Saving Grace (30 page)

Grace nods.

‘I love you,’ he says, standing up to hold her.

‘I know.’ She smiles, allowing herself to be held, as Patrick gently unwinds the towel and lets it drop to the floor.

Grace immediately covers herself as Patrick gently takes her hands. ‘Stop,’ he says, gazing at her naked body with such love and such acceptance that Grace, so awkward in her nakedness now, starts to relax.

‘Please don’t lose any more weight,’ he says, tracing the roundness of her stomach, cupping her full breasts in each hand and leaning forward to kiss them. ‘I have never seen anyone more beautiful, more womanly than you.’

‘You’re biased,’ says Grace, who has not had anyone worship her body, be she fat or thin,
ever
.

‘Maybe. But I have known you at both sizes, and to me this is truly the most perfect you have ever been.’ His hand slips between her legs, and soon she is sighing with pleasure, as both of them sink back on the bed.

G
race awakens early. It is 5.34 a.m., but the possibility of sleep has gone. Patrick hasn’t bothered sneaking back to his own room so Lydia doesn’t find out. It wouldn’t have mattered, thinks Grace, for Lydia almost certainly already knows.

She turns to examine Patrick, fast asleep on his back, his strong profile reassuringly familiar, his body less so. She pulls the sheet down slightly, shivering with lust as she looks at his hands, remembers what they were doing to her just last night.

He has awoken her sexuality, something she had long ago put to bed in her marriage to Ted. It had been years since she had thought of herself as a sexual being, years since she has felt what it is to desire someone, to look at them and itch with longing.

I am home, she thinks, marvelling at the familiarity and safety of being with someone she has known, and loved, for so very many years.

She has loved him like a brother, but will never again think of him in that light. She studies his chest, watching it rise and fall, wanting to reach out and touch his skin, not wanting to wake him up.

I don’t want to leave, she thinks. Never have I felt more myself than during these days with Patrick. I don’t want to leave him, but this is not my life. This is not where I belong. This may feel like home, but it isn’t home. Home is where my family is, home is where my house is, my life.

Whether I want to or not, she thinks, Patrick is right: it’s time for me to go back to America.

She reaches out then, gently traces the profile of his face as he stirs, opens his eyes, rolls towards her.

‘What time is it?’ he mumbles.

‘Too early to get up,’ she says. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Why are you awake?’ His eyes are still closed, his voice thick with sleep, sluggish.

‘Too much on my mind. I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, about going home.’

Patrick opens his eyes then, sits up in bed, looks at Grace.

‘You’re right. I can’t hide forever, and I can’t move forward unless I go back. I’m going to see if there’s a flight tomorrow. It’s time.’

Patrick nods, but doesn’t speak, just looks down at the sheets.

‘Patrick? This was your idea,’ Grace says gently. ‘This . . . us . . . has been lovely. It has been the most gorgeous thing to have happened to me in years. But it can’t last. You know that, yes? You have your life in Los Angeles, and I’m married. Even if everything’s over, I can’t dive into something else. There are too many moving parts.’

‘I know,’ Patrick says quietly, still not looking at her.

‘I will always love you,’ Grace says. ‘And we will always be friends.’

‘Yes,’ says Patrick, reaching out to put his arms around her in a hug, blinking back the tears that have sprung so unexpectedly into his eyes.

I
n New York, in their Manhattan apartment, Luke stretches his long legs out on the sofa and pulls Clemmie down towards him as she walks past, saying, ‘I like this,’ kissing her as she shrieks and playfully tries to disengage.

‘I have to go,’ she says, pausing for a few minutes to sink into his arms. ‘What do you like?’

‘This. Us. Living together,’ says Luke, gesturing around the tiny apartment they had just rented together. ‘I even really like going to the bathroom and having girl things around.’

‘Girl things?’ She barks with laughter. ‘Like bras drying on the radiator?’

‘Yes. And makeup on the sink. It’s weird, but in a good way. It makes me feel all responsible and mature.’

‘Careful,’ says Clemmie. ‘Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to marry you.’

