His thick hair was now white and cropped close to his head. Those infamous slate blue eyes had no doubt been hand-tinted to enhance that hypnotic gaze. His face was carefully airbrushed to emphasise his bone structure, with just a few judicious laughter lines left, because it would be silly to pretend he was wrinkle-free at his age – whatever that was exactly, but older than her, certainly. He’d kept his exact age shrouded in mystery for so long, but now, it seemed, his venerable years were a useful marketing tool rather than something to be hidden. An opportunity to monetise his dotage.
His autobiography had been much heralded in the press. There would be countless television and radio appearances, for despite his advancing years, Mick (or Michael, as everyone now called him) was good airtime. He was guaranteed to make an outrageous remark or drop a piece of juicy gossip. His lawyers were always on standby, but he was clever. Hints and innuendoes hadn’t landed him in court yet, largely because what he claimed was grounded in truth. The lilting accent had long gone, replaced by a RADA/Hollywood hybrid delivered with mellifluous perfection and just the merest hint of Kerry. His voice was famous: from a whisper to a mighty roar, it was instantly recognisable.
His book promised a searing exposé of his entire career, complete with every dalliance and indiscretion he’d ever had. The lawyers had been through it with a fine-tooth comb and it was said there were many women waiting in trepidation for its release. It was destined to fly off the shelves, for not only were its contents shocking but it was remarkably well written. Witty and observant and colourful. The rumour was he hadn’t employed a ghostwriter, but had been responsible for every single word himself.
June didn’t doubt it. He’d always had the gift of the gab. She imagined him in his Hampstead conservatory – the go-to resting ground for luvvies – scrawling out his bon mots while a discreet assistant brought him coffee, then wine, then brandy later in the day.
June reflected that if he wrote as well as he talked, if he painted pictures as pretty and convincing with his written as his spoken words, then he was a gifted writer indeed.
She put a hand to her heart to feel how fast it was beating. After all this time, he was coming to Peasebrook. To Nightingale Books.
Maybe she shouldn’t have suggested it to Emilia. Nightingale Books was the place June felt happiest in the world. She’d had no hesitation about stepping in to help Julius when he started deteriorating, for she worshipped him, too. He had filled a void in her life. Not romantically at all, but intellectually. And socially. They’d often enjoyed a drink out or supper together or gone to concerts. He was her absolute dearest friend at a difficult time. Retirement had been tougher than she thought. She was a hugely successful businesswoman, and to go from schmoozing and wheeling and dealing to doing almost nothing had been a massive shock. And moving to the cottage that had been her weekend retreat had been strange. It took a long time for it to feel like a permanent home. She still sometimes felt as if she should be packing up on a Sunday night ready to drive back to London.
She loved her cottage, though. The wall-to-wall shelves, groaning with the tomes that had seen her through two failed marriages and several dodgy affairs. She read voraciously, and the cottage was perfect for that, whether tucked up in front of a log fire or sitting in the garden with a glass of wine. She scanned the bestseller lists, flagged up reviews in the newspapers, and every week she would pop into Nightingale Books for the latest biography or prize-winning novel.
She’d seen Mick Gillespie’s book previewed in the Sunday Times. She simultaneously longed to and dreaded reading it.
She’d tried to forget him. Time had betrayed her. It hadn’t been a great healer at all. It had made no difference. She had tried a million different distractions. Other men. Drink. Drugs, once or twice (it had been the sixties, after all). Charity work. Australia. Then, eventually, a kind of release. Two husbands. And motherhood. That had helped her heal. But her boys were off and gone, though they would be back eventually when they’d found wives and had children. The cottage would come into its own then.