good at your job. But clients don’t like being told that they’re not the right owners for a painting.’ Juliet began to say something and he raised his hand, as though he were in an auction. ‘You know what I’m referring to.’
‘I only said that to the guy who wanted to put the Leighton in his bathroom because the humidity would have ruined it,’ said Juliet, clenching her jaw tightly.
‘That painting was worth fifteen million pounds. Sheikh Majid al-Qasimi was willing to pay twenty,’ said Henry. ‘Do you know how much commission that is? If he wants to he can use that Leighton to wipe his racehorses’ arses—’
‘It’s a work of art!’ Juliet had shouted. ‘Don’t you care?’
‘I care about my salary.’ Henry Cudlip was laughing. ‘If he buys it, it becomes his, and it’s up to him what he does with it. You cost us a vast amount of money that day. And many other days – Look. Maybe you need a reboot my dear. Work for a museum, or something. The Walker Art Gallery’s hiring, did you know?’
‘It’s for an Education Demonstrator, Henry. It’s getting groups of thirty six-year-olds to sit quietly while you tell them about a painting.’
‘Oh well, if you don’t want that, what about the Fentiman? I keep hearing Sam Hamilton’s quite the young Turk. Looking at things differently. Maybe a new younger dynamic would be helpful –’
Juliet couldn’t stand any more of this. ‘Sam Hamilton’s my age. I was at college with him.’
‘Oh, really?’ Henry looked surprised. ‘Anyway, think about the offer, my – think about it.’
‘My lawyer will be in touch after I’ve looked it over,’ said Juliet and once again she thanked whoever it was she should thank that, many years ago now, Zeina had qualified in employment law. She had acted for her before, when Dawnay’s had tried to move her pension over from final salary to some lesser scheme because due to her two maternity leaves they said she hadn’t been in the office for long enough to qualify as continuous employment. Two letters from Zeina had done the trick.
Now she wondered what difference even Zeina could make. Dawnay’s had closed ranks
. The rich would carry on buying their works of art, and perhaps there was nothing to do but accept the laughable redundancy package they were offering and clear out. She didn’t say that to Henry, of course. She simply smiled at him and stalked out, closing the door firmly behind her, striding out of the building and down the steps into the May sunshine.
An hour of aimless wandering later Juliet had reached St Marylebone Church. She stopped, looking up at the vast classical portico, traffic rushing past her. Ned and Liddy had married in that church. She had had a sketch Ned Horner had drawn of it, framed above her bed.
How funny, to walk past it today of all days. She’d never walked home before. She was never free in the middle of the day to go for walks. Lunchtime was for child admin, for chasing down the plumber, buying birthday presents or tights, doing Ocado orders. These young lounging people, sunning themselves in Regent’s Park: she’d been like that, once, hadn’t she? She’d caught sight of herself in a shop window once, when Isla was three or so and Sandy a tiny baby, and didn’t recognise her reflection. Then with horror, she saw herself as she really was: cross, hot, large, ranty, weighed down with bags for life and nappy bags and scooters . . .
The scent of late-spring flowers was everywhere. Juliet slowed her pace. She tried not to think too much: it was like a sore tooth – if she bit down on it, she knew the pain would be immense. She told herself this was all for the best, even as fear swirled around inside her, making her feel sick. She had been unhappy at work for a while. Probably for years now, but it would never have occurred to her to leave: she didn’t have the luxury of choice. Matt had set up his own marketing consultancy business three years ago, while she was pregnant with Sandy. It would eventually do well, but it was still small and everything was precarious. He worked much harder than she did, she did all the childcare, but she was still the main earner.
I have to be positive about this. Juliet turned her face towards the sun and closed her eyes. She would set up on her own, be a freelance appraiser, or expert, do some consulting for the V&A if they needed her, or the Tate . . . her friend Darryl did it now for the London College of Fashion and loads of other places, she’d find . . . something.
But no one’s got money for freelancers. How do I convince them to use me? How will I explain I’ve been made redundant? She thought of the children, with a prickle of shame and sadness. How proud she’d always been of her job. And telling Matt: Juliet stumbled slightly. He would be so angry . . . then she stopped. He wouldn’t be angry, he’d be pleased. And suddenly she was sitting on a bench by the entrance to the Open Air Theatre, tears streaming down her face for the truth was she knew why. Somehow, in some way, things had got so toxic between them that Juliet knew he’d be glad at her failure. Her husband.
So stupid to cry. Juliet pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes. Her grandmother was a big believer in ‘one foot in front of the other’. When she’d been scared or worried about something Grandi would always say: keep on going. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. But Juliet found she couldn’t now: tears poured down her face. She sank on to a bench. Oh, please stop it, she implored herself. But it was like pleading with a child mid-tantrum: entirely to her alarm she found she couldn’t stop it. For the first time in years, decades even, she didn’t seem to be able to control herself at all.
Eventually, she could cry no more and, besides, she was aware of attracting odd looks. An old man even came up to her and asked her if she was all right. After a few minutes, Juliet stood up, feeling wrung dry and rather dampeningly puffy, numb, as one always does after a long crying session, but a little more cheerful. She had six months’ salary. The sun was shining. She didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. The children needed her, and she’d be there for them. They’d make cupcakes together. She’d sort Bea out. She’d make sure Isla always had an apple in her bag.