‘You should be so lucky,’ grins Luke as they both smile into each other’s eyes, knowing they are both far too young, that marriage is something only to be joked about, that if it were to happen for the two of them it wouldn’t be for years, something that stretches out into the future, allowing them to treat it lightly now.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to my dad’s?’ Clemmie’s voice catches itself. For years it was “to my parents”, and it has only been recently that she has started saying, ‘to my dad’s.’ It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel right. It lends a permanent air to a situation Clemmie prays is temporary.

She has spoken to her mum, but the conversations have been light, neither of them daring to speak about anything too deep, anything that may cause a wider rift. What she wants to say is, When are you coming home? When are you and Dad going to talk? Why is any of this happening? And most of all, Are you really okay?

Clemmie thinks her mother is. She sounds okay. She sounds like herself, and it has been a very long time since her mother has sounded like herself. Clemmie hadn’t even realized how bad things had got, but now she is hopeful it is over.

And if it is, couldn’t they all carry on with their lives as they were before? For a while Clemmie hoped she might be able to orchestrate them getting back together or, at the very least, her mother coming back home to America, where she belongs. At least if she were here, Clemmie might have a chance, but her mother is adamant that she has to be in England to get better.

Clemmie tried talking to her father, which felt awkward and wrong, as much for him as it did for her.

‘This isn’t something that’s appropriate for you and I to discuss,’ he said gruffly, turning away. ‘I’m sorry this is difficult for you, but it will resolve itself in the way it is supposed to.’

But how? thought Clemmie. How can this messy, awful situation ever resolve itself?

Perhaps by Clemmie being around more, she thought, aware always of the seed planted by her mother, that Beth would move in. But Clemmie has taken to turning up unexpectedly, walking into the house, her heart in her throat, expecting to find her father and Beth in flagrante, but there is never anything going on other than what you would expect between a writer and his assistant.

Admittedly, he seems to rely on Beth more. But why wouldn’t he? He says she is his saviour. The one woman who has got him through the most insane period of his life.

‘If it weren’t for Beth,’ he has said, numerous times, to Clemmie and to anyone else who will listen, ‘I don’t know how I would have survived.’

Word has got out now that Grace has bipolar disorder, has deserted her family after refusing the help she so desperately needed. Luckily, word hasn’t reached the press, but the village is buzzing with gossip, with people wanting to know, indulging in a spot of schadenfreude, for who does not enjoy seeing the mighty fall from grace, or indeed, Grace fall from the mighty.

C
lemmie doesn’t call before driving out to Sneden’s. She wants to collect her warmer coat, which hangs in the wardrobe in her bedroom, with the rest of the clothes she doesn’t have room to store in their tiny apartment.

‘Hello?’ she calls into the kitchen, out of habit, jolted always when her mother’s voice doesn’t sing down the stairs to her. The house feels dead, as if the life has been sucked out of it, which, Clemmie thinks, it has, despite the fresh flowers on the table and new curtains in the window. Odd, she thinks. Her father would surely never have bothered with new curtains.

Out to the barn to see her father, she stomps along the garden path, watching her breath mist in the air. Perfect timing for her coat, she thinks, pushing the door of the barn open.

‘Clemmie? What are you doing here?’ Beth walks out of the office at the end, holding a file. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

‘No. Sorry. I just came by to pick up a coat and say hi to my dad. Is he here?’

‘He’s very busy,’ Beth says. ‘He’s working on a deadline for an article to coincide with the launch of the new book. You know how he is when he’s working, he hates to be disturbed.’

Clemmie laughs in disbelief. ‘Right.’ Then peers at Beth, who does not smile. ‘Are you actually serious? Are you telling me my own father won’t see me because he’s busy writing?’

Beth smiles this time. ‘I know. Crazy, right? But you know how he is.’

‘Yes. I know how he is,’ Clemmie says slowly. ‘And he loves when I visit. Is he in the house?’

‘He’s in the city today,’ Beth says smoothly. ‘I think he’s working at the New York Public Library. He says every now and then it helps for him to change it up.’

‘Really?’ Clemmie doesn’t recall him ever saying anything like that before. ‘How odd. Beth? Is he okay? That doesn’t sound like him at all.’

Beth flashes a bright smile. ‘Everything’s great!’ she says. ‘You know, you can always give me a call before you come up. That way we know if he’s here or not. I know he’ll be sorry he missed you, and if you call next time we can make sure he’s here.’

