Playing Grace (18 page)

‘I think biology is a lot more complex than that, Mum.’

Felicity shook her head as if she couldn’t even put into words how she was feeling, and Grace considered taking advantage of this pause to get her mother out of the building. Too late, Felicity was off again.

‘You know who he reminds me of?’ she said with a sly look back up the stairs.

‘Mark’s home this weekend,’ Grace said coolly. ‘Home and a lot put out that Dad – you remember Dad? – that Dad is living in my flat. Still, every cloud … we’re going to a good hotel to make up for it.’

‘How long’s he back for this time?’ Felicity said, hitching her bag up her arm and reordering her bangles. She had the stroppy look on her face that she always had when Mark was discussed.

‘Just Friday and Saturday night here, plus a stopover in Birmingham to see friends. Then he’s off again. Kazakhstan, if you’re interested.’

There was a sulky set to Felicity’s mouth as she moved along the hall. She didn’t even return the wave Bernice gave her as she walked past Far & Away’s door. Grace knew this meant that she was saving herself for one last grenade that she could chuck to re-establish that she knew the ways of the universe better than anyone.

Sure enough, prior to stepping out into the street, her mother paused with one hand on the door, rearranged herself and her cape and said, ‘He’s not one of us, that Mark. His aura’s rotten too – that’s what you get from messing about with Mother Earth; drilling away at her skin. And you …’ She pointed back up the stairs and
dispensed the kind of knowing look that suggested she had a direct line to some ancient wisdom, ‘you’re in trouble, my girl.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ Grace replied, hoping her mother couldn’t hear the rapid beat of her heart running under the words, but her mother was gone.

Grace walked slowly back up the stairs, trying not to think about what her mother had just said, but about Jay Houghton and the mad idea for a business. Well, at least she now knew why her father had got into an almighty huff.

As she pushed open the door to Picture London, Grace could have been forgiven for thinking she’d walked into a rerun of events from that morning: there was Tate lying full length on the sofa, his hands behind his head and his feet in those boots, hanging over the end of the sofa cushions.

‘Now, that is one interesting mom,’ he said as she passed him. He opened his eyes. ‘And you’re one of four sisters, huh? So, let me see if I’ve got this right … Aurillia, Zinovia True and Serafina. Pretty exotic names.’ He lifted his head. ‘What happened to you? Just the one name, the one syllable?’

‘Sorry. I think my parents ran out of ideas.’

‘You sure? I mean, you don’t have some exotic name you’re hiding away?’

‘No, I’m just plain and simple Grace.’

He laid his head back down and did a movement that suggested he was sorting out some kinks in his backbone and Grace was glad he had a big shirt on and not a T-shirt that would have ridden up to reveal his stomach, which she suspected was tanned and flat and …

She concentrated extra hard on being dull and not thinking about his skin.

‘Plain and simple?’ he said, turning his head to look at her. ‘Don’t think so. Unless they mean something different in the UK. Do they mean something different?’

A flash of need ripped through Grace – she had the urge to hitch up her skirt, sit astride him on the sofa and take his face between her hands and kiss it roughly.

‘I think I can hear my phone ringing,’ she said, moving away quickly, and he laughed and said, ‘You got dog hearing?’ but let her go.

She went back into the office, automatically sitting at her desk and sipping at her tea before she registered it was cold. Her hand wasn’t as steady as it had been when she was drinking it before. She wondered if Tate still had his eyes open in reception, if his head was still turned.

No, no, no. She had to stop wondering anything about Tate. Felicity’s visit had disturbed her more than she’d imagined, made her lower her guard so that all kinds of
things had come out to ambush her. Not good enough, Grace. Must try harder.

She scrolled through her emails, hoping there was enough potential irritation there to distract her – oh yes, three from her sisters, no doubt replying to her mother’s earlier plea for sympathy. In their various locations around the world they always seemed a step behind. They were still dealing with their father relocating to Grace’s flat, while she was having to get used to the Jay Houghton development.

Tell Dad not to adhere so strongly to patriarchal dictates
, was one of the choicer lines from Aurillia’s email. Zinovia True, who seemed to be going under the name of Zino T. this week, advised her mother and father to seek counselling to work through the issues they’d been sublimating for years. Serafina told them to try rebirthing. In front of an audience.

