Playing Grace (9 page)

‘That one of your jobs too? Taking out the trash?’

‘No … I …’

‘Shouldn’t be hauling that stuff about.’ He stood up. ‘You wanna chuck this kettle?’ He grabbed it and in a few strides was standing in front of her – she did not have time to tell him it didn’t matter and she could manage. As if to prove she couldn’t, the strap of her handbag betrayed her and slid down from her shoulder.

‘Here,’ Tate said as he slid it back up her arm and repositioned it, giving it a pat into place. He was smiling at her as he did it and she tried to look nonchalantly over his shoulder despite the proximity of his face, his breath. Him.

‘Gonna hand it over then?’ he asked. ‘What?’ She looked at her handbag. Did he mean her handbag?

‘The trash.’ He laughed. ‘Unless, you know, you’re attached to it?’

‘No, no.’ She held it out towards him and the strap of her bag came down again and this time she managed to clamp her arm to her side to halt its progress. It was a bad move, because it forced her to cling on to the rubbish bag and took her attention away from trying to avoid any part of his body touching any part of hers.

More amusement from him, more embarrassment from her.

He was tugging at the rubbish bag now and she let it go and saw him transfer both it and the kettle to one hand, and then he was putting her wayward strap back up on her shoulder at exactly the same time as she was trying to do it herself.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, flapping to pull her hand away. He said nothing, but she saw from his eyes he had registered
her awkwardness. When she did manage to disengage her hand, it seemed a gauche thing to do, as if she were a nervous virgin, an impression underlined by the way she flinched when he again patted her strap into place on her shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ she said primly and saw his lips give a definite hitch up.

Gilbert appeared behind Tate’s shoulder. ‘You two are making this look like some ancient bag-transferring ceremony. Have you quite finished? Because if you have,’ he patted the pocket where he kept his cigars, ‘I might tag along with you and sneak a crafty one. If you’ll pardon the pun. Give me that kettle, Tate; I need an alibi for my trip out if the smoking police should happen to emerge.’ He looked towards Alistair’s door.

Grace could have kissed Gilbert at that point. ‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘that’s really helpful. You can show Tate where the rubbish goes and I can nip off.’ She did a quick turn intending to head out before them and get down the stairs as quickly as she could.

‘Need something from you before you go,’ Tate said, making her turn back.

‘Yes?’

He nodded slowly and she couldn’t help reading the signs. He was interested in her, perhaps more than
interested. There was a light in his eyes that was trying to spark something in her. She dropped her gaze to the cuff of her coat as if whatever was there, invisible to anybody else, had to be examined that minute.

‘Sorry?’

She heard the rustle of the bag and worked out that he was about to lift it up and over his shoulder. She imagined he must look like a pinstriped robber when he got it there, but she wasn’t going to check.

‘Your flashlight, Gracie,’ he said. ‘Wanna lend it me? Gonna be dark round the back, I guess.’

‘No,’ she said to her cuff, refusing to rise to his teasing. ‘The security light will bounce on when you arrive.’

She was moving as quickly as she could without appearing to run and pulled open the door, jabbing the doorstop under it so she wouldn’t have to stand there and hold it open for him.

‘See you Monday,’ she called back as she traversed the landing and headed down the stairs, noting with satisfaction that Tate had only just ambled to the open door, Gilbert a couple of steps behind him.

‘Bye, Grace,’ Gilbert called after her.

‘Yeah, mind how you go, Gracie,’ Tate added. ‘And you get plenty of rest over the weekend.’

Grace didn’t want to think what Tate meant by that hanging sentence and instead concentrated on heading, like a person seeking sanctuary, out of the building.

CHAPTER
6

Alistair locked the door behind Grace and returned to his desk but made no attempt to sit back down. He only had a few minutes before Gilbert would come looking for him.

He relived the red electricity bill incident. That had been bad, a real cock-up. Not concentrating enough, that was the trouble. All that shouting and prancing about he’d done. He moved around the desk as if the change of position could shift the memory of his earlier histrionics.

Still, not much use dwelling on it; he’d never been particularly good at that aspect of business, even when his mind was focused on what he was doing. Give him the bigger picture to think of and he was fine, but all that checking and attention to detail, all that keeping the plates spinning – not where his strengths lay. Thank God for Grace standing there catching the china. Like Emma.

