Saving Grace (16 page)

Looking at her now, in this restaurant, entirely at ease with everyone in here, he smiles to himself, feeling almost like her Svengali. He may not have issued the instructions for her to change, but how delighted he is that she has. Look how self-possessed she is! The very fact that he is bringing her to lunch with his agent proves how invaluable she has become.

Ellen, his old assistant, sometimes came to lunch with his agent, but not to the glamorous lunches in New York: she wasn’t that kind of assistant. The thought of Ellen in her dusty jogging bottoms and comfortable sandals in the elegant environs of Michael’s is unthinkable. Beth, on the other hand, looks like she belongs. One would never think she was an assistant. An editor, perhaps, or an agent. His publicist.

Indeed, she is proving to be an entirely different kind of assistant from Ellen in almost every way imaginable. She has given him ideas, suggestions, even advice. Instead of being appalled, he has found her astute and usually correct. She has an excellent mind, he has realized. Quick and clever, with an extraordinary ability to retain information.

He subscribes to all the literary magazines, reading them at night when he is back in the main house with Grace, or over the breakfast table, delighted to find Beth reads them too, has read every article he brings up; has a unique and fascinating viewpoint on all.

It has become almost a game between them.

‘I was just reading in
The New Yorker
. . .’ he will start.

‘About Julian Assange?’ she will say, and they will both laugh. The stories that most fascinate him are invariably the stories that most fascinate her. He has no idea how she is doing that, only that he is glad she is; that
someone
is. Grace, love of his life, the woman who has always walked beside him, has never been able to share that particular part of his life.

Grace loves her magazines, but not the literary ones. Of course she will read an article if he passes it to her, if he thinks it is something of particular interest to her, but her magazines of choice tend to be
Town & Country
,
Harper’s, Vogue
.

What a delight to have a woman around who shares his curiosity and is sharp enough to form her own opinions. While Grace will read what he gives her, she rarely enters into a spirited debate, in the way he and Beth have been doing.

‘Nice assistant.’ The journalist Ted had been chatting with en route to the table raises an eyebrow as they both watch Beth sashaying through the room to their table.

With a tilt of his head and a small smile, Ted bids him a good lunch, congratulating himself on what a good assistant he has. At times like these it is hard to remember how he ever got through the day without her.

‘S
teven!’ He pumps hands vigorously with Steven Marsh, the head of press at his publishing house. Ted is one of the few authors Steven is still directly involved with, usually assigning young, glamorous girls in their twenties to do the day-to-day work of attempting to gain publicity for their myriad authors.

For Ted, Steven will phone the editors of the largest papers and magazines himself. He will come up with the story ideas and map them out with the editors over lunch, usually here, at Michael’s, and they, delighted at the opportunity for something large and exclusive with Ted Chapman, will leave the restaurant in a state of near exhilaration.

Steven is one of the old guard. He and Ted have been together twenty years. A professional relationship has morphed into a friendship and they all sit down as Steven gestures to Beth.

‘You must be Beth! I finally get to meet the wonderful assistant! Ted,’ he clucks gently, ‘how on earth do you do it? Two beautiful women! If we didn’t have years of friendship behind us, I’d hate you.’

Ted chuckles.

Beth blushes. ‘Thank you. This is truly a dream job, and I’m learning so much.’

‘About what an irascible bastard Ted Chapman can be?’ Steven leans forward with a laugh.

‘He’s not irascible.’ Beth laughs. ‘He’s charming. And brilliant. And a wonderful mentor.’

‘You’re obviously paying her well.’ Steven looks at Ted approvingly.

‘Will you excuse me?’ Beth says, pushing her chair back. ‘I just have to go to the ladies’ room.’

The two of them watch in silence as Beth makes her way through the tables, past the bar and into the ladies’ room. As soon as she has disappeared, Steven looks at Ted, no longer bothering to conceal the look of alarm on his face.

‘God, Ted! Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing her to lunch? I would have booked somewhere discreet. Of all places to bring her, Michael’s? Really? The whole town’s going to know about it within about two hours.’

Ted starts to laugh. ‘Relax, Steven! You have it all wrong. I know she’s quite lovely, but she really is my assistant.’

