by Jane Green
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘She didn’t have to. I see it for myself. The point is, she’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. I’m wondering if there’s something else going on.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Grace snapped. ‘How dare you and your assistant sit there talking about me! I can’t believe she came to you telling you I’d accused her. I feel like there’s some kind of bloody conspiracy going on—’
‘Look at you!’ Ted said, interrupting her. ‘Look at how angry you’re getting! This isn’t like you, Grace. You’re not angry. Where is this coming from? What the hell is going on that is making you act like this, because you’re definitely not acting like yourself, you’re acting like some kind of crazy woman. It’s nuts. Completely irrational. I have no idea what to do about it other than suggest you ought to see someone.’
Here it is, she thought. The moment of reckoning. I have spent my whole life terrified of becoming my mother, creating the perfect persona, hoping, praying that my mother’s illness would not pass down to me.
The prospect, hearing her husband describe her as crazy, filled Grace with instant fear.
‘What do you mean, “see someone”?’ Grace snapped, jumping on the defensive. ‘A doctor?’
‘Maybe. Or a psychiatrist.’
‘I don’t need a psychiatrist,’ said Grace. Crazy people see psychiatrists. Her mother should have seen a psychiatrist. She has never seen a therapist, is one of the few women she knows who is not taking antidepressants, does not believe in burdening other people with her problems. I’m English, for God’s sake, she always used to joke. We don’t do doctors. Unless we’re on death’s doorstep, and even then we have to apologize for disturbing them.
‘Grace.’ Ted’s voice drips with disdain. ‘I can’t stand the way you’ve been acting. Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me? Jesus Christ. I’m spending so much time worrying about you, my work is suffering. I’m tiptoeing around this goddamned house, terrified of saying or doing anything at all to upset you. Get yourself to a doctor and get yourself better.’
Grace just stared at him, Welcome to my world, running over and over in her mind.
Grace stirs the polenta and looks over at Sybil, weariness exuding out of every pore.
‘I think I’m just exhausted,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night and ended up having a massive sort-out. And . . . well. I haven’t been feeling too good recently.’
‘Let me help,’ Sybil says, leading Grace over to the garden bench. ‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing I can put my finger on. I definitely feel low.’ She attempts a laugh. ‘I’m sure it’s just the regular old blues. They’ll pass soon.’
Sybil peers at her. ‘Are you sure that’s all it is? I’ve seen you with the blues before, but . . . I’m just worried.’
‘I know. Thank you. I’ll be fine. I suppose I have to admit I do feel a bit . . . unsettled. Almost as if I have a sense of foreboding, and I know this is crazy, but there’s something about Beth that is making me feel uneasy.’
‘Beth?’ Sybil’s eyes widen. ‘Really? I thought she was Wondergirl.’
‘She is. Which is why I feel so nuts thinking that there’s something not quite right. I keep trying to remember whether there is any way I could have made that call to the hire company to change the date, and I couldn’t have done; I wouldn’t have done. And I cannot stop feeling that Beth has something to do with this.’ She shakes her head. ‘I feel like I’m going mad. Ted wants me to go and talk to someone. Get therapy. I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘Therapy changed my life. I know you don’t believe in it, but I think Ted has a good point. If nothing else, it may help you sort through the jumble of thoughts in your head, make sense of everything.’
‘You’re right,’ says Grace. ‘It probably is a good idea. Maybe I will go and see someone after all.’
WILD MUSHROOM POLENTA
(Serves 8)
INGREDIENTS
For the polenta
750ml chicken stock
60ml single cream
60ml whole milk
320g polenta
60g mascarpone
4 tablespoons butter
55g grated Parmesan
Salt and pepper for seasoning
For the mushroom sauce
100g assorted gourmet mushrooms
Olive oil
1 garlic clove, minced
1 onion, finely chopped
1 sprig thyme
4 tablespoons chicken stock
Salt and pepper for seasoning
Handful of chopped parsley
Combine stock, cream, milk, and seasoning in a pan, bring to a boil, then turn quickly down to simmer. Add polenta in a slow, steady stream and bring mixture back to simmer. Stir frequently with a wooden spoon as you cook over a low heat for 1 hour. If the mixture becomes too thick, add more simmering stock. Finish with mascarpone and butter, then season and add the Parmesan cheese. It should be like loose mashed potato.