She heard Tate get up off the sofa and wanted to curl up in a ball to keep everything safe and out of his reach. She read Serafina’s email again, slowly, word by word. Tate ambled in, yawning. ‘You want the table moved back?’

‘I’ll do it. You can go if you want.’
Please. Go
.

‘Hey, I can move a table. Anyways, I have a mom too, and she’s red hot on tidying up.’ Grace didn’t look at him as he yawned and stretched, or when he bent to pick up
the table, or put it back down by the wall. She didn’t even look in his direction when he had to bend again to retrieve the kettle. It was only when he laughed that she couldn’t stop herself from seeing what was so funny.

‘Bet you were worried that you were gonna come back this afternoon and find reception in a big old mess?’

‘Not at all.’

He glanced up at her to deliver his disbelieving look. It made her go back to her email.

‘So, I’m out of here.’ He put on his great big coat and picked up the dirty mugs, looping them on the fingers of one hand. ‘Just take these into the kitchen, give ’em a rinse, say night to Al.’

He didn’t need to: they both heard Alistair’s door open and he appeared, looking into the room first, Grace presumed, to see if Felicity had gone.

‘Mother all right?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Hell of a woman,’ Tate said.

Alistair didn’t comment on that; he had suddenly noticed Tate’s taped masterpiece.

‘Found it in a dumpster,’ Tate said proudly. ‘Think it looks kind of edgy … real.’

‘Yes, very good, very good. A companion piece to the … uh … the Chinese thing,’ Alistair gushed, but to Grace his
body language was shrieking ‘there’s a mouldy, horrible chair in here. Please, God, don’t let any clients sit on it.’

She momentarily forgot her pledge to be non-confrontational. ‘It certainly intrigued the Austrian couple who were in earlier. Especially when it stuck to the woman’s skirt.’ The laugh she put at the end of the sentence got a boost when she saw Alistair frown and then died when Tate tilted his head and his green eyes flared and then narrowed.

‘You told Gracie about tomorrow, Alistair?’ he said as if relishing every word, and Alistair leaped out of his contemplation of the hideous monstrosity of a chair to say enthusiastically, ‘No, slipped my mind. Now Grace …’ His expression suggested he was about to tell her something wonderful, which gave Grace enough warning to maintain an absolutely neutral face. ‘Tate and I thought it would be a good idea if we all accompanied him to a few of the studios on his list tomorrow afternoon. Maybe a gallery as well? Just so that we can all see what he’s going to do with the clients. Get a bit of cross-fertilisation going in the company.’

Grace thought that sounded a bit sexual, and the way Tate was now looking at her suggested he did too. She felt hot, as if the sun were shining directly on her.

‘You haven’t got anything on after lunch, have you, Grace?’ Alistair hurtled on.

‘If she hasn’t it’ll sure make that cross-fertilisation easier.’ Tate winked at her, but the joke went over Alistair’s head.

‘So,’ he said, nodding earnestly, ‘if you’ve got nothing on, Grace, we can all have a good run at it.’

Tate burst out laughing. ‘Boy, now I’m looking forward to it even more.’

‘I’m available all afternoon,’ Grace said, not quite managing to choose words that were innuendo-free.

‘Excellent. Gilbert’s coming along too.’ Alistair did one of his strange arm swings. ‘I personally can’t wait. Could do with getting in touch with the … the street. Excited too, Grace?’

Tate was watching her again.

‘Very,’ she enthused to a bit of wall between him and Alistair.

‘Perfect. So if that’s settled, I’ll see you tomorrow, Tate. Oh, and give me those cups; save you having to tramp through my office to the kitchen.’

Grace saw the flash of a silver ring as Tate unhooked the cups from his fingers.

‘No need for you to stay late,’ Alistair called back to Grace as he went out. When he got back to his office, they both heard him lock his door.

‘What’s he got in there?’ Tate asked. ‘Weapons-grade plutonium?’

She stayed silent.

‘Locked doors, locked doors,’ Tate went on as if musing to himself. ‘Lot of them in this office.’ He was looking directly at her again.

She blanked him.

He came nearer. ‘So, perfect end to your day, finding out about the tour tomorrow?’

‘Not at all. Looking forward to it.’

