Rumours by Freya North Page B

part?’
    â€˜She said I was to see the grounds and art.’
    â€˜Then you ought to go in wellies and a Puffa – with your own clothes underneath. Not your worky-waitressy garb – your off-duty clothes.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because first and foremost you’re an art historian – and that’s who you are. Not a suity person. Dress as the real You.’
    â€˜I’m an estate agent.’
    â€˜In the interim.’ Juliet looked at her sternly. ‘Remember – that’s your game plan.’
    Stella’s head dropped a little as she nodded. She fiddled with a frozen oven chip that had missed its place on the tray.
    â€˜And my divorce came through.’
    And then Juliet thought, sod the suit – that’s not why she’s here. ‘Good,’ Juliet said. She wiped her hands on her jeans and put her arms around Stella. ‘At long bloody last.’
    â€˜I know.’ And Stella was shocked to feel tears scorch the back of her throat. She attempted to cough them away. ‘Actually, it came last week.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you say?’ Juliet was upset.
    â€˜I felt OK about it. Flat – but OK.’ Her throat still ached. A tear dropped. ‘Shit. I can’t believe I’m going to cry.’ She groaned at herself and stamped.
    â€˜You haven’t heard from him, I suppose?’
    Stella shook her head and then reached for some kitchen roll to blow her nose. ‘I’ve been fine – and I’m absolutely fine.’ She was frustrated – more at her tears and herself than at any number of the transgressions that could be pinned on Charlie. ‘Why am I crying
now
? I’m not really.’
    â€˜I know you’re not. It’s just relief and closure and you’ve waited a long time for it. Welcome to the rest of your life. Come on, chook. Let’s go and raid my dressing-up box.’ Juliet led the way upstairs, pausing with Stella to watch, unseen, Will sitting on Pauly’s bed in utter heaven as one cousin strummed a few chords on his guitar and the other chewed gum and texted on his phone.
    â€˜Try the Paul Smith,’ Juliet said, proffering it for Stella’s approval like a maître d’ presenting a Dover sole.
    â€˜Is that because you feel sorry for me?’ Stella asked wryly, hauling herself back on form – a person who, once a good cry had been had, gathered herself together, dug deep for a smile and wore it until it worked independently.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Juliet. ‘Of course not! Just try it on – the more it’s worn, the more the cost-per-wear goes down and the quicker I can justify the purchase.’
    Stella undressed and, though she stood there in black socks and mismatched underwear, Juliet thought what a cracking figure she had. ‘Promise not to bite my head off?’
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜Just – promise.’
    â€˜I promise.’
    â€˜Not to bite my head off.’
    â€˜I promise not to bite your head off!’
    â€˜Please let me sort out a date for you – please?’
    â€˜When? To do what?’
    â€˜No – a
date
, date.’
    Stella wanted to bite Juliet’s head off but as a girl who’d never break a promise, she fell silent and just sent Juliet a black look instead.
    â€˜Do you not feel ready, Stella – is that it?’
    Stella didn’t answer, didn’t appear to have heard.
    â€˜It’s been over three years, lovely.’
    Stella shrugged. ‘I’m busy. I have Will. I’m fine. Actually, I’m just not interested.’
    â€˜Then you ought to go to your GP and have your hormone levels assessed.’ Juliet thought that might have sounded a little sharp. ‘You’re bloody gorgeous – it’s a waste! And you’re denying yourself the chance to have someone really lovely in your life – not to fill a gap, just to enhance it.’
    â€˜My life is