For the sauce, rinse mushrooms, slice them, and saute them with garlic and onion in oil for around 10 minutes. Add thyme, salt and pepper, and stock. Turn heat to high to reduce and thicken the sauce.
When ready to serve, spoon the sauce over the top of the polenta and sprinkle with the parsley.
Sixteen
Ted and Beth thread their way through the restaurant, stopping every few feet to greet someone he knows: a writer, a journalist, an editor, a publisher. The great and the good are gathered at Michael’s for lunch, as the pair work their way to the table just next to the window in the front, the best table in the house for the great Ted Chapman to have lunch with his publicist.
Beth is resplendent with her new chic haircut, in a dark green silk blouse that is not one of Grace’s cast-offs, but looks very much like it could have been. Tailored black trousers, high-heeled black shoes with a distinctive red sole, and a chunky, gold necklace.
Gone is the shy, demure, mousy girl of old. This Beth smiles as she moves fluidly through the restaurant, aware of the radiance of her smile, aware she is being assessed.
‘This is Beth, my sparkly assistant.’ Ted brings her forward, again and again, as she confidently extends a hand.
‘Good Lord,’ they hear, over and over again. ‘We thought it was Grace’s younger sister!’ Beth laughs with a good-natured shake of her head, flattered and delighted at the comparison.
This is not the first time this has happened. Ted brought Beth to an event the week before and frowned the first time someone said they thought Beth was Grace. He had turned his head, taking Beth in, truly looking at her, as if for the first time. Physically, she is not Grace, although when she smiles as she is smiling now, as she has, in fact, been doing so often of late, she has a luminous beauty that you do not see, do not expect when her face is in repose. Physically, there is little resemblance, but her confidence and poise, the way she places a hand on Ted’s arm, are what cause the confusion, cause people to do a double take.
He looks at her now. How little he sees her face in repose these days, he realizes. The hesitant, serious woman who joined their lives a few short months ago now beams each time he looks at her. It is as if she has modified her natural expression from one of gravity to one of levity. Her face in repose now has a small but permanent smile playing on her lips. Her new haircut has imbued her with a confidence that was missing before.
Could he really be so shallow as to admit he only found her interesting once she cut her hair? It is true he found himself watching her more once she had changed, fascinated by her transformation, but it was more than the hair.
As she grew more comfortable in the job, more comfortable in the house, more comfortable with them, she relaxed into her skin, and the ease with which she now carries herself is really quite lovely to see.
And inspiring.
He has introduced a character into his new book who is largely based on Beth. A young, insecure girl
, product of an abusive background, abandoned by her family, invisible to all, blossoms into a great beauty under the care of an older man. Of course, he turns out to be controlling and abusive in much the same way as her family, and it comes full circle. He now finds himself watching Beth each day before he starts writing, taking breaks to take note of how she sits, what her body language says, guess at what she might be thinking.
Naturally he has changed the details, is quite certain there is nothing recognizable in the book. She is his muse, perhaps; not his heroine. No one would know the character was inspired by Beth, he tells himself, not when he is so famous for his characterizations.
‘I draw from my life,’ he says at book readings, signings, events where hundreds of people turn up to hang on to his every word, ‘without ever writing about my life. People I come across may serve as a snapshot, but they quickly become their own characters.’
Despite this, there have been many who have recognized themselves within the pages of his books. They have different names, different hair colours, different backgrounds, yet there is something so achingly familiar to them as they read, there is no question that Ted held them in his mind as they were writing.
