Saving Grace (23 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ she automatically apologizes. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ she lies.

His face softens. ‘There’s a shelter around the corner,’ he says. ‘Not far to walk. I think you’ll find it’s much more comfortable.’

‘Shelter?’ Grace frowns, still half-asleep.

‘For the homeless.’ He nods encouragingly.
Like you
, are the words he doesn’t say, but nevertheless, they hang in the air between them.

Grace just stares at him, blinking back tears. I’m not homeless, she wants to shout. I’m Grace Chapman! I live in a beautiful house on the water in New York!

But she says nothing. Merely nods, stands up and walks away.

H
er cashmere scarf has pulled on the bench and it is now crumpled and dirty. She washes her face in the bathroom of a McDonald’s, where she buys a meal and finds herself unable to eat it, able only to drink the coffee.

Her breath is bad, her skin now dry and stretched with no moisturizer after washing with the harsh soap, not meant for the face of a middle-aged woman.

She has absolutely no idea what to do. Her phone is probably still in pieces in the barn back at Sneden’s Landing; she has no access to contacts, to phone numbers. She could walk to the Soho offices of Ted’s London literary agents, but she barely knows them, and it is such a very long walk.

Heading back to St George’s Square – it is quiet, away from the hustle and bustle – she sits on the same bench she slept on the night before and cries silently, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Is this what it has come to, she thinks? All these months of not believing the diagnosis, not believing I am anything like my mother, and here I am, sleeping on a bench, nothing to my name and no home to go to.

I am homeless, she realizes, with shock. I have become the thing I have feared my entire life. I am my mother. This was her life, and I have spent my life terrified it would happen to me, and here I am.

‘Excuse me? Excuse me?’ It is the same older man with the same poodle.

‘I know, I know. This is for residents only,’ Grace says wearily. ‘Please leave me alone,’ she says. ‘I’m not hurting anyone here. I haven’t got anywhere else to go and I don’t know what to do.’ Her voice breaks on the last word as she starts to cry.

‘The shelter was full?’ he says.

‘No! I didn’t go to the shelter. I’m not homeless. I’m just . . . stuck.’

He looks at her for a while, examining her. ‘Is there someone you can call?’ he says. ‘Someone who can help?’

‘I could,’ Grace says. ‘But I don’t have a phone. And I haven’t got credit cards for the pay phones.’

‘Use mine.’ He hands her his mobile phone. ‘Make a call.’

‘Really?’ Grace wipes the tears away, a small ray of hope lighting up her eyes. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Go on,’ he says as Grace calls Directory Enquiries, then taps Lydia’s number into the phone, almost collapsing with relief when she picks up.

G
race may not have had much of a mother in Sally, but she had a wonderful mother figure in Lydia.

On that very first day at university Grace had fallen in love with Catherine when she welcomed her with a huge smile and an offer of the best side of the room. As soon as Grace met her family, she understood what was so appealing to her about Catherine.

Catherine came from a loving family. She had older twin brothers who teased her with gentleness, but never cruelty. She had a father who was quiet and kind and a mother who seemed more like a wonderful best friend than a mother. At least, that was how it seemed to Grace at the time.

The first time she had gone back with Catherine to her home in Dorset, Grace had peppered Catherine with questions about her family all the way there. She had seen pictures of the brothers – open faces, large smiles, sporty – and had an image of Catherine’s mother as a svelte, elegant woman in slacks and ballet pumps.

They turned off the main road just outside Sherborne, onto a pretty country lane, twisting around until they reached the thatched farmhouse at the end.

‘This is your home?’ Grace breathed, gazing at the picture-perfect Dorset stone house, roses climbing up the walls and over the arbour in the front garden. ‘It’s gorgeous!’

‘Only on the outside.’ Catherine parked her Mini next to a battered Saab and an old MG Midget in the driveway. ‘Inside it will be upside down, guaranteed. The boys are home, which means total chaos for the next week. Are you absolutely sure you’re prepared for this?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ Grace had said, because she had spent much time gazing at the photograph of Catherine’s brothers and was particularly interested in Robert, who Catherine described as the broodier of the two. He was also, at least in this photograph, infinitely more handsome. Patrick, or Twin B, as Catherine often called him, had a cheeky charm, but not the smouldering looks of the more serious brother.

