Playing Grace (46 page)

‘Now you’re just being silly.’

‘’Nother thing, Gracie – I’m not Bill. He was a lazy sonofabitch and I’m not. Look at me: managed to paint, hold down two jobs, get arrested and fall in love with you.’

Her heart did a double beat at the way he said ‘love’ and he took her hand again and wrapped his around it. She let him, feeling the warmth start to spread down her fingers and into her wrist.

‘Know what else? His paintings are crap. Too showy. Bonfire was the best place for them.’

She loved the way he’d got himself into a temper on her behalf.

‘Come on, Gracie, get in the cab.’

‘I’ve got no clothes.’

‘Excellent.’

‘No passport.’

He pulled it out of somewhere in his coat. ‘Your dad brought it round that day he and Fliss visited. Hung on to it … still had hope.’ He opened it and raised his eyebrows. ‘So, I worked out you changed your name by deed poll. What’s the real one? Truth now.’

God, she loved him; she must do if she was prepared to tell him this: ‘Tahiti Supernova Larkspur.’

He looked as if he’d chewed something really cold. He
closed the passport. ‘You know, Grace is a really, really good name.’

‘Gracie’s better.’

He grinned. ‘Now, get in the cab.’

The prospect of such happiness still seemed unlikely. Could she really just go and not worry about the consequences? Maybe leave some of that guilt on the pavement?

‘Perhaps it would be better if you went first and I came out when you’re settled?’

‘Don’t think so. You’re gorgeous, I’m desperate for you, we’re going to Paris. Get in the cab.’

‘Tate …’

‘Come on, you’re going to be the grain of sand in my oyster: so irritating, I can’t help but make pearls.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Me neither. But what about this, Gracie? Understand this?’

His hand was on the skin at the base of her neck and the longer he kept it there, the more she felt the heat rolling and twisting in her.

‘Ohhh,’ she said, her breath coming in hard. ‘I feel like I flung myself on that bonfire. And you?’

‘Hand on fire, arms, groin, chest. Colours flashing in front of my eyes.’

‘Is that “color” without a “u”? Because if it is, that’s another reason for me not to come. We don’t even speak the same language.’

‘True, but actions speak louder than words.’ Suddenly he was kissing her, deep, urgent kisses, his tongue pushing into her mouth and his hands in her hair, and she was inside his coat, her arms locked around him. They stopped when it seemed like one of them might suffocate. ‘French kissing, Gracie. Loads more to come. Now, get in the cab. I want to take you to Paris and paint you.’

‘In sand and blood, like Bill?’

‘Nope,’ he said into her neck. ‘I mean paint
you
. There’s a shade of blue I want to start with at your wrist, like ice in your veins. Then a darker blue further up your arm, growing darker and darker until it’s red flame. Then, Gracie Surtees, I’m gonna take the finest brush and paint your nipples – haven’t decided what colour yet, but whatever colour I choose it’s gonna end up on the sheets, on my mouth, everywhere.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ she said, feeling every nerve-ending blow with the thought of it.

‘Sure as hell hope so. Get in the cab.’

She was still hesitating and he narrowed his eyes.

‘Time to step up to the plate, Gracie. Stop pushing me away. Get in the cab.’

‘Yeah, get in the bloody taxi, love,’ the driver shouted, throwing his folded paper on to the passenger seat.

Tate was moving away from her.

‘I can’t wear cheesecloth,’ she shouted after him.

He frowned. ‘OK … whatever that means. OK, no cheesecloth.’ He gave her one of his tender looks, opened the door and climbed in.

‘And you won’t let me fall?’

A definite, ‘No,’ came back to her.

Grace looked at the open door as the taxi started up again and thought of the risk and uncertainty, all the things that could go wrong. She thought of Capital H for History waiting for her on Monday morning and her flat, the paintings still under the bed, and Mark and all the reasons she couldn’t just up sticks and leave. And then suddenly, decisively, she kicked her shoes into the gutter, left one, right one, and sprinted towards the open door.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to Steven Davidson for advice on police procedures; to London Art Tours for information generously given which I messed about with shamelessly to fit my plot (sorry), and to the Courtauld Gallery for being inspiring and uplifting – I have borrowed its setting and some paintings, but that’s where the resemblance to my fictional Paddwick Gallery ends. An honourable mention too for Shanna Wells – her local knowledge of Rhode Island was invaluable, and apologies to Texan friends Leah, John and Evan. You are nothing like the Baldridges.

Huge gratitude, as always, to my agent Broo Doherty (sound judgement, calm voice, wicked humour) and to Charlotte, my former editor at Quercus, who saw the book part of the way through the edit process and to Jo, my new editor, who completed the process. To Nicola and Kathryn – I really appreciate your hard work and patience in the face of my vagueness.

And now, the kind of thanks that can’t really be put into words, but I’ll have a go.

All my love to Matt, Kate and Becky for their support, understanding and the enthusiastic way in which they embrace wherever this writing takes me. And to my sisters Ruth and Anne – I couldn’t have chosen two better ones this last year or any other year. TFFS.