Read Online The Gallery of Vanished Husbands: A Novel by Natasha Solomons - Free Book Online
Authors: Natasha Solomons
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is?’
She heard Leonard whoop with delight and then a familiar voice in the hall. Without realising what she was doing, she unfastened her apron and tidied her hair.
‘Hello, Juliet,’ said Charlie, leaning round the door and peering into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’
CATALOGUE ITEM 2
Woman Bathing,
Jim Brownwick, Charcoal on Paper, 10 x 12in, 1959
J ULIET HAD NEVER seen a house so vast – not outside the pictures anyway, and certainly not one that people lived in.
It looked more like a museum or a town hall, albeit one marooned in the middle of endless lawns and taut green fields. Even from a distance it emerged from the woods, the trees parting like stage curtains to reveal a curving façade of brick and a mass of bay windows, the late morning sunlight flaming from every pane so that it looked as if the house itself was ablaze. Juliet gripped her suitcase tight on her knees, and willed herself not to be impressed, not to be overawed. She turned to Charlie, who was steering the car one-handed and driving too fast.
‘And only your mother lives there?’
‘Yes. Just Mummy since Sylvia got married last year.’
Juliet couldn’t understand how one person could live in such a house. She pictured Valerie Fussell as a pale Miss Havisham type, a lace-encrusted echo drifting from room to room, lifting dustsheets. The wind rushed at her through the open window, making her eyes water. Wanting to ask Charlie to slow down but not wanting to seem gauche, she adjusted her headscarf and attempted to smooth her hair.
‘Don’t worry. You look fine.’
Juliet ignored him. She looked out of the window to where scarlet flowers trembled in the long grass and ivy slapped against a telegraph pole. Charlie swung the car sharp left along a long gravel drive lined with slender beech trees, their leaves sounding like running water in the wind. Juliet closed her eyes for a moment, feeling almost dizzy with nerves. She remembered the anxiety in her mother’s face, the sadness in her father’s as she kissed them goodbye. She tried to think of other things. At least Leonard and Frieda had only been excited and hopeful of presents.
Charlie drew up before a set of stone steps that led to an elegant portico. Up close the house was even lovelier. Juliet felt she was glimpsing a screen beauty in the flesh, discovering that the camera had not done her justice. Charlie had told her that the house was early Queen Anne and rather grand, but he had not described the warmth of the brick in the sun, the perfect symmetry of the front and the curling balustrades in greying stone above the attic storey, or mentioned that the house was built entirely without corners.
‘It’s round. There aren’t any edges.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Trust you to notice that straight away. A quirk of the architect. Obsessed with the Baroque.’
He climbed out of the car, jogging round to open her door. Juliet allowed him to help her out and prise away her overnight bag.
‘What about the pictures?’ she asked, gesturing to the boot.
‘We can get them later.’
‘I don’t want anyone else touching them. They must be displayed in the right order.’
‘I know. I know. And don’t worry so much. This is just a pleasant weekend.’
‘A pleasant weekend?’
‘Yes.’
Juliet snorted. Her idea of a pleasant weekend was a lazy morning in bed and a walk along the river to the Tate, then perhaps an ice cream. She wondered again if this was a mistake.
A woman in a neat woollen dress emerged from the front door. She was rounder and older than Juliet expected and wore no make-up, not even a dab of lipstick. Seeing them both, the woman smiled, holding out her hands to Charlie, who hurried up the steps to kiss her. Juliet allowed herself to feel a trickle of relief.
‘Mrs Stephens, this is Juliet Montague. Juliet, Mrs Stephens.’
Juliet’s relief evaporated. This wasn’t the dreaded Mrs Fussell.
‘Is Mummy in the
She heard Leonard whoop with delight and then a familiar voice in the hall. Without realising what she was doing, she unfastened her apron and tidied her hair.
‘Hello, Juliet,’ said Charlie, leaning round the door and peering into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’
CATALOGUE ITEM 2
Woman Bathing,
Jim Brownwick, Charcoal on Paper, 10 x 12in, 1959
J ULIET HAD NEVER seen a house so vast – not outside the pictures anyway, and certainly not one that people lived in.
It looked more like a museum or a town hall, albeit one marooned in the middle of endless lawns and taut green fields. Even from a distance it emerged from the woods, the trees parting like stage curtains to reveal a curving façade of brick and a mass of bay windows, the late morning sunlight flaming from every pane so that it looked as if the house itself was ablaze. Juliet gripped her suitcase tight on her knees, and willed herself not to be impressed, not to be overawed. She turned to Charlie, who was steering the car one-handed and driving too fast.
‘And only your mother lives there?’
‘Yes. Just Mummy since Sylvia got married last year.’
Juliet couldn’t understand how one person could live in such a house. She pictured Valerie Fussell as a pale Miss Havisham type, a lace-encrusted echo drifting from room to room, lifting dustsheets. The wind rushed at her through the open window, making her eyes water. Wanting to ask Charlie to slow down but not wanting to seem gauche, she adjusted her headscarf and attempted to smooth her hair.
‘Don’t worry. You look fine.’
Juliet ignored him. She looked out of the window to where scarlet flowers trembled in the long grass and ivy slapped against a telegraph pole. Charlie swung the car sharp left along a long gravel drive lined with slender beech trees, their leaves sounding like running water in the wind. Juliet closed her eyes for a moment, feeling almost dizzy with nerves. She remembered the anxiety in her mother’s face, the sadness in her father’s as she kissed them goodbye. She tried to think of other things. At least Leonard and Frieda had only been excited and hopeful of presents.
Charlie drew up before a set of stone steps that led to an elegant portico. Up close the house was even lovelier. Juliet felt she was glimpsing a screen beauty in the flesh, discovering that the camera had not done her justice. Charlie had told her that the house was early Queen Anne and rather grand, but he had not described the warmth of the brick in the sun, the perfect symmetry of the front and the curling balustrades in greying stone above the attic storey, or mentioned that the house was built entirely without corners.
‘It’s round. There aren’t any edges.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Trust you to notice that straight away. A quirk of the architect. Obsessed with the Baroque.’
He climbed out of the car, jogging round to open her door. Juliet allowed him to help her out and prise away her overnight bag.
‘What about the pictures?’ she asked, gesturing to the boot.
‘We can get them later.’
‘I don’t want anyone else touching them. They must be displayed in the right order.’
‘I know. I know. And don’t worry so much. This is just a pleasant weekend.’
‘A pleasant weekend?’
‘Yes.’
Juliet snorted. Her idea of a pleasant weekend was a lazy morning in bed and a walk along the river to the Tate, then perhaps an ice cream. She wondered again if this was a mistake.
A woman in a neat woollen dress emerged from the front door. She was rounder and older than Juliet expected and wore no make-up, not even a dab of lipstick. Seeing them both, the woman smiled, holding out her hands to Charlie, who hurried up the steps to kiss her. Juliet allowed herself to feel a trickle of relief.
‘Mrs Stephens, this is Juliet Montague. Juliet, Mrs Stephens.’
Juliet’s relief evaporated. This wasn’t the dreaded Mrs Fussell.
‘Is Mummy in the
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