‘Moonface!’ The back door burst open as a boy in football shorts and an unbuttoned plaid shirt came barrelling towards the car.

‘Moonface?’ Grace turned to Catherine, an eyebrow raised.

‘A childhood nickname. Obviously one I adore.’ She opened the car door and tumbled out, grabbed by her brother, who danced her around the gravel driveway as she laughed and pretended to try and push him away.

‘God, Patrick. You’re still a huge pain in the arse.’

‘Why? Because I’m showing my baby sister the love? Don’t be so ungrateful. Where’s this gorgeous redhead you told Robert about? And why did you tell Robert and not me?’

Grace stepped out of the car, clearing her throat, although she realized as she did so she was meant to hear that. She was already smiling in secret delight – Catherine had talked to Robert about her? She had no idea!

‘Seriously, Catherine.’ Patrick stood still, looking at Grace. ‘Why did you tell Robert and not me?’

‘Mostly because Grace would never be interested in a little squirt like you.’

‘Bollocks,’ he said, regaining his composure as he walked over to Grace, arm extended. ‘I’m Patrick,’ he said. ‘I’m the very funny one. Entertaining. And far more brilliant than Robert. He is good-looking, but no personality. Shame. You’re much better off with me.’

Grace burst out laughing. ‘I rather suspect I’m much better off without either of you.’

Patrick placed a hand on his heart, hurt. ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘You can’t take away all my hope already.’

‘Yes she can,’ said Catherine, pulling their suitcases out from the back seat. ‘And she did. She’s my friend and not interested in either of you. Now be a gentleman and grab these cases.’

‘Your wish is my command.’ Patrick swept low to the ground in a mock bow before grabbing the cases and disappearing inside.

‘Sorry,’ Catherine said. ‘Very annoying. Let’s go and find Mum.’ Grace followed her in the back door, old worn hearth stones on the floor, dog beds pushed to the corner, and piles of boots that probably should have been, might even once have been, lined up neatly in pairs, but were now scattered haphazardly around the hall.

In the corner was the culprit – a large, hairy lurcher holding down a hiking boot with its paws as it gnawed on the tongue.

‘Boscoe!’ Catherine crooned in delight as the dog looked up, dropped the boot and leaped towards her in paroxysms of joy, standing on its hind legs and licking her all over the face as Catherine giggled. ‘No!’ she said weakly. ‘You’re not supposed to be standing.’

‘Oh, Boscoe.’ An older woman’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. ‘Tell him to get down, darling. The dog trainer was here last week and she said we have to stop him jumping on everyone. She was very stern.’

‘Did she tell him to stop eating boots?’ Catherine and Grace both looked down at the boots piled everywhere, noting how many of them had distinct teeth marks in them.

‘She came because he’s been eating Jim’s chickens. He keeps escaping and heads straight for the farm. I swear, he knows exactly which days Jim lets those poor little things free range. He never tries to go over there on the days the chickens are kept in the run. We’ve turned it into a verb. The poor chickens have been Boscoed. I told Jim we’d pay for a new flock.’

‘New flock? How many has Boscoe eaten?’

‘I think it was eight at the last count. Oh,
hello
!’ The voice manifested itself in the doorway, in the form of a large woman, tall, voluptuous, her hair a mix of dark and grey, gathered up in a loose clip at the nape of her neck. She was in a long flowery skirt, a T-shirt, Birkenstocks, and a white apron tied tightly around her waist. Tiny gold flowers in her ears, a matching pendant on a fine gold chain, she had Catherine’s huge smile and was quite the most beautiful woman Grace had ever seen.

‘You must be Grace! Look at that stunning hair! Good Lord. We’ll have to keep Robert away from you.’

Grace blushed, her skin turning a hot red as she busied herself pretending to look for something in her backpack. ‘Nice to meet you Mrs Propper,’ she said, praying her skin calmed down so she could actually look up again.

‘Don’t call me “Mrs Propper,”’ said Catherine’s mother. ‘It makes me feel desperately old. Call me Lydia.’

‘Mum, you look desperately old with that grey hair. Since when did you stop dyeing it?’

‘Don’t you say anything about my grey hair!’ Lydia said sternly. ‘I’ll have you know I am enormously proud of my grey hair. I’ve decided there are far too many chemicals in hair dye. The only thing I’m comfortable using is henna, but every time I’ve tried it my hair turned orange. I’m growing everything out. Your father and I both quite love it.’