She passed out of the park through Camden Market, up Kentish Town Road, walking steadily, as the afternoon shadows lengthened.
Nearly home. It was funny, she’d never wanted to live in that part of the world – she’d grown up in North London and she wanted a change. But Matt had got the job and he supported Arsenal and wanted to be near the Heath, and she was pregnant and his flat wasn’t big enough for three let alone the doll’s house – so they’d ended up in the terrace on Dulcie Street. Life was like that. You didn’t choose it in the way you thought you’d be able to, when you were younger. You just sort of ended up in places, with people, in lives you didn’t recognise as your own . . . She disliked the last bit of the Kentish Town Road, where the traffic was permanently jammed, but at last she was turning into her road, weary feet slapping on the gum-grey cracked paving stones.
Dulcie Street was in shadow – the sun had passed over it already. There was no one around and the only sound above the gentle hum of traffic was faint birdsong. Then Juliet saw a car facing her, outside her house, engine on. The driver had her head down, but Juliet could see the light from her phone screen. She clicked her tongue. Idling was one of her bugbears, especially on a narrow street like theirs, where the stench of diesel seemed to linger in the air no matter the time of year. Zeina, opposite her, had no such compunction, regularly knocking on the windscreen of an offending car outside her house and saying, ‘You know idling’s illegal?’ And if they argued, she could quote the bylaw itself – Zeina knew stuff like that. She knew everything –
While the car was still a good ten metres away Juliet was musing whether she’d be brave enough to do this herself, when the front door of her own house opened and Matt walked down their front path, holding something, and the woman in the idling car looked up.
It was Tess. She leaned forward, and opened the passenger door.
Matt went around the front of the car, and got in. He kissed Tess, on the lips, then, almost an afterthought, grabbed her jaw and cheek with his hands and kissed her again. Her hair was swept back from her face, in its usual artless ash-blonde windswept style. It didn’t move as they carried on kissing.
Matt pulled away from the embrace first, clicking his seatbelt in. Tess said something, then put her phone down on the dashboard, and passed one hand over her hair. Matt smiled at her, then looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. Tess pulled away, and the car drove off at speed, past Juliet, standing behind a van, peering out at them, like a Peeping Tom. There was another roar as it reached the end of the road and turned, then there was silence.
Juliet unlocked the door, stepping over the post. Of course Matt hadn’t picked it up. Then it struck her as funny that this was what she was thinking about – he never picked the post up if he was first home, as if it was for someone else to do. Bills, circulars, council newsletters, a flyer for a concert and, at the top, a letter, addressed to her, in neat looping handwriting. On the top left-hand corner was written: ‘By Hand’.
She went into the kitchen, dropping most of the post in the recycling. ‘I’ve done the post,’ Isla used to say when she was trying to be a helpful grown-up, and she’d pick up the envelopes and flyers from the mat and throw them straight into the recycling. ‘It’s all done.’
Juliet made a cup of tea, but let it stand till it was cold. She stared out of the narrow kitchen window on to the thin garden beyond, newly flowered, unkempt and ugly not through lack of trying but the culmulative efforts of squirrels, foxes, cats and children. There was a worn plastic toy truck, bleached from fire-engine red to pale pink and with only one remaining wheel, upended on the slime-green terrace. The summer herbs she planted every year with such hope were moist black stumps, not one having survived the winter and the dark dank north-facing patio.
He’d done it once before, the year before she had Sandy. A co-worker. Juliet knew she was called Leila and that she lived in Brighton. She was twenty-seven, and had a cat. It had lasted two months, and he had been furious with himself. He’d had counselling – they’d both had counselling, Juliet sitting there as Matt pointed out she was sometimes emotionally unavailable and head
in the clouds, and wondering when she got to stand up and scream at him then jab biros in his eyes. But, being Juliet, she had sort of shrugged and then got on with it. And then Sandy had come along, a baby to seal the deal they’d reached to believe things were better, only somewhere along the way it became apparent they weren’t.
The silence of an empty family home is unsettling. Juliet blinked, recalling herself to the present, then picked up the letter addressed to her, in its duck-egg-blue envelope. She held it in her hand, weighing it. It was oddly heavy.
Idly she wondered if Tess hated her more because she was screwing her husband, or if she’d always hated her and the husband-screwing was incidental to her feelings about Juliet, and whether, on a philosophical level, the two had to be inextricably linked . . . Where did they have sex? Had they just been in the house, having sex? Would she have to confront him today and say she knew? Would he move out tonight? The children – what would they tell them?
Juliet leaned against the counter as her head started to spin and then it really hit her, as if on a ten-minute delay. Matt. Tess. Her marriage. Matt. Tess. Her job.
She looked down at her hands. They kept being blotted out by black shapes in front of her eyes, as though she had been looking up at the sun too long. Juliet fumbled with the envelope, opening it clumsily, blinking hard. She did not notice when a key fell into her lap, and it made her jump. She looked down at it; an unremarkable dirty gold Yale key. She withdrew the thin, translucent paper and unfolded it, not really concentrating. In fact, she was thinking about Tess’s hand, opening the door for Matt, the intensity of her expression as he reached for her, and kissed her, as if he was possessing her, claiming her for himself.
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 5