Authors: Sarah Manning
Unsticky (23 page)
Grace peered curiously at the elegant Georgian house, while she remembered to stay seated like she didn’t have full use of her limbs, until the driver opened her door. Actually, no, not her door, but Vaughn’s door.
‘I’ll be in touch soon,’ he said, brushing his hand against Grace’s cheek and leaving her open-mouthed, astonished and unkissed as he got out.
The next day, as Grace sat at her desk desultorily opening the post, she wondered if she’d ever hear from Vaughn again. It wasn’t like she’d been panting to get her hands on hot, naked Vaughn flesh but she’d have honoured the terms of their agreement, whereas he’d obviously decided that she was sexually repulsive. When Grace had got home the night before, she’d stood on a chair in the bathroom to look in the mirror and had realised that the dress made her arse ginormous. That was it. She was a great, fat bloater with stupid hair and no conversational skills and Vaughn was going to call the whole thing off. Which was fine by her, though if he wanted her to return some of her monthly retainer she’d have to write him an IOU.
It seemed best to skulk in the fashion cupboard until she’d got her head straight. Or straight-ish at any rate. There had been several deliveries over the last two days, which Grace hadn’t got round to sorting out, and as she surveyed the messy rails and shelves she decided that it was no surprise that her life was in such disarray: she was surrounded by chaos.
She was happily colour-coding tights when one of the interns stuck her head round the door. ‘You’ve got a delivery.’
Grace didn’t even look up. ‘Be a love and shove it under my desk so no one pinches it, please.’
‘You have to come and look!’ the girl exclaimed breathlessly. ‘They’re so pretty.’
Grace took the bait, jumped off the kick steps and stuck her head round the door. Her desk was completely obscured by a huge bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper - a humble affectation employed by all the really chichi florists. Grace approached cautiously, the peppery, delicate scent of freesias assaulting her nostrils before she’d even taken two steps out of the cupboard.
‘They’re beautiful,’ the intern chirped. ‘Must have been one hell of a row if your boyfriend’s sending you flowers from Wild at Heart to say sorry.’
‘I haven’t got a boyfriend,’ Grace muttered, snatching up the flowers and rooting through the freesias and tiny bud-like roses, all in the duskiest shades of lilac, to get to the prize. Her fingers closed around the card.
Thank you for a lovely evening
, it read in an unknown hand. Not his heavy black scrawl but whoever Ms Jones had dictated the message to over the phone. It was probably a task she had programmed into her calendar for the morning after each one of Vaughn’s dates.
, it read in an unknown hand. Not his heavy black scrawl but whoever Ms Jones had dictated the message to over the phone. It was probably a task she had programmed into her calendar for the morning after each one of Vaughn’s dates.
‘They’re from a PR,’ Grace said shortly, tucking the card into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘You can take them home, if you like - my hay fever is way out of control at the moment.’
It was the first sensible thing that Grace had done since her birthday. And although when she got home that night she questioned the wisdom of stashing the card carefully in one of the side pockets of the Marc Jacobs bag, she wasn’t going to waste time angsting about it.
Over the next few days, there were other things to angst about. Like a daily torrent of official-looking envelopes or Kiki rejecting every single piece that Grace had called in for a winter coats story. And there was Lily turning into a bridezilla before Grace’s very eyes.
‘Would you hate me if I made you wear a buttercup-yellow bridesmaid dress?’ she asked Grace as they headed into Sainsbury’s after work.
Grace didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Yup. And while we’re on the subject, that goes for puce, mustard, khaki and brown too.’
‘I would never make you wear mustard,’ Lily insisted. ‘But my bridesmaids have to look a bit crap so I outshine them.’
Grace considered braining Lily with a wire basket for one brief moment. ‘You know you’re beautiful,’ she said baldly. ‘No one is going to be looking at your bridesmaids.’
‘They better not,’ Lily said as she groped avocados. ‘I’ve already refused to have Dan’s nieces and my cousin’s kids anywhere near the aisle. Toddlers would look sweet in the wedding photos but they don’t follow direction.’