‘I don’t think you look old at all,’ Grace said honestly. ‘I think you’re absolutely beautiful. You have such a young face, and your grey makes it all the more striking.’

‘Bless you!’ Lydia put an arm around Grace and squeezed her close. ‘I like this one,’ she said to Catherine. ‘She can come again. Flattery will get you everywhere,’ she said to Grace, who looked stricken.

‘I wasn’t saying it to flatter . . .’

‘I know. I was joking. It was a lovely thing to say and what’s more, I know you meant it. Come on in and my apologies for the mayhem. It’s the twins. When they’re not here, it’s bliss. Next time I’ll make sure it’s just us girls.’

Grace felt a surge of joy at the possibility of there being a next time. Here five minutes, already she wanted to be part of this family. She wanted her boots chewed up next to theirs, her coat hanging on the coat pegs along the wall. She wanted Boscoe jumping all over her, older brothers who teased her mercilessly, a mother who was so comfortable in her skin, in her beauty, she could let her hair go grey, safe in the knowledge it didn’t reduce her charm, or grace, or power.

Grace wanted to live just like this.

The kitchen was exactly what she would have expected, exactly what she would have chosen for her own kitchen, only messier, but even that was perfect. An old scrubbed pine table in the middle, a basket in the centre overflowing with newspapers and bills that had yet to be opened.

A huge red Aga tucked into a brick opening, copper pots and pans hanging from a pot rack above. A wood dresser that took up one entire wall, its shelves crammed with plates and bowls, and a sofa tucked into the bay window, two cats contentedly curled into balls on the cushions.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Grace nodded as Catherine darted out to the hallway.

‘I’m just going up to my room. Back in a sec,’ she said as Lydia handed a tin to Grace.

‘Grab some biscuits and put them on a plate would you, Grace? Make sure there are lots. The boys wolf them down like they’re going out of fashion. Honestly, I’m thinking of opening a Bourbon factory.’

Grace laughed, getting a plate and thinking how it is so often the simplest of pleasures that has the ability to make you happy. The thought of her own mother making tea, or keeping a biscuit tin, was almost laughable, let alone lifting the pot of a big orange Le Creuset to check that whatever delicious meat within was braising the way it should be.

‘So tell me all about yourself, Grace,’ said Lydia, pulling up a chair. ‘Do you love university? I know Catherine adores it, and largely because the two of you are as thick as thieves. Where are your family from? Brothers? Sisters? Please tell me your home is tidier than this one.’

Before Grace had a chance to answer, the garden door opened, as Robert walked in. Grace caught her breath.

He was one hundred times better looking than his photograph, in tennis whites that showed off the tan of his arms and legs. He was, quite simply, the best-looking boy Grace had ever seen. She felt her skin start to flush again as he looked at her before walking across the kitchen without a word and dumping his tennis racquet in the back passage.

Thank you, God,
Grace prayed silently. For sending me a roommate with a godlike brother, and for having his intervention mean I don’t have to talk about my family.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

‘Robert!’ Lydia said. ‘That was rude. Come and say hello to Grace.’

‘Hello, Grace,’ called Robert from the other room.

‘I’m sorry.’ Lydia shook her head in despair at Grace. ‘You think you raise your children well and teach them good manners and they become thugs anyway.’

‘I’m not a thug, Ma.’ Robert came back in the room. ‘I’m just distracted. Hello, Grace.’ He looked at her, but without a smile. In fact, if Grace didn’t know better, she would have decided he was almost glaring at her, but why on earth would he dislike her? He didn’t even know her.

‘Thank you,’ Lydia said. ‘Where’s your brother? The kettle’s almost boiling. Can you call him in for tea?’

‘Patrick!’ bellowed Robert, not moving, making Grace jump. ‘Teatime!’

‘Oh, Robert.’ Lydia shook her head again. ‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. Please just go and find him.’

‘I can’t. I’m not talking to him. He got bored playing tennis and just walked off, leaving me on my own. Bastard.’

‘I give up.’ Lydia threw her hands in the air and walked to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Catherine?’ she called up. ‘Go find Patrick and both of you come in for tea.’