‘Really? Would have thought it was just what you needed – more time in the company of … how did you describe me to Gilbert? An obnoxious, opinionated American?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘So I’m silly as well?’

She knew he was playing with her.

‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, I thought you were those things before I knew you.’

‘And now you know me you don’t think I’m any of those things?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘What am I now then?’

‘What?’

‘How would you describe me now?’

She swallowed. ‘Very nice.’

He burst out laughing. ‘Jeez, Gracie, try and hold yourself
back, will you? “Very nice” – that one of those Brit-speak things that means the opposite?’

She left a gap that was just a beat too long before saying, ‘I’m sure I’ll really enjoy your tour …’

‘Planning to fall asleep, get your own back?’

‘No.’

‘I would if I were you.’

‘I’m not that immature.’

There, he’d got what he wanted: she’d shown him she had claws. He was now sitting on the edge of her desk. ‘OK,’ he said, counting off on his fingers. ‘So now I’m obnoxious, opinionated, silly and immature? I swear, Gracie, you’ve got the best way of insulting people. So polite.’

‘I didn’t mean it like—’

He waved his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m all of those things. And more, probably. So, Gracie …’

‘It’s Grace,’ she said flatly. ‘One syllable, remember? We discussed that earlier?’

He nodded. ‘Oh, yeah. Grace.’

His tone suggested he didn’t believe it was her real name. She felt a sense of unease twist and turn in her stomach and concentrated harder on breathing and moving slowly and not, whatever she did, showing her disquiet. She needed him to go.

‘I’ll be heading home in a minute,’ she said, brightly. ‘Are you off anywhere nice?’

‘Trying to get me to leave?’ he asked, and before she could deny it, he was standing up. ‘OK, OK, I get the hint. Stop asking me questions. Stop sitting on my desk. I’m a busy woman.’ He didn’t appear to be put out about it: he still had a faintly amused expression on his face. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he called back as he went through reception. She heard the outside door open and close.

‘Oh, give me strength,’ she said out loud to the empty office as she crossed her arms, pitched forward and rested her head on the desk. She was going to close her eyes, but she caught sight of his horrible chair and suddenly she felt as if she wanted to do something vaguely wrong, something against her own rules. Take a bit of a potshot at Tate bloody Jefferson.

She got up and sat in Tate’s chair, and with a deft move of her legs scooted it towards the wall with a thump. She laughed and propelled it towards the opposite wall. Another thump. She stopped to listen – no sound from Alistair’s office and if he did decide to come out, she’d hear him unlock his door. She wiggled her hips and the chair went first one way and then the other. It reminded her of the way she used to dance on the table in that bar, invariably cracking her head on the light as the evening wore on. She
did a bit more scooting and bumped into the filing cabinet and the wall again and then she pirouetted round one way, braced her legs and stopped. Something about the movement reminded her of a gunfight, that moment when the pacing away has to end and the cowboy spins around to fire. She turned quickly again and drawled, ‘Reach for the sky,’ as, with a quick flick of her hands, each one in the shape of a gun, she executed a perfect mime of guns being drawn. ‘My name’s Tate, Tate Jefferson, the fastest artist in the West, here to stir up trouble and then hightail it out of town.’ It made her laugh and seemed to take some of the sting out of all that piss-taking he’d done and the discontent at being roped into one of his bouncy, bouncy tours of cutting-edge art. It seemed to put him back where he needed to be – an overenthusiastic boy, as feckless as Jay Houghton.

She put her hands down again and pushed off even harder this time with her feet, making the chair do two whole revolutions before it came to a stop. It made her feel giddy and slightly light-headed and this time her laugh was louder. She flicked her hands up again. ‘Hold steady there, pardner,’ she drawled, ‘I wanna peer at you with these green eyes of mine. Get right under your skin.’ She made some shooting noises and spun the chair again and then nearly dislocated both her knees and her hips by
slamming her feet on the ground as she caught a blurred vision of Tate standing in the doorway.

The chair came to a jarring halt and she realised she still had her hands in the shape of guns and dropped them like stones to her side.

She didn’t know whether she was going to die of heart failure or a hernia and she wasn’t actually sure she blurted out, ‘I thought you’d gone,’ but he was shaking his head and saying, ‘Nope,’ so she must have done.