Authors: Sarah Manning
Unsticky (35 page)
The first week that Vaughn was away, Grace received her itinerary for December, which looked more daunting than she could have possibly imagined. There were a hell of a lot of parties hosted by ambassadors and Russians who owned Premier League football teams, and she needed to assemble twenty-five party outfits on £7,000. It was just as well that Grace loved solving fashion conundrums as much as her grandfather enjoyed playing Killer Sudoku. She’d even made a complicated flow-chart diagram in her Google documents when she realised that she’d pretty much worn every vintage dress that the hire place had in her size and they had nothing left in stock that hadn’t been booked months in advance for Christmas parties. Grace figured that she could double up at least five outfits if they were black dresses, three of which she could borrow from Celia, Lily and Posy as the four of them had made a pact to pool frocks to get them through the party season.
Luckily, Courtney and Lucie had a raft of discount cards between them and would let Grace borrow them ‘for Christmas presents and I totally need some statement dresses for all the parties coming up’ if she did their Christmas shopping while she was at it, which netted her a Luella dress, a ballerina skirt and a Burberry coat, which would draw people’s attention for long enough until she took it off to reveal a borrowed black frock.
Then there were other put-upon assistants employed by various fashion companies dotted all over London who’d give Grace hefty discounts and occasionally even lend her dresses, especially when she started calling in favours. A whole year’s worth of favours, and she owed fashion credits up the wazoo, but Grace was pretty proud of herself for doing designer on a limited budget, even though Kiki often complained that Grace always brought her problems and never solutions. But if this was a problem, then it was one that Grace didn’t mind having.
‘It would be like Cinderella moaning about getting blisters from her glass slippers,’ she told herself as she hung her newly acquired, begged, borrowed and heavily discounted dresses on one of the rails in the fashion cupboard, then struck a pose in front of the mirror. ‘Oh Grace, you poor thing, having to make seven grand go a long way because you’ve got so many high-falutin places to go and people to meet. Sucks to be you.’
She wondered how Vaughn’s other mistresses had coped and decided that they must have all been independently wealthy or that he’d had different arrangements with them; either way, Grace didn’t want to know.
Even though December was panning out to be the cruellest month, Grace was still determined to earmark at least £1,000 to pay off some of her creditors. When she received her allowances on the first of every month, she used a scientific method to select which bills to pay: this involved opening a shoebox, shutting her eyes and rooting around until she had three pieces of paper in her hand. Then she’d toddle off to the Post Office. So far, she wasn’t even paying the actual amounts she owed, but trying to make a dent in the interest and penalty charges and late fees so it felt like she was throwing a glass of water at a forest fire but it was a start. More than that, it was the endgame, it was the reason why she’d got into bed with Vaughn in the first place. Though at this rate she’d have to stay in his bed for at least three years before she was out of the red and luxuriating in the novelty of being in the black.
All in all, it had been a very fruitful fortnight. December’s outfits were half-assembled. She’d made major inroads into getting the fashion department on track to clear their Christmas deadlines, paid some bills, started getting her body bikini-ready and spent some quality time with Lily.
‘I’ve been given two weeks off before the Christmas rush,’ Grace told Lily when she’d asked why Grace wasn’t at her part-time job.
It had sent a pang of guilt hurtling through Grace at how pathetically grateful Lily was that she had time after work to come round and write lists and insert magazine tears in her wedding folder. And it was that same guilt that made Grace agree to Sunday lunch in Godalming so Lily could finally tell her parents she was up the duff and the May wedding that her mother thought she was getting caterers’ estimates for was going to be moved up. Way up.
It wasn’t just guilt though. Grace had been lured by the promise of roast potatoes cooked in goose fat too and stayed to make sure that Lily’s dad didn’t get down the shotgun above the mantelpiece and use it on Dan, who was now in Grace’s eternal debt.
‘Gracie, I think if you hadn’t been there, her dad would have broken my legs,’ he kept saying all the way back to North London. ‘I never dreamed they’d react like that.’
Lily had just smiled beatifically because the bad news was out of the way, the wedding was set for Christmas Eve and now Grace could get on with briefing the seamstress she’d found and a million other tasks she’d agreed to, because that pesky guilt made it impossible to say no. It was also why she’d spent two hours of her last free Saturday tasting cakes with Lily, not that it was a hardship, before rushing off to meet her grandparents outside John Lewis on Oxford Street.
She couldn’t help but smile when she saw them approach, refusing to be buffeted by crowds of Christmas shoppers. They rarely came up to London, which Grace was hugely grateful for, and the occasion warranted dressing up. Her grandmother was wearing the Betty Barclay suit that did for funerals, AGMs and occasional stints as a Justice of the Peace. And her grandfather was wearing a trilby hat and a three-piece suit. They were so adorably retro. Grace was overcome by tenderness as she skipped over to them.
Her grandmother gave her the usual peck on the cheek and perfunctory hug, but her grandfather squeezed her tight and scrubbed at her face with his whiskers, even though Grace wasn’t five any more and no longer squealed in delighted disgust.
‘It’s so good to see you!’ Grace exclaimed, hugging them again.
‘We hardly recognised you. You’ve got some colour in your cheeks for once.’ Coming from her grandmother, this was high praise. ‘Now, I just need to pop into Liberty’s and get some wool.’
‘There’s not much to buy,’ Grace said. ‘They’ve shrunk the yarn department right down but there’s this great little shop in Islington. You can get the bus back to Victoria really easily.’
‘We always go to Liberty’s for wool. Then we’ll go to that little café round the corner for some tea.’
‘It closed down,’ Grace said firmly, though she had no idea whether it had or hadn’t. But they had really horrible cheese scones in there and didn’t know how to make a proper latte. ‘I’ll take you to Patisserie Valerie. You’ll love it.’
