rather nice with them.’
‘I put that away.’
‘And there’s a bowl of Ma’s olives to pass round and a plate of that ham she sent down. On the windowsill.’
‘Fred.’
‘What? The olives, come on, Jules!’
‘Don’t call me Jules.’
‘What?’
When he had decided that the fish was ready, Fred opened the kitchen window and back door. The walls were slick with condensation and their variegated surface of plaster, flock, graffiti and brick was exuding a smell of leftovers. Juliet returned to the kitchen with the plates of olives and ham, almost untouched.
‘Graham chewed a corner of ham and then spat it into his hand and rolled it along the mantelpiece. I think he must have pocketed it in the end. Then we had the “I didn’t know your mother was Italian, how romantic, all that fiery blood” conversation. I said “Don’t you mean all that fiery breath?” at which your Caroline produced a packet of mints and offered them round.’ Juliet did not tell him that Jane had been vacantly scratching at her cheek with an olive pit until Graham took it from her.
Fred put his hands on his sister’s shoulders. They were both smaller and darker than their three red-headed siblings, and were referred to in the family as the Little Ones, even though Carlo came in between. Carlo was the size of the two of them put together.
Fred was shaking, not trembling but pulsing. ‘Please.’
‘The fish looks … tremendous. What are we having with it?’
‘Parsley.’
‘You can’t just … I mean, we can’t eat in here. Let’s take the table in there.’
They slung the pots and pans onto the floor, separated the top of the table from the legs and carried the pieces through, angling them round doorways and along the narrow hall. The three guests stood up and offered to help but in the end had to wait pinned against the fireplace, their legs reddening while Fred and Juliet banged the table back together, collected up chairs, found a sheet to serve as a tablecloth, lit candles and brought in the salmon, which had broken into several pieces but was so liberally covered with parsley that no one could tell. Fred, brandishing a cake slice and a grapefruit knife, made a great show of carving it.
No one ate very much, Juliet least of all. She drank quickly and said little.
Caroline observed this and suddenly asked, ‘Are you not well?’
‘One ought not …’ whittered Graham. ‘Not at table, it’s not quite …’
‘Are you?’
Juliet’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Since you ask –’
‘Now look what you’ve gone and done,’ said Graham, moving his chair away from Caroline’s. ‘Do you know what they called her at school?’
‘Don’t,’ said Jane.
‘Blunderer. Blunderer Broad-Jones. Good old Blunderer!’
Fred, who had been helping Jane to more wine, slammed the bottle he was holding down on the table. ‘Shut the fuck up you fucking creep and get the fuck out of my house.’
Graham went purple. ‘Stand up and say that!’
‘I am standing up,’ faltered Fred, and everyone laughed except Graham, who hadn’t got the joke and so could only conclude that they were laughing at him.
When they had calmed down, Fred said quite amiably, ‘I meant it though. Out of my house, creep.’ Graham made a show of not doing what Fred asked until Jane and Caroline led him away, thanking Fred loudly and repeatedly in the hope that he couldn’t hear what Graham was muttering about slums and drugs and darkies waiting to rob them on the way home.
‘Off to bed with you!’ said Fred to Juliet who was still sitting at the table. ‘I’ll clear up.’
‘I need a hot-water bottle.’
‘I’ll bring you one, and a cup of tea.’
When he knocked on her door, Juliet was lying in bed smoking a joint.
‘Is that good for you?’
‘Very.’
She offered it to him, which he took as an invitation to sit down beside her.
‘What are we going to do with all that salmon?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, smoke it?’
Fred exhaled as slowly as possible. ‘Really? Do you think it would have any effect?’
Juliet opened the door to her office to find Tania kneeling on her desk, pressed against the wall. Juliet laughed and said, ‘You can hear every word, can’t you?’, making Tania start and turn. She was holding a tape measure.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I mean … Shelves?’
Tania unnerved Juliet with the proficiency of her warmth. The younger woman could not bring herself to trust it. It did not help that her boss looked a bit like her mother. They had the same heavy, waved hair that was fading dramatically, and which they knotted into a chignon that kept itself in place.
So Juliet, the naughty daughter, chattered all the way to the new DIY warehouse on the Old Kent Road, promised she knew what she was doing and ran up and down aisles collecting everything she could think of which would block out the wall and his voice. Chipboard, brackets, rawl plugs, screws, batting, primer, undercoat, matt white gloss, large and small brushes, and a new drill. She had a drill at home but Fred had broken it trying to engrave his and Caroline’s initials into a vaguely heart-shaped piece of slate. Tania insisted on buying a face mask and gloves for Juliet, as well as an apron because the teenagers and pensioners who worked in the store all wore one. Juliet said thank you but intended to put it straight in the bin.
‘We should warn Jacob that there’ll be some noise,’ said Tania as she drove them back to the gallery.
‘Jacob?’ Juliet could not admit that she knew who he was.
‘I’m so sorry, have I not introduced you yet? I’ve been rather caught up. Jacob Dart.’
‘Jacob Dart?’
‘You know, who wrote Foucault’s Egg.’
‘Oh.’ Someone had given Juliet a copy and for a while she had meant to read it. Somehow, she had forgotten the name of the person who wrote it.
‘He needed a place to work, at least that’s what he said.’
Juliet kept quiet so as to encourage her to go on.
‘Barbara and I have known each other for years. I know them both, which is why I offered Jacob the room. How was I to know he’d use it as