‘Oh, I know that, I’ve been emailing with her for months, but you’re . . . well. It’s obvious. The two of you are . . .’

‘Screwing?’ Ted barks with laughter as Steven looks confused. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? First of all, I would not do that to Grace.’

Steven leans forward. ‘Ted, you know and I know that’s not true. I remember plenty of young publishing assistants at—’

‘And how many years ago was that?’ Ted says, now serious. ‘Steven, I was a young man then. I haven’t had any . . . dalliances . . . for years. I wouldn’t do that to Grace. Not now. I was too young to know any better. Plus, I certainly wouldn’t shit on my own doorstep. Good Lord, Ted. She’s the best goddamned assistant I’ve ever had. She’s truly gifted, at everything, and I’m hardly going to mess that up. Not to mention, she’s twenty years younger than me. And finally, even if I were, which I am not, nor would I ever, the very last place I would bring her would be Michael’s. I may be charmed by her, but I am not completely stupid.’

They both turn with fixed smiles on their faces as Beth heads back to the table.

‘Thank God,’ whispers Steven quickly. ‘Sorry, Ted. I read the situation all wrong. Fortunately.’

‘Or unfortunately,’ Ted murmurs back as they both survey Beth’s endless legs, for she has continued losing weight and has emerged with legs like a gazelle. Shooting Steven a quick, wicked smile to show he was joking, Ted leaps up and holds the chair, waiting for Beth to sit down.

‘W
hat about a podcast?’ Beth says when Steven has finished outlining his plans for the paperback release of Ted’s last book.

‘Podcast? About what?’

‘About writing. Editing. The craft. It could be a book too, but I think you could start with a podcast. If you think about it, the well-known books on the craft of writing are from literary authors. Except Stephen King. No one else crosses the two, literary and commercial, in the way that Ted does, and I think he’d pull in a huge audience. I also think the bloggers would love the fact that Ted Chapman is doing a series of podcasts on writing. It could generate a whole other line of publicity.’

Steven nods thoughtfully. ‘It is actually a rather wonderful idea, if, Ted, you have time to do it.’

‘It wouldn’t take too much time,’ Beth says, taking a bite of her salmon in pastry. ‘I could put together a list of topics and even make notes for you, what you would have to say. All you’d have to do is “Ted Chapman it up”, and we can record it anywhere.’

There is a silence as Ted considers her suggestion. He has never been a writer who has relied on anyone else to put words into his mouth. Years ago he was commissioned to write a short non-fiction book on the presidential race, to come out in time for the next election.

The publishers paid him a vast amount of money, the sort of money it would be impossible to turn down for what would, essentially, be about two weeks of work. The reason it was only going to take two weeks was firstly, because they had an incredibly tight deadline and secondly, because they had a team of researchers already putting together all the information for the book.

In fact, they said, they had sample chapters; it had already been written. They wanted his name on the cover and they wanted him to read through and do exactly what Beth had just suggested: ‘Ted Chapman it up’.

It was a coffee-table book, resplendent with large, glossy never-before-seen photographs of various former presidents. Ted received the sample manuscript, sat on the old Chesterfield in the barn and, after three pages, roared with fury.

It was the most horrifyingly written piece of drivel he had ever read. There was no way in hell that could go to print with his name on it. It didn’t need Ted Chapmaning up, it needed an entire goddamned rewrite.

Which he did. By basically not sleeping for the next two weeks. It became the worst two weeks of his life and gave him a headache that no amount of aspirin could solve.

It was the last time he accepted an assignment like that, and now, sitting here, hearing that Beth would put this together – would, essentially, write the basics – he remembers that project.

And he remembers the conversations he and Beth have on a daily basis. The suggestions she makes. The way she has taken over his fan mail, responding to each of his readers individually, personalizing the letters and, magically, effortlessly, managing to sound exactly like him.

She has caught the essence of his voice. From time to time, when Beth has gone home, he scrolls through her computer and reads the letters she has written. Although he signs them all himself, he never has time to do anything but scan them, if that, at the time of signature.