He denies it. Of course he denies it. He is the first to explain that the character within the pages of the book takes on a character of its own within a few pages anyway – usually nothing like the person who you originally had in mind.
So Beth is his inspiration for the book he is currently writing, and, as with all his muses, he is increasingly fascinated by her. You would have to be blind not to see how she is attempting to emulate Grace’s style. Grace is flattered, as she should be, and he has to admit, Beth does pull it off rather well. If anything, though, the look is a little old for her. She is, after all, only thirty-eight. A young woman, divorced, no children. She should perhaps be dressing more provocatively, perhaps in a way designed to entice men her own age.
Although, he flushes slightly at the memory, she said in passing she had never been interested in men her own age. She had been flipping through the pages of a magazine at the time, looking for an article he had vaguely remembered reading, and hadn’t looked up. From someone else, those words might have seemed provocative, but there was nothing flirtatious, nothing that would lead him to think anything more.
Except he had. He had found himself thinking about it all afternoon. Mostly for his character. Initially the husband hadn’t been older, until Beth had mentioned that. Of course! It made much more sense! A father figure. A man, he wryly thought, much like himself.
He had been so excited at the change, he had done something he hadn’t done in years. Climbed out of bed at ten o’clock at night and gone out to his barn, spending the next three hours writing, the words flowing from his fingertips with swiftness and ease.
Looking at her now, in this restaurant, entirely at ease with everyone in here, he smiles to himself, feeling almost like her Svengali. He may not have issued the instructions for her to change, but how delighted he is that she has. Look how self-possessed she is! The very fact that he is bringing her to lunch with his agent proves how invaluable she has become.
Ellen, his old assistant, sometimes came to lunch with his agent, but not to the glamorous lunches in New York: she wasn’t that kind of assistant. The thought of Ellen in her dusty jogging bottoms and comfortable sandals in the elegant environs of Michael’s is unthinkable. Beth, on the other hand, looks like she belongs. One would never think she was an assistant. An editor, perhaps, or an agent. His publicist.
Indeed, she is proving to be an entirely different kind of assistant from Ellen in almost every way imaginable. She has given him ideas, suggestions, even advice. Instead of being appalled, he has found her astute and usually correct. She has an excellent mind, he has realized. Quick and clever, with an extraordinary ability to retain information.
He subscribes to all the literary magazines, reading them at night when he is back in the main house with Grace, or over the breakfast table, delighted to find Beth reads them too, has read every article he brings up; has a unique and fascinating viewpoint on all.
It has become almost a game between them.
‘I was just reading in The New Yorker . . .’ he will start.
‘About Julian Assange?’ she will say, and they will both laugh. The stories that most fascinate him are invariably the stories that most fascinate her. He has no idea how she is doing that, only that he is glad she is; that someone is. Grace, love of his life, the woman who has always walked beside him, has never been able to share that particular part of his life.
Grace loves her magazines, but not the literary ones. Of course she will read an article if he passes it to her, if he thinks it is something of particular interest to her, but her magazines of choice tend to be Town & Country, Harper’s, Vogue.
What a delight to have a woman around who shares his curiosity and is sharp enough to form her own opinions. While Grace will read what he gives her, she rarely enters into a spirited debate, in the way he and Beth have been doing.
‘Nice assistant.’ The journalist Ted had been chatting with en route to the table raises an eyebrow as they both watch Beth sashaying through the room to their table.
With a tilt of his head and a small smile, Ted bids him a good lunch, congratulating himself on what a good assistant he has. At times like these it is hard to remember how he ever got through the day without her.
‘Steven!’ He pumps hands vigorously with Steven Marsh, the head of press at his publishing house. Ted is one of the few authors Steven is still directly involved with, usually assigning young, glamorous girls in their twenties to do the day-to-day work of attempting to gain publicity for their myriad authors.