No, best not to think about Emma at the moment.

He bent down and got hold of his briefcase, remembering how he’d told Grace he’d emptied it out to take to the
Chamber of Commerce meeting. She’d never know he only got there in time for the last two items on the agenda. Other fish to fry.

His heart began to pump harder.

He placed the briefcase carefully on his desk, laying it flat and staring at it, feeling the scurries of excitement in his stomach. Typical Grace just now, asking him all those questions. When she locked those dark eyes of hers on to his, he felt as if he were being interrogated. And he knew what she was getting at: all the things he hadn’t done by the book; all the things that could go wrong with Tate. Fear of change, that was her problem.

And that jealousy: who’d have thought it?

Easy for people to feel undervalued, overlooked when someone new comes along. He’d have to watch that. Pay rise? Maybe not. New kettle instead.

He laughed at that. He could still manage a laugh.

He turned the numbered dials next to the left-hand lock on the case and it clicked open. He had started on the other side when the phone rang and he almost took a chunk out of his tongue.

To answer or not to answer? Could be Emma. He saw his hand reach for the phone, his brain pull it back before he could pick up.

Guilt had replaced anticipation. He needed to calm down. Just answer normally. Everything was normal. He needed to tell her he was going for a drink after work, he’d be late. It was only fair or she’d worry.

He picked up the phone.

‘Alistair Sawclose.’

‘Hello there. It’s me. Nothing wrong, just checking what time you’re likely to be home. I’ve made coq au vin. Was going to put it in now …’

‘Lovely, lovely,’ he said, thinking how normal all those plans sounded, how light her tone.

‘Are you all right? You sound a bit … a bit … oh, I don’t know.’

‘Just rushed into the office to answer the phone. Sorry. I’ll take some deep breaths …’ He hammed it up. ‘There. Better?’

‘Uh-huh. Oh, how did the Tate thing go? Grace OK with it?’

‘Think so, although, Grace being Grace, she wanted to know it was all done by the book …’ he stopped himself going down that route; if he mentioned Grace’s questions about qualifications and paperwork, Emma might want to know about them too.

‘She’ll keep you right. So … home time?’

He glanced at his watch, felt the available free minutes
left to him ticking away. First anticipation, then guilt. Now? Frustration. His constant companion these days.

‘I’m going to be a while,’ he said. ‘We’re taking Tate out for a drink, just so everyone can get to know each other a bit better. Try and be home by eight.’

There was a noise that might have been exasperation or disappointment, and then, ‘OK, well, I’ll put it in anyway, it won’t spoil.’

‘What won’t?’

‘The casserole, silly. Are you sure you’re OK?’

He wanted to scream, ‘No, I’m not, so get off the phone!’ and instantly felt remorse. None of this was Emma’s fault.

‘I’m fine, darling, just a bit tired. Get that bottle of Merlot open, the good one out in the garage … we’ll sink that when I get in. Have to go … Bye.’

‘Bye.’

‘Putting the phone down now … Bye.’

He looked at the briefcase and finished unlocking it, his heart speeding up again. His hand, he saw, was trembling as he reached in and placed it on the carrier bag hidden there. Just doing that made his mouth dry. A quick look towards the door and he’d opened the bag, tipped the green silk blouse out into one hand. The colour would look fantastic on her. Match her eyes. He couldn’t wait to see her wear it. He disappeared into the prospect of that for a while.

The sound of people entering reception hauled him back. Tate and Gilbert. Had they left and come back? Why? When? How long had he been standing there?

Reluctantly he put the blouse back in the bag. The bag back in the briefcase. The briefcase back under his desk.

Now the blouse was out of sight, the pull of the woman it was meant for was lessened and for one insane moment he thought of ringing Emma back, confessing everything. Coming clean.

He steadied himself against the desk and imagined her staring at him in disbelief. She’d want to know what she’d done wrong.

No, he couldn’t do it. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.

He moved towards the door. Better unlock it just in case Gilbert tried to open it and made another loaded comment. He knew they’d started talking about it, him and Grace. Wondering why.

Perhaps he should just get a secure cabinet, easier to explain a locked cabinet than a locked door. He’d make up some reason for getting it – something about keeping client details secure at all times, advice from the Chamber of Commerce, data protection … blah, blah, blah.

