Saving Grace (14 page)

Grace beams. ‘Really? You didn’t tell me that.’

‘It’s true. This really is my dream job. I love that every day is different, and I love that it almost feels like two completely separate jobs. I have the work with Ted, which is really studious and intense and quiet, and that kind of focus calms me down, which is always what I need, but then there’s the household stuff, and helping you, and Harmont House, which is frenetic and busy, and so much fun, and that’s the work that keeps me happy. I need both and I never thought I’d find it all in one job.’

‘That just about sums up my parents,’ laughs Clemmie. ‘One’s intense, the other’s crazy.’

‘Clemmie!’ Grace knows she is joking, that Clemmie has no idea that Grace has spent her whole life terrified she may turn into her mother. That when ‘the blues’ hit, they are always made so much worse by Grace’s secret fear that this is when she’s going crazy, this is the beginning of the end.

‘Your mum’s not crazy,’ Beth says, placing a protective arm around a grateful Grace. ‘I adore her. She’s one of the kindest, warmest, most generous people I’ve ever met.’

Grace turns to meet her eyes, to see tears welling in them. ‘Oh, Beth,’ she says softly. ‘What a lovely, lovely thing to say. And what a treasure you are.’

‘We’re both lucky.’ Beth swallows the tears away and busies herself putting the food away. ‘Did you want to have any of this for dinner tonight?’ she asks.

‘I think that would be lovely. What are you doing for dinner later?’ she asks Beth suddenly. She knows so little about Beth’s personal life, she now realizes. The bare minimum. Divorced. Childless, although she seems, in so many ways, so much younger than her years; Grace wouldn’t expect her to have a husband, the responsibilities of children.

She lives alone in a small house with a garden she loves, and may or may not cook for herself. She has all these incredible skills and no one to share them with. Grace is struck by a sudden sense of Beth’s loneliness. This lonely young woman, who has done so much for them, who has, in so many ways, almost entirely transformed their lives, who has virtually no life of her own.

Not even a cat to keep her company.

‘Join us,’ she says to Beth. ‘Please. I’m insisting. Stay for dinner. Unless you have other plans, but if not, stay. I know Clemmie would love it too.’

‘I . . .’ Beth looks unsure.

‘Please,’ Grace says. ‘Ted and I would love it. And it’s not like it’s even a proper thank you. For heaven’s sake, it’s only supper in the kitchen. Just stay. Family dinner.’

Beth smiles, pleasure all over her face. ‘I’d love to,’ she says as Grace smiles. It is the very least they can do.

‘I’m just going to see Dad,’ says Clemmie as Grace smiles again. She adores her daughter, but there is a special link between Clemmie and Ted that Grace cannot compete with. Perhaps it is because they are both writers – introverts who also need to be around people, but only on their own terms; perhaps it is merely the incontrovertible daddy–daughter link, but either way, when Ted and Clemmie get together, Grace always feels slightly like the odd man out.

They have the same humour, find the same things ridiculous. Ted would never shout at Clemmie or talk to her with the disdain he sometimes shows when he talks to Grace.

Watching Clemmie snake her way down the garden path, Grace sighs and turns back to Beth. ‘Will you take them down some of these?’ she says, pulling some patties from the fridge. ‘I’ll just take a moment to heat them up.’

B
eth grins as she looks around the table. ‘You have an amazing family. I never had anything like this. I would have given anything for this.’

‘Thank you,’ says Grace. ‘That’s a sweet thing to say.’ Grace puts down her glass of wine and waits for Beth to say more.

‘You really are lucky, you know. My family was nothing like this,’ says Beth. ‘My father was an alcoholic and my mother was the classic enabler. She spent her life trying to keep my father out of trouble – dragging him out of bars and making excuses for him when he was too hungover to go to work. It didn’t make for much of a childhood.’

‘How did you cope?’ Clemmie, always fascinated by other people’s stories, leans forward.

‘Mostly by having to become a mother myself. I was cooking well before most other children are even allowed anywhere near knives and stoves. I had to, or my little brother and sister wouldn’t eat.’

‘But that’s awful,’ says Grace, who feels a sharp stab of pain, knowing exactly what it is like to grow up in a household like that, to take on the responsibility of a parent long before it is time. ‘You never had a childhood.’

‘I didn’t, but it never seemed awful at the time – it was just my life; all that I knew. And in some ways, today I’m grateful for it. However odd that may sound, I definitely wouldn’t be who I am had my childhood been different. It’s also why I love reading so much – the only place I felt safe was buried in the pages of a book, preferably one with a happy family. Other kids I knew wanted to be writers, or doctors, or change the world in some way when they grew up, but I knew I loved helping people. That’s what I’m best at. And now, here, I get to do it.’

‘And,’ Grace reaches over the table and lays a hand on top of hers, ‘you get to be part of our family.’

‘I hope so,’ says Beth. ‘I am so incredibly grateful to be here.’

‘As are we to have you,’ says Ted gruffly. ‘Who wants some more of this delicious food?’

I
t is these moments, thinks Grace, later, when she and Clemmie are standing side by side in the kitchen, washing up the last of the dishes, these mundane, ordinary moments that contain the real magic of life.

Beth has gone home, Ted is walking the dogs and she is here with her daughter, awash with gratitude and love for all that is good in her life, the humiliation of what happened at Harmont House now eased, although every time she thinks of it she feels her body physically clench in horror.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. None of it matters. All that matters is my family.

Clemmie lays the tea towel down and looks at her mother. ‘I love Beth,’ she says. ‘What a treasure! You and Dad must be thrilled!’