‘Selfish little bastards,’ Grace deadpanned, selecting three Granny Smith apples and heading over to soups. ‘I’m done,’ she called, picking up a carton of carrot and coriander.
‘Is that all you can afford?’ Lily asked, pausing her bridely woes as she took in Grace’s evening meal. ‘I could treat you to a ready meal, one of the posh ones.’
‘I need to lose some weight,’ Grace admitted, because if Vaughn did want to see her again, she’d probably have to get naked and she wanted to banish her lardy arse before that happened. ‘See, it’s hot so if I make soup, I can only manage half a cup and apples are the model-approved snack food of choice.’
‘Really? You don’t look like you need to lose weight,’ Lily said as she poked her friend’s belly with one cautious finger. If it had been anybody else, Grace would have had their hand off. ‘You’re looking pretty hot actually, Gracie. Who did your hair?’ she added in a slightly annoyed tone. ‘I could have got you in somewhere for free.’
‘Oh, I slapped some L’Oréal on and then there was this hairdresser on a shoot who did the highlights and the cut,’ Grace said hastily, turning to stare at the salad bar. ‘You were right about the black dye; it really wasn’t doing anything for me.’
‘But your skin is looking amazing too - even Maggie said.’ Maggie was the Beauty Director and Lily’s boss who didn’t tolerate blackheads or open pores in much the same way that Kiki wouldn’t tolerate bootcut jeans or flip-flops. ‘Is it your apple and soup detox?’
Grace had been relying on Lily not noticing anything that didn’t have the word root ‘bride’ so she could only stand there and flap her mouth and wait for sounds to emerge. ‘It’s that mineral make-up, Lils,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘It really is,’ Lily agreed, peering at Grace’s face. As she was a trained beauty professional who might be able to spot the signs of a tri-enzyme facial, Grace reared back in alarm - but Lily obviously didn’t see anything suspicious on her friend’s unusually blemish-free face. ‘So, anyway, let’s talk bridesmaid dresses again,’ she continued. ‘What about a pale lemon sherbet if you don’t like the buttercup?’
Grace was saved from having to answer by the distant trill of her usually silent BlackBerry, which was just as well because she was on the verge of agreeing to pale lemon sherbet because she felt so guilty about lying to Lily. ‘Hi,’ she said, her voice breathy with anticipation.
She needn’t have bothered. ‘Miss Reeves?’ enquired the frosty tones of Madeleine Jones. ‘This isn’t an inconvenient time?’
Lily was now reading the nutritional information on a packet of spaghetti Bolognese, her lips moving soundlessly. ‘I can talk for a bit,’ Grace said.
‘I’m couriering over rail tickets tomorrow morning,’ Ms Jones announced. ‘What time do you finish work on Friday?’
Grace sagged against the chiller cabinet in relief - she wasn’t completely and utterly disgusting, after all. ‘Tickets to where?’
‘Vaughn wants you to meet him at Babington House,’ came the answer. ‘Miss Reeves? What time can you get to Paddington?’
When Kiki had had a row with her husband, she often got Grace to book a room at Babington House in Somerset so they could spend the weekend making up. Or Kiki could spend the weekend having spa treatments. Either way, if it got the Kiki Simmons seal of approval then it was absolutely fine with Grace. More than fine. ‘You can call me Grace and I can probably be there by five.’ Kiki always left early on a Friday.
‘A car will pick you up at Bath Spa. They’ll be expecting you at Babington but I’ll email over all the details.’
‘Is this, like, a whole weekend kind of deal?’ Grace asked hesitantly, because the prospect of forty-eight hours with Vaughn took the lustre off the whole country-house thing. Also, it would be good to know how many pairs of knickers to pack. ‘Is Vaughn travelling down with me? Do I need to meet him at Paddington?’
‘Until Sunday afternoon and Vaughn will be flying in to meet you at Babington,’ Ms Jones said icily. God knows what her issue was.
‘Flying?’ Grace echoed.
‘Yes, in a helicopter.’
Lily had finished counting up carbs and was looking at Grace curiously.
