Playing Grace (16 page)

So all in all a good morning and now there was only a wisp of unease remaining about Tate’s colonisation of her office and her starchy reaction to it. If she was going to cope with this, she had to relax into this role of uninteresting Grace. Nothing he had done threatened her – the chair, the sleeping, the friends, treating her as a waitress. She watched another leaf elegantly pirouetting to the grass. Even those jibes of his weren’t nasty, more teasing. His behaviour in Far & Away, however, had been pretty calculated. And Gilbert … Gilbert who had been eager to go and join in the happy throng upstairs. What was she feeling about that? Jealousy, perhaps, but also a sense of unease that made her wonder again whether she shouldn’t, the very next time she saw him, mention Samuel and that soft look. The kind of soft look Norman had on his face when he talked about his wife.

She watched some more leaves, a woman pushing a boy on a tricycle, some foreign students joking and eating sandwiches. She should stop fretting. It was only possible for Tate to make her feel as if she was staring down at a very steep and slippery path, if she let him. The first morning had been a bit of a baptism of fire; things would get easier. Forgetting to phone Gilbert about his cheque didn’t mean
she was losing it again. Everyone forgot things now and again, even, she laughed to herself, the mighty Grace.

She got out her mobile and did a countdown in her head. As she reached one, it rang.

‘Hi there, gorgeous,’ Mark said.

‘Hello, yourself. Punctual as ever. How are things?’

‘Fine, fine … Look, can’t stop long, lots to do before I pack up and ship out. I’ll be on the flight that gets in at 4.30 – Heathrow, not Gatwick this time. So that means I should be at your place about 7, 7.30.’

‘Right. Lovely … but Mark …’

‘Something wrong?’

‘Probably not … just thought I ought to mention that I have my father staying at the minute. He should be gone by Friday, but he’s had some kind of falling-out with Mum, major one this time—’

‘For God’s sake,’ he said sharply, ‘your Mother! You know, Grace, she really needs to grow up.’

Grace felt the momentary indignation that arises when you hear anyone else voice a criticism of your loved ones, even if you are quite happy to hear it come out of your own mouth.

She heard Mark sigh, imagined the quick flick of his eyes skywards. He was probably regretting having rented out his own flat, a father-free zone in Chiswick.

‘So, when you say he should be gone by Friday, you only mean that you hope he will be? It’s not definite?’ Mark’s tone still sounded aggrieved, causing Grace to say, with as much conviction as she could, ‘I’m sure he’ll be back home by Friday. Really sure. My flat isn’t big enough for me, him and his hobby.’

‘I don’t know, Grace.’ There was silence and then, ‘Look, let’s forget about your flat. Let’s book into a hotel. What’s the name of that nice one, near the park in Kensington? Let’s go there.’

‘Are you sure? It’s quite pricey.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ve been working hard, I need a bit of luxury. Besides, it’s only a couple of nights. Book us in there, will you?’ The sharpness in his tone was now replaced by the one he used to show he was in charge of the situation. Grace very much liked that voice of his, confirming as it did her own view that any obstacle could be overcome if you had the determination to do it. Mark laughed. ‘I’ll come straight there from the airport. You can get the bed warmed up before I arrive.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘And we’ll have room service … the whole weekend. I want the kind of weekend where we won’t even know what the weather’s doing outside the window. Sound good?’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

Grace heard a phone ring in the background. ‘OK, Grace, I better answer that. You get it booked, yeah? I’ll sort out the money later. See you Friday. Cheers.’

‘Bye, Mark. Safe journey.’

She waited to hear if there were any last endearments brewing, but he had gone. A few minutes later she had booked the hotel and walked back through the park, bending to pick up a leaf on the way and twirl it between her fingers. She hadn’t been lying to Tate when she’d said a posh hotel ticked a lot of boxes for her. Mark understood that, understood her to the exact level she wanted to be understood and no further.