‘We are. She’s . . . extraordinary. I think of her as Superwoman because there seems to be little she can’t do. She’s making my life so very much easier, and your father’s. He thinks the sun shines out of her behind.’

‘What?’

Grace smiles. ‘An old expression from home. But he adores her. So far there hasn’t been a single complaint.’ Grace sighs, unsure whether to say anything before taking a deep breath. ‘You do think she is wonderful, then?’

Clemmie peers at her mother. ‘I do. But there’s something on your mind, isn’t there? Something you’re not sure about?’

‘I don’t know. I have no reason to be unsure about anything, but there is something I can’t quite put my finger on.’

‘I actually think you’re wrong,’ says Clemmie. ‘Usually I think you’re the most perceptive woman in the world, but I don’t get any weird feeling about Beth. I think she’s pretty damn perfect.’

‘You’re right, you’re right,’ says Grace, pushing that ever-so-slight feeling of unease away. Trying not to think about whether there was any possibility that Beth might have deliberately sabotaged the event the other week, might have deliberately slipped the scarf off the rack at the end of the wardrobe and added it to her pile.

But no. That is ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as Grace phoning and changing the date.

S
ybil clatters through the kitchen door, dumping her oversized bag in the middle of the floor as she always does, turning as someone walks into the room.

‘I’m sorry I’m la—’ She stops, laughs. ‘Good Lord! Beth? You look completely different! You’ve changed your hair!’

‘Do you like it?’ Beth smiles and twirls, tilting her head to the side.

‘I do,’ says Sybil. ‘It actually looks fantastic. You look . . . older. Which should be an insult, but it’s a compliment. It’s very sophisticated. It really frames your face.’

‘I’m so glad,’ says Beth. ‘I was hoping for a bit more sophistication. It’s hard being around Grace all the time, she’s just so elegant.’

‘I’d say you’re catching up,’ Sybil says with a laugh. ‘Especially in that outfit. Very Grace Chapman.’

Beth blushes and smiles shyly. ‘Thank you. I’m hoping it’s the start of a whole new me. Grace is in the garden. Shall I get her for you?’

‘No, don’t worry.’ Sybil heads for the back door. ‘I’ll go out there myself.’

‘Grace!’ she calls, spotting Grace just emerging from the chicken coop. ‘Any eggs for me?’

‘Help yourself,’ Grace calls back, and as she draws closer, Sybil looks at her with concern. Grace looks drawn, tired. And ineffably sad.

‘Grace?’ Sybil’s voice is gentle as she lays a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Is everything okay?’

E
verything is not okay. At 2.12 a.m., Grace woke with a start, her heart pounding, her body flooded with anxiety. Did she have a bad dream? She didn’t remember, but that was the only reason she could come up with.

The Ambien was all finished. A few nights previously she tried paracetamol with Nytol, then felt groggy and drugged almost all the next day. She lay in bed for a while, attempting to take slow, calming breaths, focusing only on the breath leaving her body, then coming back in, but every few seconds her mind started clenching in agitation. Eventually she threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.

Throwing on a robe, she went downstairs and put the kettle on for tea. Caffeine in tea has never kept her awake, not that it matters now. There was no chance of her going to sleep for at least a couple of hours, if her recent pattern is anything to go by, although this night she wasn’t just awake; she felt agitated, tense, with no reason why.

Sitting at the kitchen table and attempting to read the
New York Times
didn’t help. She couldn’t focus on the articles, ended up flicking through the magazine, quickly turning the pages, her eyes scanning each one, pausing only briefly if a photograph spoke to her.

She needed something to do, something to focus her mind . . . she looked up, a light in her eyes.

The cupboard in the boot room!

She had been meaning to sort through it for months, never finding the right time. Beth has been begging to do it, but Grace kept saying no, knowing there were too many personal things she would have to go through herself. Now was surely the right time, the perfect time! She had hours to sort through shoes that belonged to Clemmie, that should have been discarded years ago; cardboard boxes stacked on the shelves containing God knows what; yards of hangers and coats tightly squished together, no one remembering which coat belongs to whom, or whether it was still needed.

Grace opened the door and took a deep breath. It was overwhelming, but once she got started, she knew it would be easy. Armed with a pile of rubbish bags and two large boxes – one for charity, one for Harmont House – she started with the shoes. Her natural inclination had always been to keep everything,
just in case
. What if Clemmie came home next week desperate for her old hiking boots that she hadn’t worn since she was fifteen? What then?

Grace contemplated the hiking boots in her hand, then shrugged and put them in the Harmont House box. If Clemmie should show up wanting hiking boots, Grace would have to buy her another pair, and insist she take them to her own apartment. No more clutter allowed.

The shoes led to the coats –my
God
! Where did all these coats come from? Acres upon acres of rain jackets in various states of distress, some so old and ragged they were rain jackets in name alone.

Piles of umbrellas pushed to the back of the cupboard, buried under old boots and heavy boxes, their spokes crooked and bent.

At the back, the piles of boxes. Shoeboxes stuffed with photographs when photographs were three-by-five prints – Clemmie when she was tiny, family holidays Grace hadn’t thought about for years, Ted gazing at Clemmie with sheer adoration and joy on his face, a disbelief that he could create a child so perfect.

She paused, took time to go through these photographs, each one bringing back a vivid memory. She and Ted on the Ponte Vecchio, she in his arms, both looking so young, so beautiful, so carefree.

She frowned. Life did feel carefree back then. In fact, life, her adult life, had always felt carefree to some extent, until recently. Why had life become so . . . difficult. How did one event have the ability to send her spiralling down to a place that felt very different from where she had been only a few months ago?