nodded and left.
Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.
Dear Mr and Mrs Wells
Over the next couple of weeks in Guildford, there was no repeat of Genevieve’s coming into Julia’s room and crying on her shoulder. And if Alan received any more nocturnal visits, Julia was unaware. His tales of Genevieve’s seduction attempts rang hollow. She had no lack of attention from men her own age, several of whom used to call at the house. Genevieve would provide them tea then hurry them away. Edward, never Eddie or Ted, was the only one who came regularly and sometimes stayed the night, though no one was allowed to call him her boyfriend, and not just because he was in his fifties.
When there were none of her gentlemen to entertain, Genevieve spent much of her time with the gardener, a dumpy woman with a downturned mouth that made her look permanently disappointed as she plodded about, moving soil back and forth in an ancient wheelbarrow. Julia was surprised to learn she was Genevieve’s sister, Ruth. They were so unalike – one exotic, the other almost invisible, lumbering around, trowel in hand.
Lucy came back from the Netherlands and turned out to be far more sociable than Alan. She’d broken up with her boyfriend and would be staying after all. She and Julia started chatting in the kitchen and meeting for after-work drinks. Alan had been no friendlier and far less communicative than the first time they’d met. That Tuesday evening, as Julia was reheating the remains of her previous evening’s macaroni, he sat down and switched on the TV without saying a word, or even acknowledging her.
Moments later Genevieve burst into the kitchen.
She stopped and clasped her hands together. ‘Well, I know you’ll all be so glad. You’ve got a new housemate,’ she said.
‘We’re ecstatic,’ Alan said.
For a moment, Genevieve looked disconcerted, but her features quickly settled back into serenity.
‘He’s one of our New Zealand cousins,’ she said. ‘Or their friend’s son, or something. Anyway, Ronald – he’s my first cousin, I haven’t seen him since we were both at school – he says Brandon—’
‘Brandon?’ Alan spluttered. ‘What sort of name is Brandon?’
‘If you must know, I think it’s a beautiful name,’ Genevieve said. ‘Brave and manly.’
‘Yes, Alan, a manly name,’ Julia couldn’t resist saying.
Alan looked like he wanted to punch both of them.
‘As I was saying, Ronald tells me Brandon is lovely. He’s a carpenter. He’s had to leave his room in London in a hurry, so he’s coming here tonight. My sister’s not keen, but I told her, Ruth, family is family.’
‘He’s not family,’ Alan said.
‘Sorry?’
‘A friend of your cousin doesn’t count as a relation.’
‘As good as.’ Genevieve waved her hand to dismiss Alan’s comment. ‘You’re as bad as Ruth. Anyway, he’ll be here tonight. He’s about your age. You must show him around.’
Alan muttered something that Julia was sure involved the word ‘tradesman’. If Genevieve heard, she ignored it.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘He’ll be here at eight.’
Julia hurried to put her plate away and get out of the kitchen and back to her room, to avoid the inevitable snide comments from Alan.
An hour or so later, a taxi pulled up outside.
Julia peered through the window. A man squeezed himself out of the car and threw a backpack over his shoulder. A black baseball cap covered his face, but Julia could see that he was tall and bulky and wore dark baggy trousers. Genevieve ran up the drive to meet him. Julia returned to reading the Iain Banks book Pearl had lent her, until Genevieve knocked on her door.
She entered the room, more flushed and agitated than Julia had seen her before.
‘You must come downstairs and meet Brandon, Julia. He’s simply wonderful.’
Julia wasn’t sure how wonderful the scruffy mess she’d spotted emerging from the car could be.
‘I’m reading, Genevieve,’ she said.
‘Julia, you simply must come and meet him. I insist.’
Being told how wonderful he was prepared Julia to dislike him, and she wasn’t disappointed. When she first came into the kitchen, he made no disguise of looking her up and down like a farmer assessing a prize heifer.
‘Which one are you?’ he asked.
‘Julia,’ she replied coolly.
‘Fantastic,’ he said.
Alan was sitting at the table, his habitual sneer hardened to a scowl.
‘Are you staying long, Brandon?’ Julia asked.
‘Dunno. I’ll see how it pans out.’
Julia examined Brandon more closely. He was broad, bordering on chunky, and had a square jaw and heavy brow. Not bad-looking, but no film star.
‘Why are you in Guildford?’ she asked.
‘I thought I could find work here. And Ronald said I should look up Jenny. I mean Genevieve.’
All the time Genevieve was watching him, her eyes wide and glistening, an expression of rapt wonder on her face.
‘I want to get to know the area,’ Brandon said. ‘Know any good bars?’
The question was directed at Alan, and Julia was expecting a curt reply. Instead he said, ‘The Grape’s good, more of a country pub.’
‘Girls?’ Brandon asked.
Julia braced for a comment about ‘slags’.
‘You’re better off in town. Bar Midi, or somewhere like that.’
‘Great. Up for a quick drink?’
‘Sure,’ Alan said.
Julia looked at Alan, in utter amazement. He carefully avoided her eye. She thought back to her first impression of Alan, as a thin schoolboy. Perhaps he’d been one of the frail and effete ones, bullied as a child and forever desperate to be accepted as one of the lads.
‘Do