The prospect of Friday and Saturday night with Mark and a bit of luxury was still shimmering away when she dropped the leaf back on the grass and went out into Piccadilly, cutting through the backstreets to return to the office. She passed the end of a curved row of buildings and stopped. It would take hardly any time to build in a small detour. She retraced her steps, walked to a mid-point in the curve and smiled at the wooden doors with their brass, art nouveau handles and door plates. A weird hybrid gallery, this one; started by a father who collected everything from Hogarth to Hockney, the Shillingsworth was now run by the son who was only interested in anything produced after the year 2000. She had seen it on Tate’s list of the galleries he intended to tour.

Pushing open the doors, she walked into the hushed interior, the girl on the desk with her short blond bob and her take on a salwar kameez barely giving her a glance when she paid her entrance fee. Grace headed for the back of the building where the original wall had been removed and replaced by massive sliding glass doors leading to a cobbled courtyard. A large, hunched-over metal figure, with the head of a unicorn and the body of a man, turned slowly in a pillar of water pouring over it from a gold brain. Grace surveyed it through the glass, noticing how the water ran down the body before splashing into a pond full of metal snakes and finally emptying via a small square drain. The explanatory blurb next to the sliding door assured her the sculpture represented man’s higher nature being sublimated by his animal needs and the serpent’s call of sin. Grace didn’t recall the serpent’s call of sin being exactly like that, but the hunched-over nature of the figure was definitely touching a nerve.

She moved away and went to find what she had come here for. And there she was, off the main galleries, almost as if the current owner was building up enough gumption to get rid of her all together but had not quite managed it yet. She wasn’t as opulent as the icon in the Paddwick Gallery, and the infant she was holding seemed less life-like, but he still held his cheek against his mother’s and
she still looked out at the world as if hoping that someone would stop what was about to happen. Grace stayed for a while, not even looking at her watch. Let the world wait.

‘I know you’re probably not ready to draw a line under it all,’ she whispered to the icon before she left, ‘but can I just say how much I appreciate you listening.’

Back out in the street she walked more purposefully and had decided, by the time she reached the office, that she would ignore her father and get herself over to Newham once again. Mark was right: her mother needed to grow up, and her father too, come to that. If they were both acting like children, it was up to her to be the parent.

She waved at Bernice as she went past the door. Despite being on the phone, Grace saw her pull a face and mime something at the ceiling. Grace took it as a comment on Tate upstairs and made a similar face back. Esther twitched her lips in what could have been a scowl or smile.

Grace continued upwards, wondering what she might find when she arrived. Perhaps a full-scale party, a trashed office, Alistair tearing bits of paper into snowstorms in anger? No matter, she would sail resolutely through it all. The dangers were too great to tempt her to get emotionally involved in any way.

On reaching the office, she got a pleasant surprise – apart
from the grease stains on the magazines, all was as it should be. She heard Alistair’s door open.

‘Ah, Grace,’ he said, coming towards her at a canter, ‘just the person. Checked the copy for the leaflet: fine, fine. And thank you for amending the website, doing the emailers, you’ve been busy.’

‘No problem, Alistair.’ She moved to go into her office, but he put his hand up.

‘Actually, there is a problem, Grace.’ He motioned to the sofa and she hoped he might say the problem was with Tate. Perhaps Alistair had come back and found him dancing or even making out with Bebbie in front of potential clients. She sat and tried to match Alistair’s concerned expression.

‘The thing is, Grace, the problem I’m talking about is how sharp I was with you this morning. Over the kettle. And then I left you to train Tate.’

She conquered her disappointment that Tate was not on his way out of the company to tell him it didn’t matter.

‘No, hear me out,’ he insisted. ‘I realise it was hard for you being thrown together with Tate like that. After all, you didn’t make it to the pub on Friday so this morning it must have been like jumping right in with a virtual stranger and showing him what’s what. And then, to top it all, Emma rang and told me you have your dad staying.
Which made me feel even worse about being sharp with you. Now, I don’t want to pry, but I do want you to know I’m here for you. I’m here, and Emma’s here.’ He seemed as if he were going to give her a consoling pat on the knee, thought better of it and brought his hand to rest on the table. It looked beached and awkward and he obviously felt that too, as he moved it again. ‘So, don’t worry about finishing off anything else on your desk, you just take your time with your mother …’

Grace did a mental backtrack over those last words because she had been barely concentrating, thinking instead about how kind Alistair could be when he wasn’t in blustering boss mode.