Yes, that might work – after all, they needed to guard against a nosy client who might rifle through a drawer, find someone else’s bank details, home address.

Besides, there was only so much you could fit in a briefcase.

The prospect of seeing her in that blouse resurfaced and made him feel lightheaded.

He put on his coat. Yes, a lockable cabinet was a good compromise. The others would get back their access to the kitchen and he’d get a lot more peace of mind. Wouldn’t have to lug that briefcase around whenever he nipped out, either.

Right
, he said to himself as he opened the door, and then shouted it again as he stepped through into reception. ‘Right. First round’s on me. Chop-chop, time’s wasting.’

CHAPTER
7

Grace nudged the hot tap on with her toe, waited until the bath water returned to optimum temperature and then nudged it off again. Leaning back, she breathed in the perfume of white musk and amber from the candles burning on the windowsill, held it for a few seconds and then exhaled slowly. The process was repeated carefully, rhythmically, as she worked out a way of minimising the risk that Tate Jefferson posed to her well-ordered life. To her hard-won stability.

‘He is,’ she said to the taps, ‘just passing through. He doesn’t want to be a tour guide. He’s doing it for the money. What he is, plainly, is a flashy, look-how-Bohemian-I-am artist. It’s written all over him.’ She contemplated the taps as if they’d said something and she was obliged to listen before nodding. ‘Yes, we’re a staging post before he’s off somewhere warmer and cheaper. The question is, how long will he stay?’ She gave the taps another knowing look. ‘And, more importantly, how much upset will he cause
before he goes? His type just loves stirring things up. He won’t be able to stop himself from pointing out that we could do with a bit more of his carefree, rule-breaking attitude in our lives – our bourgeois, hidebound lives. Or, as we who have to live in the real world call it, “normality”.’ She splashed her feet around in the water and then stopped and laughed – a weird noise in the candlelight. It sounded fake even to her. Tate Jefferson didn’t make her feel like laughing. He made her feel like running very fast to a place where he wasn’t. He reminded her of Bill and being reminded of Bill would lead her to remembering all kinds of other things.

‘Nope, not going there,’ she said to the taps. ‘Not that person any more. No.’

She closed her eyes and concentrated on letting the white musk and amber soothe her enough so that she could think rationally again.

‘What people like him need,’ she said, when she opened her eyes again, ‘is something or someone to kick against. And it very much looks as if he has you in mind for that person. You’ve been too starchy, too uptight with him. He caught you on the back foot. So, come Monday, Grace, my girl, you will be polite and helpful. You will show real interest in his tour and smile serenely even when he winds you up. What you will not do is answer back, engage in
verbal sparring – in short, you will not rise to the bait.’ She paused. ‘Particularly when he starts up with all that “do you never feel like kicking off your shoes, Gracie? Cutting free? There’s a whole world out there?” crap.’

Well her days of kicking off her shoes were over. She slipped down into the water to mouth level and blew a long breath full of bubbles before gurgling, ‘Play it right and he’ll be so bored, he’ll be gone by Christmas.’

Now she had a strategy, she felt the hard edges of the Tate Jefferson problem start to waver. Besides, this time she was the older one. What was he? Twenty-three at most? So she had at least six more years life experience under her belt than he did.

Only idiots made the same mistake twice and she wasn’t an idiot, she had to remember that. As she did, her uneasiness seemed less and less distinct until she imagined it a wispy, insubstantial thing drifting to the ceiling along with the steam.

That just left Alistair to worry about. He’d never been slavishly addicted to the concept of the work ethic, but recently the hours he hadn’t been putting in had made her believe he might be losing interest in the business. Yet here he was, talking of fresh challenges and hiring someone to break into a new market. Even if that someone was the wrong kind of someone entirely.

She swished the water around with her hand and didn’t let her mind stray to those other tricky questions about Alistair’s behaviour. Like why he had taken to locking the office door? Or carrying around an air of furtiveness which seemed clamped to him as tightly as that briefcase had been yesterday? And what about all those trips out and about, unexplained and inexplicable? If he was cheating on Emma, that would make life tricky for someone who was stuck bang in the middle – employee of one, friend of the other.