He was already at the door and holding it open for her to leave.
Amy’s head was swimming, her heart pulsing hard. She was so angry with herself. Angry with Josie, angry with David, even with Claire and Max for inviting them to Provence. Josie had destabilised her, but she had allowed herself to be distracted.
She had once interviewed Liv Boeree, an English high-stakes poker player with model looks and a posh accent, who had explained the notion of going ‘on tilt’ when playing in Las Vegas. It meant getting out of control, losing concentration and making stupid mistakes, one leading to another. ‘On tilt’ was a phrase that had kept going around in Amy’s head as she’d talked magazines with Douglas. She’d stuttered, mumbled, said dumb things. It was like having an out-of-body experience, like she was looking down on herself, flunking the interview.
It was particularly upsetting because she knew how good she could be, how good she should be. She had prepared, she knew the market and the magazine world inside out, and her ideas for Mode were good, she knew they were. But she’d blown it. Tears welled in her eyes and she just wanted to speak to David, despite everything that had happened between them. But it was mid-afternoon, and from the itinerary his PA had emailed over earlier that week, she knew he would be on the flight home from Hong Kong.
Loneliness consumed her. She pulled her phone out of her bag and scrolled to Juliet’s number, but the call went straight through to message. Using the main switchboard number and extension number, she tried her office, but only got connected to Abigail, Juliet’s assistant.
‘It’s Amy Shepherd. I’m trying to get hold of Juliet. Do you know where she is?’
‘I’m sorry, Juliet’s already gone for the afternoon,’ said Abigail.
‘Has she gone to the house in Hampshire?’ Juliet had mentioned earlier in the week that she was looking forward to a weekend at the cottage: the calm before the storm that was the whirlwind of fashion shows.
‘She didn’t say, but that’s where she usually goes on Friday afternoon. You could try the landline there,’ said Abigail. ‘I can text the number to you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it,’ Amy said, and headed for the door.
Chapter 24
At least she had the car. Tilly was due back from Disneyland Paris at nine that evening, and Amy’s original plan had been to work late and then pick her daughter up from Esher. But now her little Fiat in the basement car park seemed like the perfect getaway vehicle. She couldn’t stay at Genesis a second longer. The walls felt as if they were closing in around her, and with Josie working on the top floor, the place that had once felt like her second home was now hostile territory that she had to escape from.
Her keys, phone and purse were in her tote, so there was no need to go back to her office. She called her PA.
‘I have to leave the office early. If anyone needs me, I’m on the mobile.’
‘Cool,’ said Chrissie. ‘About time you left before the cleaners. So how did it go?’
‘We’ll see,’ Amy said quickly, and rang off.
As she drove out of the underground car park, she could feel her cheeks burning pink and her leg tapping against the car seat with nervous energy. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to do, and it was a feeling she hated. She had always prided herself on being decisive. In moments of introspection, when she had wondered how she, a girl from Westmead, had ended up in one of the most glamorous jobs in London, she realised that it was because when she made up her mind to do something, she just worked her hardest to make it happen. No dithering, no regrets, just forward motion to take her where she wanted to go. But now she felt amateur, inept. She had allowed herself to be completely destabilised. Sent off kilter by Douglas and Josie.
Juliet liked to boast that the journey to Walnut Cottage took a little over an hour, but in the rush-hour traffic, it took Amy almost two, not helped by a horse on the road, standing still and square and staring straight at her, as she turned into the village. She beeped the Fiat’s horn, but the little brown horse just looked up at her through a fringe of hair, like a surly teenager.
‘Come on, horsey,’ she muttered, leaning on the horn again. ‘I feel tired too, but you can’t go to sleep in the road.’
She rolled the car slowly forward and was relieved to see the horse finally stroll away in a leisurely manner until it found a juicy-looking patch of grass, where it bowed its head and began munching.
Still, it added to the idyllic scene: rolling grasslands, dappled trees, sudden tiny hamlets or grey stone churches, their lychgates covered in moss. Every time she came down this way, Amy could see why Juliet found the countryside so soothing. She and David had often discussed getting their own place nearby, but something had always got in the way: jobs, projects, cash flow. Maybe they hadn’t wanted it enough, or maybe they’d just realised that given the tiny amount of time they ever had free, their cute cottage would be standing empty fifty-one weeks of the year.
In any case, Juliet and Peter were very generous with their place, having friends down whether they were in residence or not. Amy briefly crossed her fingers that Peter was elsewhere this weekend; she wanted Juliet to herself, at least for tonight. She needed a
full and frank debrief on the interview, and while Peter was achingly polite, there was a limit to how open she could be with him there, especially after her meltdown in Provence.
She thought back to the times she and Juliet had sat together in their shared house in Oxford, poring over magazines, discussing them, dissecting them, their likes and dislikes, what they’d do to improve them. She wasn’t sure when the idea of actually considering journalism as a career had begun, but she knew the seed had been sown on those long nights of tea, magazines and Garibaldis. She had Juliet to thank for that, and right now she hoped Juliet’s head-girl pragmatism would help get her back on track.
She was so deep in thought that she nearly missed the village sign, almost covered by the leaves of a hawthorn. She took the next right, passing the King’s Arms, then slowed as she reached the turning to Dawes Lane, invisible unless you were looking for it. Juliet’s cottage was actually down a one-lane track, which was a nightmare to reverse out of, so Amy had long ago taken to driving past and parking in a turn-off next to an overgrown wood.
Locking the car, she pulled out her phone – one bar, about all you could expect out here. No messages from Juliet, but she could easily be suffering from the same patchy coverage. Walking towards the cottage, she called David’s mum, and was surprised when she picked up immediately.
‘Amy, how are you? We’re just buying toffee apples.’
Amy couldn’t help but smile: at least Tilly and her grandparents were having a good time.
‘Can you put Tilly—’ she began, but her daughter was already on the phone.
‘Mummy, is that you? I love it here. It’s so cool, and I’ve seen Elsa, and Tiana and Olaf waved at me from the parade.’