It was hard shopping with her grandparents. They tended to make very loud observations about how expensive everything was and what a pity it was that Marshall & Snelgrove had closed down. They also needed regular bathroom breaks.
Finally, Grace managed to herd them to a corner table in Patisserie Valerie, and before they could start interrogating her on the state of her debts, career prospects and hair, presented them with the chocolate and pralines she’d bought in Paris two months ago. She had had to exercise every last drop of willpower not to eat them herself.
‘That’s very thoughtful, dear,’ her grandmother said. ‘I don’t like to cook with anything other than eighty-five per cent cocoa solids. But can you really afford to go to Paris? Remember the monthly spending spreadsheet Grandy drew up so you wouldn’t get into debt again?’
‘Maybe you got a pay rise at the office?’ her grandfather ventured. ‘Or you’ve been walking to work to save money?’
‘I went with a friend,’ Grace said quickly. ‘And we split the costs.’ Or, to be far more accurate, she’d bought Vaughn a coffee as penance for dragging him into a yarn shop. ‘And I have been making monthly payments, I swear.’
‘A
friend
?’ her grandmother queried, in the same way that Lady Bracknell would ask about handbags.
friend
?’ her grandmother queried, in the same way that Lady Bracknell would ask about handbags.
‘Yup, a friend. A mate. A pal.’ Grace took a sip of her coffee and tried to make her eyes look extra big and guileless. Her grandparents stared right back at her, like the time they’d known Grace had been drinking cider in the park because she’d been spotted by Mrs Singh from next door, even though she’d denied it vehemently. ‘A friend who’s a boy,’ she added, because she always cracked under pressure. ‘He’s very nice and I like him a lot and we totally had separate rooms.’ Which wasn’t a lie because it had been a suite with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a sun terrace.
‘What does he do?’ her grandfather asked, actually putting on his spectacles, all the better to scrutinise Grace’s every facial gesture.
‘He’s in art,’ she muttered.
‘Oh Grace, not another artist!’ Her grandmother sighed loudly, as she surreptitiously pocketed some packets of sweeteners. ‘Why can’t you find a boy with prospects?’
‘Not an artist,’ Grace insisted doggedly. ‘He’s
in
art. It’s a big difference.’
in
art. It’s a big difference.’
‘And how long have you been courting?’
Why couldn’t they say ‘dating’ or ‘seeing him’ like anyone else who was actually living in the twenty-first century? Grace shrugged. ‘A few months.’
‘How long is a few months?’ her grandmother enquired and Grace wished that she’d never started this.
She did some quick-ish mental arithmetic. ‘Nearly three months.’ Had it really been that long? Their three-month anniversary was coming up and actually things were improving, not going steadily downhill like they usually did at the three-month mark in Grace’s relationships. Not that it was a relationship, but still . . .
‘And you never mentioned him once during our phone calls.’ Her grandmother warranted this important enough to put down her cup. ‘Is it serious?’
‘Gran, we’re just hanging out. It’s not a big deal so don’t make it one.’
‘But he took you to Paris . . .’
‘No, we
went
to Paris together . . .’
went
to Paris together . . .’
‘Going away with someone is a big commitment, Grace.’ Her grandmother paused and seemed to be having slight trouble finding the right words. Maybe it was the first signs of Alzheimer’s. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet him at Christmas.’ Or maybe it was simply her grandmother moving in for the kill.
She made it sound so reasonable, so sensible, that for one brief moment Grace actually gave the idea serious consideration. Then she thought of Vaughn in their front room being ruthlessly interrogated by her grandmother and ignored by her grandfather, while he gazed at her toothy school photos, the antimacassars, the hideous reproduction of Gainsborough’s
The Blue Boy
which hung over the mantelpiece.
The Blue Boy
which hung over the mantelpiece.
Then Grace realised she was focusing on the wrong part of her grandmother’s sentence. ‘Hang on, you’re going to Australia for Christmas. It’s all you’ve been talking about for weeks.’
‘There’s been a change of plan,’ her grandfather piped up. ‘Doctor said it could be risky flying such a long way with my angina.’
‘And someone from the Mothers’ Union got deep vein thrombosis when she flew to Florida,’ added her grandmother. ‘Besides, it can be very hot in Australia in December, you know.’
‘I did tell you that but you said—’
‘So that’s why Caroline and Gary are going to fly over here,’ her grandmother continued, though she wasn’t looking at Grace any more, but at a fixed spot on the table. ‘With little Kirsty, of course.’
Grace immediately felt something in her chest clench so she wasn’t sure she could even breathe. She could still talk though. ‘You have got to be bloody kidding me!’
‘Don’t swear, dear,’ her grandfather said reflexively, but he patted her suddenly icy-cold hand. ‘Once you’re over the shock, I bet you’ll secretly be pleased to see your mother again.’
‘You think?’ Tears were falling fast and Grace tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, until a crisp square of white cotton was handed to her.
‘Come on, Gracie, don’t make a scene,’ her grandmother said, her voice soft now she’d delivered the killer blow. And God forbid that Grace should make a scene. Making a scene was right up there with tax evasion and mass genocide. ‘You’re both very different people to how you were fifteen years ago. If you’d talk to your mother, then you’d realise that.’
Grace curled her arms around herself protectively. ‘I can’t believe that you just spring this on me and think I’ll be cool with it. Because I am not! I don’t even want to be in the same room with her so I don’t really see us pulling crackers and passing the gravy over Christmas lunch. I’ll stay in London. Anyway, I told you Lily’s pregnant and she’s getting married on Christmas Eve now, so there wouldn’t be any way I could get from Godalming to Worthing after the reception.’
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