Clemmie blinks at her. There is something . . . proprietary about Beth suddenly. Her mother’s words echo in her ears. Could she possibly be right?

‘Great idea,’ Clemmie says. ‘I’ll just quickly go and grab my coat.’

‘Want me to come?’ Beth says.

‘I’ll only be a second,’ lies Clemmie. ‘I have to dash straight back home. Luke has a concert tonight and the traffic’s hell.’

‘Luke has a concert? Why didn’t you tell us? We would have loved to come!’

‘Us?’ Clemmie raises an eyebrow.

‘Your dad.’ Beth laughs. ‘He hates going anywhere alone, so he tries to force me to go with him to lots of the events these days.’

Clemmie just nods, walking out of the barn, knowing that something is definitely not right.

O
f course she can’t just grab her coat and leave. Of course she goes straight upstairs to her parents’ room and opens the door, feeling sick and scared as she pushes it open, her eyes scanning the room for evidence.

It looks much as it always has. The same clock on her father’s side, the same pile of manuscripts and books. On her mother’s side a pile of books, but that is no proof that Beth is there – the books could have been left behind by her mother.

She pulls open the drawer. Nothing that is recognizably anyone’s, and it isn’t until she reaches the bathroom that she knows her mother is right. Makeup is dotted on the vanity unit, a lipstick, Beth’s lipstick, still with its cap off. Her mother’s brushes lie haphazardly on the table, having just been used, her robe thrown over the back of the chair, still damp from this morning’s shower.

‘Fuck,’ Clemmie whistles, turning as she hears footsteps.

‘I thought you were just going to get your coat and leave,’ says Beth from the doorway.

‘I thought you were just my father’s assistant, not his lover,’ says Clemmie. ‘I thought you’d have the decency to leave my mother’s things alone.’

‘If your mother were well,’ says Beth evenly, ‘I wouldn’t be here. You should be grateful someone is looking after your father.’

‘Grateful? Are you fucking kidding me?’ snorts Clemmie, pushing past Beth and pausing at the top of the stairs. ‘You have just proved my mother entirely sane and absolutely right about you. She said you had orchestrated everything, including making her appear crazy. She said you would do anything to get her out so you could get your hands on my father.’

‘Really?’ Beth’s voice is light, as if they are making polite small talk, a smile on her face. ‘I wouldn’t trust anything that comes out of your mother’s mouth. Poor thing,’ she says, turning and going back into the bedroom, closing the door with a sharp, but firm, click.

Clemmie reverses out of the driveway blind with rage. Beth’s smug face, her voice saying ‘poor thing’ echoing around and around her mind. She drives up the road, then pulls over, digging her mobile phone out from her pocket and calling her mother. The phone isn’t answered, it goes straight to voicemail.

Over and over, she calls. Over and over, she gets voicemail.

G
race dozes on and off throughout the flight. Her excitement at seeing Clemmie again is tempered by a pang of loss at leaving Patrick.

She didn’t expect to feel this, hadn’t expected to be so emotional at having to leave. It was more than that, she told herself, it was that she didn’t know when she would see him again.

‘We’ll phone,’ he whispered into her ear as they hugged goodbye at the airport. ‘I’ll email you every day. Maybe not every day, but at least once a month.’

Grace had laughed into his shoulder, pulling back to look him in the eye.

‘I love you,’ she said, turning away, swallowing the lump in her throat.

‘I’ve always loved you,’ he said, kissing her one last time before turning and walking away.

Her thoughts on the plane ride have been jumbled between Clemmie and Patrick, excitement and pain, no movie able to distract her from her circular, incessant thinking.

Sybil is standing in arrivals, her face in a wide smile of joy as she spots Grace, leaping forward to fling her arms around her, take her case, babbling at how wonderful Grace looks.

‘Look at you! Look at you!’ She keeps stopping in her tracks and turning to look at her friend. ‘Oh, Grace! How I’ve missed you! Nothing has been the same since you’ve been gone.’

They drive along the Van Wyck, Sybil talking and talking, asking questions, then interrupting Grace’s answers to tell her something else she has suddenly thought of.