‘I’m sorry? Take time with what?’

‘Your mother.’ Alistair nodded towards her office and Grace realised what Bernice’s mime had meant.

‘Felicity!’ she said, leaping to her feet. ‘Felicity is here?’

Alistair gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It’s all right, Tate’s looking after her.’

In her head, even as she launched herself at her office door, Grace could hear herself screaming,
Nooooooooooooooooo
!

CHAPTER
15

They both looked up as she came in, Tate sitting on his new-found treasure from the skip and her mother next to him, in the easy chair. Between them was the small table holding the tea and coffee things, moved from its usual position against the wall. With Tate in his billowing shirt and eye make-up and her mother in her usual boho get-up, she felt as if she’d walked in on Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb having a tea party and a cosy chat.

Grace didn’t begrudge them the tea, or the fact that the office had been rearranged, but she did very much mind the chat. While others swore by free-range meat, her mother was addicted to free-range conversation: she roamed at will, regardless of taboo or sensitivity. Nothing was off limits. Grace tried to read the expression on Tate’s face, hoping it might indicate what her mother had been saying. Apart from looking dazed, which was usual on first meeting Felicity, the message she was getting back from
his green eyes was,
You a foundling, Gracie? ’Cos this sure as hell isn’t the mother I’d have paired you with
.

‘Here she is, my gorgeous Grace,’ her mother said, struggling up from her chair, and whereas Grace had been on a state of high alert before, she now went straight to Defcon1. The last thing her mother had done was slam down the phone on her, so either this show of affection meant Felicity was feeling guilty (oh God, what had she been telling Tate?) or she wanted something.

Grace only got out, ‘Mum, how long have—’ before she was swaddled in her mother’s arms and engulfed by the smell of patchouli oil. And, oh no, it was one of those days when Felicity had not bothered with a bra. Grace tried to ignore her mother’s unfettered breasts squashing up against her own. Over her mother’s shoulder she saw Tate grin.

Grace waited until her mother’s grip lessened, having learned years ago that struggling to escape only made her hold on tighter.

‘You’re looking well, Grace.’ Her mother had brought out the soft voice she used in front of young men. ‘I’ve been talking to Tate … just chatting, till you came back. You didn’t mention you had someone new here. He’s been making me feel very welcome.’

‘How kind of you, Tate.’ Grace talked without taking her eyes off her mother. She was pleased to see that Felicity
was aware she was being scrutinised and was now starting to fret at the dangling ties on her peasant blouse.

‘No sweat. I’ve enjoyed it,’ Tate said, trying, half-heartedly, to maintain a straight face. ‘Felicity’s great, we’ve had a ball, haven’t we? She’s read my palm. Checked my aura. You name it.’

Felicity did something with her head and her laugh that combined the very worst features of a simper and a flirt.

‘Lovely.’ Grace meant exactly the opposite. ‘So glad you hit it off. But if you’ll just excuse us,’ she caught hold of her mother’s arm, ‘I need to show my mother something in … in … the toilet.’ Grace knew how weird that must sound, but having discounted hauling Felicity to reception because Tate would be able to eavesdrop, or the kitchen because it was likely Alistair’s door was locked and the route blocked, it was the only place left to interrogate her mother.

‘In the toilet, Grace? You’ve not had that problem …’ her mother did not get the chance to finish as Grace hustled her from the room and along the narrow corridor.

There was too much of her mother and too little toilet cubicle for either of them to fit in comfortably, but Grace had the shoehorn of determination on her side.

‘Right,’ she said, when she had managed to get the door shut and locked, ‘I am going to ask you this and you had
better give me an honest answer: what have you told him, Tate?’

‘Nothing, love, nothing. Like I said, we’ve just been chatting. He seems nice – different. What is he? Twenty-two, twenty-three? I like what he’s done with his eyes …’ Her mother trailed off and was trying to look anywhere but at her. In such a small space she soon ran out of possibilities.

‘Mu-um …’

‘Honest, Grace, I’ve said nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You haven’t mentioned Bill … or Spain?’