‘OK, fine. Thanks for letting me know,’ Grace muttered. ‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the flowers. I thought you probably sent—’
‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Ms Jones said quickly, but it sounded as if the ice had slightly melted. ‘Have a good evening, Grace.’
‘You too. Work,’ she added to Lily, hoping to forestall her, but . . .
‘
Work?
How’s it going? Is that why you need to lose weight? Do you have to wear a uniform? What are the tips like? When did you get a BlackBerry?’
Work?
How’s it going? Is that why you need to lose weight? Do you have to wear a uniform? What are the tips like? When did you get a BlackBerry?’
‘Yes, work. It’s going OK, I’m still on probation. No, that’s not why I need to lose weight because there isn’t a uniform but I do have a dress code. No tips as yet and Carphone Warehouse were doing a special promotion.’ Grace smiled blandly as Lily opened her mouth to fire off another rally. ‘Really, it’s just a crappy old bar job but a bit posher than when I used to work at the Queen’s Head.’
Lily chortled happily. ‘Do you remember on your last night you were so pissed by eight p.m. they had to send you home in a cab?’
‘Yes, and halfway down the road we had to stop so I could puke my guts up,’ Grace finished for her. ‘And I haven’t drunk gin since.’
‘Only old ladies drink gin anyway.’ Lily tucked her arm into Grace’s as they ambled towards the checkout. ‘Now, if you’re really anti-yellow, how do you feel about a very pale orange?’
chapter thirteen
Grace opened the window of the light, airy attic room she’d been shown to when she arrived at Babington House and stuck her head out as far as she could without plunging to her death. Her internal organs felt as if they’d tied themselves together, making it hard to breathe, so she took deep gulps of country air and peered into the fading light at rolling lawns and, further in the distance, green fields and hedgerows dotted with wild flowers. She was sure that if she strained her ears, she’d be able to hear the lazy buzz of bees punch-drunk on their own pollen, or the faint mooing of cows in far-off pastures. Then the smell of something farm-like wafted around Grace’s nostrils and she slammed the window shut.
It was eight o’clock, and she had an hour to get her gameface on before Vaughn arrived at Babington House. Unless his helicopter crashed on the way, because helicopters had a habit of doing that. Not that Grace wanted Vaughn to die, but while it didn’t have a Vaughn in it, the room was lovely. Grace had never been inside a Swedish farmhouse but she imagined it would have similar exposed beams, minimalist fixtures and fittings, and carefully distressed furniture. Grace bounced experimentally on the huge bed whose pristine white sheets were probably going to get seriously rumpled later, then turned her attention to the roll-top bath.
It was 8.50 p.m. when Grace wriggled into a white broderie anglaise frock, then caught sight of herself in the mirror and made a horrified face - she looked far too virginal. In the end, she pulled on her trusty Ossie Clark sundress, because when in doubt she always went for vintage. She arranged her hair in a messy bun, and settled for a slick of lip-stain, a couple of coats of mascara and some powder to take the shine away. It was so hot that any more make-up would simply slide off her face.
Half an hour later, there was still no whirring of blades, no light tread on the stairs, no one coming into the room with some well-meaning constructive criticism about her outfit. Grace picked up her new copy of
Vogue Italia
and the Michael Chabon book she’d been picking at for the last two months and headed for the door. Amazed by her own daring, she texted Vaughn as she walked down the stairs.
Waiting for you on the terrace. Hope everything is OK.
Grace didn’t think he would appreciate smiley faces and missed vowels.
Vogue Italia
and the Michael Chabon book she’d been picking at for the last two months and headed for the door. Amazed by her own daring, she texted Vaughn as she walked down the stairs.
Waiting for you on the terrace. Hope everything is OK.
Grace didn’t think he would appreciate smiley faces and missed vowels.
Once she was seated at a quiet end table on the terrace, with a faint breeze stirring the sticky night and candles to keep the midges away, Grace felt less like she was about to hyperventilate. A tureen-sized glass of Sauvignon Blanc helped too. She flicked through
Vogue
, and made no attempt to even open
Kavalier & Clay
.
Vogue
, and made no attempt to even open
Kavalier & Clay
.
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