For Ted, Steven will phone the editors of the largest papers and magazines himself. He will come up with the story ideas and map them out with the editors over lunch, usually here, at Michael’s, and they, delighted at the opportunity for something large and exclusive with Ted Chapman, will leave the restaurant in a state of near exhilaration.
Steven is one of the old guard. He and Ted have been together twenty years. A professional relationship has morphed into a friendship and they all sit down as Steven gestures to Beth.
‘You must be Beth! I finally get to meet the wonderful assistant! Ted,’ he clucks gently, ‘how on earth do you do it? Two beautiful women! If we didn’t have years of friendship behind us, I’d hate you.’
Ted chuckles.
Beth blushes. ‘Thank you. This is truly a dream job, and I’m learning so much.’
‘About what an irascible bastard Ted Chapman can be?’ Steven leans forward with a laugh.
‘He’s not irascible.’ Beth laughs. ‘He’s charming. And brilliant. And a wonderful mentor.’
‘You’re obviously paying her well.’ Steven looks at Ted approvingly.
‘Will you excuse me?’ Beth says, pushing her chair back. ‘I just have to go to the ladies’ room.’
The two of them watch in silence as Beth makes her way through the tables, past the bar and into the ladies’ room. As soon as she has disappeared, Steven looks at Ted, no longer bothering to conceal the look of alarm on his face.
‘God, Ted! Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing her to lunch? I would have booked somewhere discreet. Of all places to bring her, Michael’s? Really? The whole town’s going to know about it within about two hours.’
Ted starts to laugh. ‘Relax, Steven! You have it all wrong. I know she’s quite lovely, but she really is my assistant.’
‘Oh, I know that, I’ve been emailing with her for months, but you’re . . . well. It’s obvious. The two of you are . . .’
‘Screwing?’ Ted barks with laughter as Steven looks confused. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? First of all, I would not do that to Grace.’
Steven leans forward. ‘Ted, you know and I know that’s not true. I remember plenty of young publishing assistants at—’
‘And how many years ago was that?�
�� Ted says, now serious. ‘Steven, I was a young man then. I haven’t had any . . . dalliances . . . for years. I wouldn’t do that to Grace. Not now. I was too young to know any better. Plus, I certainly wouldn’t shit on my own doorstep. Good Lord, Ted. She’s the best goddamned assistant I’ve ever had. She’s truly gifted, at everything, and I’m hardly going to mess that up. Not to mention, she’s twenty years younger than me. And finally, even if I were, which I am not, nor would I ever, the very last place I would bring her would be Michael’s. I may be charmed by her, but I am not completely stupid.’
They both turn with fixed smiles on their faces as Beth heads back to the table.
‘Thank God,’ whispers Steven quickly. ‘Sorry, Ted. I read the situation all wrong. Fortunately.’
‘Or unfortunately,’ Ted murmurs back as they both survey Beth’s endless legs, for she has continued losing weight and has emerged with legs like a gazelle. Shooting Steven a quick, wicked smile to show he was joking, Ted leaps up and holds the chair, waiting for Beth to sit down.
‘What about a podcast?’ Beth says when Steven has finished outlining his plans for the paperback release of Ted’s last book.
‘Podcast? About what?’
‘About writing. Editing. The craft. It could be a book too, but I think you could start with a podcast. If you think about it, the well-known books on the craft of writing are from literary authors. Except Stephen King. No one else crosses the two, literary and commercial, in the way that Ted does, and I think he’d pull in a huge audience. I also think the bloggers would love the fact that Ted Chapman is doing a series of podcasts on writing. It could generate a whole other line of publicity.’
Steven nods thoughtfully. ‘It is actually a rather wonderful idea, if, Ted, you have time to do it.’
‘It wouldn’t take too much time,’ Beth says, taking a bite of her salmon in pastry. ‘I could put together a list of topics and even make notes for you, what you would have to say. All you’d have to do is “Ted Chapman it up”, and we can record it anywhere.’