Reading them on Beth’s computer, he has a delighted smile on his face, occasionally barking with laughter at how she sounds exactly, but
exactly
, like him. If he didn’t know better, he would think he had written these letters himself.

He could do a podcast and Beth could do the work. Finally, he has someone he can trust.

‘Do you know what?’ he says. ‘I think that might be a rather good idea. Beth, why don’t you draft something and let me have a look. Let’s see whether we can make something work.’

T
he text comes in just as Ted is about to climb into the car, Beth already in the back seat.

You’re right,
Steven texts.
She is gold! You win prize for most charming, clever assistant. Lovely to be with you both.

Ted smiles to himself as he slips the phone into his pocket and climbs in next to Beth, ready to be driven back home, to Palisades, to Grace.

‘W
hile I remember,’ he says absentmindedly to Beth, who is reading her Kindle on the back seat as he scrolls through his emails and lists of things to do. ‘Can you phone Dr Frank Ellery and make an appointment for Grace? Actually, make one for me first, to talk to him about Grace. I’ll send you the number.’

‘Is everything okay? Is Grace sick?’

Ted sighs. ‘She’s . . . fine. She’s not sick, but she’s not herself. Remember? We talked about this a couple of weeks ago? I’ve been thinking about your suggestion that she see someone. I didn’t think so at the time, but she is definitely erratic. She has a . . . volatility I’m not used to, and I know you’ve had a number of experiences with her lately that have been . . . difficult.’

Beth’s face falls. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Now I feel terrible.’

‘Please don’t. I know you’ve been concerned. Now, hopefully, we can help her.’

‘I really do hope she’s all right,’ Beth says. ‘But I do understand about the volatility. She seems calm and fine one minute, then the next she is in bed, or crying, or angry. I try not to take it personally, but I do think you’re doing the right thing, seeing someone. Didn’t you say she hadn’t been sleeping recently too? That she was up cleaning all night?’

Ted nods.

‘That kind of behaviour must be very frightening for you. I have an aunt who seemed to be completely normal until her mid-forties, and suddenly she changed completely. At first they thought it was hormonal, but her behaviour was so erratic, so . . . manic, it didn’t seem possible that it was just menopause.’

‘When you say manic . . .’

‘She’d be up all night for nights at a time, making things. Tidying the house, but it was frenzied. And she got angry in a way she hadn’t ever before.’

‘It was depression?’

‘Yes. Manic depression, though. Bipolar disorder. She started medication and it changed her life. We all got her back. They say it runs in families, and my cousin seems to have it too.’

This time Ted says nothing as the thoughts whirl around his head.

T
he days of Grace being an early riser seem long gone. Lately she is finding it more and more difficult to get out of bed. She has never before used an alarm, or at least, not since the children were living at home and she had to make sure she never overslept, but even then, she was usually awake by 5.30, making lists and tea well before anyone else in the house had roused themselves.

These past few weeks of waking up in the middle of the night, and staying wide awake for hours, is proving disastrous. If she is lucky, she will get back to sleep at around 5.00 a.m., but then has to set an alarm, which invariably jars her out of a deep sleep. Lately, instead of turning the alarm off and hopping out of bed, as would normally be her wont, she has turned it off, to sink straight back into a deep sleep.

Three times over the past ten days she has done the unthinkable, discovering it’s around two o’clock in the afternoon, and despite how busy her schedule, how much she has to do, she has been unable to keep her eyes open and has slipped upstairs and into bed, planning on a twenty-minute nap, only to awaken, groggy and feeling infinitely worse, at 4.30. And once, at 6.00.

‘You’ve been asleep? That’s not like you. Are you coming down with something? Is everything all right?’ Grace walks into the kitchen to find Ted at the kitchen table, reading the papers. She has no idea why her husband is in the kitchen and not in the barn at 4.30 in the afternoon, is irritated he has caught her sleeping in the middle of the day.

‘I think it may be the exhaustion of organizing that event at Harmont House,’ Grace says, lying. This exhaustion could not possibly have come from the stress of organizing that event. It was entirely possible she was reaching the time of life when menopause was fast approaching. All she heard from friends was how awful menopause was, and it may be the most logical of explanations for how she has been feeling.