Saving Grace

by Jane Green

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Sybil says. ‘I don’t feel good about this whole bipolar thing, and I don’t feel good about you.’

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ says Grace. ‘But not liking it doesn’t make it go away. And what do you mean, you don’t feel good about me?’

  ‘You’re just not yourself. You’ve been here all evening, but I feel like you’re a shadow of your former self.’

  ‘Hardly a shadow when I’m twice the size.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. You’re here physically, but I don’t feel like you’re really here. I have this really weird sense that you’re completely disconnected from everything. You’re talking a bit, and smiling in the right places, but you seem so unhappy. If this bipolar disorder thing is correct, then these pills surely aren’t the right pills, no? Isn’t any medication of this kind meant to bring you back to yourself? Make you more of yourself? It’s not supposed to eradicate you.’

  Grace feels her eyes well with tears as Sybil puts the plate down and wraps her arms around her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace says. ‘It’s just . . . you put it so well. I know it has only been a couple of months but I feel eradicated. That’s exactly right. I feel like a facsimile of myself, and I hate it. I keep telling Frank, my doctor, that I feel awful, but he says this is what it’s like to be calm, this is normal. He says I’m so used to being in a state of hypomania, that what other people consider normal feels flat to me.’

  ‘Grace!’ Sybil steps back, holding Grace by the arms, staring intently into her eyes. ‘I have known you for many, many years, and I have never known you to be manic, in any way, shape, or form. Yes, you have more energy than anyone I know, and that is part of your charm. It is why we all love you. What does Ted say about all this? Surely he doesn’t agree with it? Surely he’s concerned?’

  Grace doesn’t want to admit that she has barely seen Ted these past few weeks. He seems happier than he has for years, is entrenched in his new novel, is finding the writing process more fluid than it has ever been. Beth is there and able to attend to his needs, so Grace doesn’t have to worry. In many ways, having Beth there has been a huge relief through this; it has meant she has been able to disappear for hours at a time into her bedroom, knowing Ted will not be making demands of her.

  They still have dinner together, at the kitchen table, but not every night. Grace just doesn’t have the will. She can’t think of anything to talk about anymore, and frankly, it’s much easier to stay in bed, or have – gasp – the unthinkable: TV dinners in front of one of the news shows he loves to watch.

  Last week they discovered House of Cards on Netflix, and both spent four evenings in a row watching as many hours of Kevin Spacey as they could physically manage. It was a relief to Grace to be able to curl up on the sofa with her husband, yet not have to talk. They could delight together in the brilliance of the show, bond affectionately in the soft blue light of the television screen, barely needing to say a word to each other.

  And when the show was over, they could softly pad upstairs to bed. They have only made love once. Ted has reached for her many times, but Grace is mortified at how she looks naked. The one time they did make love, she kept her nightgown on, refusing to pull it up farther than her hips, terrified he would see the rolls on her stomach, her cushiony breasts flattened to either side of her body as she lay down.

  She loves her husband, but she is ashamed. She loves her husband, but is convinced that if he sees her like this, he will no longer want to make love to her. May, in fact, start looking for a younger, trimmer model.

  How is he supposed to keep loving her when she can barely get out of bed and looks so terrible?

  And the worst thing of all? She doesn’t even care.

  Twenty-two

  Many months ago, when Grace was still leading an active life, going to dinner parties, charity luncheons, accepting speaking engagements, she had agreed to introduce a charity lunch that helps dress underprivileged women in business clothes – usually designer cast-offs – in order to help them at job interviews.

  Grace is on the board. This is one of her pet charities, and she is there every year. She is a pro at this, has done these speeches many times before, knows how to sit at a table with a group of women she does not know and be gracious, and interested, and kind.

  She is able to do this because Grace has always carried a quiet confidence. Until today. All week she has been desperately trying to think of ways to get out of today’s luncheon, knowing all the while that it would be absolutely the wrong thing to do. However much she hates the prospect, it is something she has to do, an obligation she has to fulfil.

  Today’s luncheon is at the Cosmopolitan Club in New York. It will only be an hour, an hour and a half at the most, because all the women who have bought tickets to the event are ambitious, driven New York women who are only able to leave their high-powered jobs for an hour and a half at the max, and only then for ‘lunch’.

  Grace is used to walking into this luncheon with her head held high. The room is filled with people she knows – not friends exactly, but many people she enjoys hugely, from the world of media and magazines – and everyone knows Grace.

  None of the confidence she usually feels is with her today. Walking up the stairs, Grace avoids looking in the mirror. She is dressed in a cashmere poncho, newly acquired at Bergdorf’s just the other week, for she is spending her days in stretchy yoga trousers and oversized sweaters and had nothing dressy that would fit. The shopping trip was compulsory rather than fun. Grace bought two good outfits to see her through, determined these would be the last clothes of this size she would ever buy.

  Her hair has been styled and she is wearing far more makeup than usual, in a bid to disguise how much weight she has put on, how badly she feels about herself. The skirt she wears is floor-length, pleated silk and the poncho the softest cashmere, and beautiful.

  Standing before the mirror in her dressing room was the first time she felt, if not beautiful, then passable. These days she avoids mirrors, avoids seeing people as much as possible, but given she has to be seen in public today, she has made enough of an effort that perhaps people will be fooled.

  ‘Grace!’ Ingrid, the publisher of one of Grace’s favourite magazines, swoops upon her and kisses her on either cheek. ‘You look magnificent! I love this!’ Grace smiles as Ingrid fingers the poncho. ‘It suits you! You look statuesque and strong, like the Statue of Liberty.’

  Grace laughs nervously, not at all sure whether to take this as a compliment or not.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Ingrid murmurs, fingering the Fortuny-style pleats on the skirt. ‘Just lovely,’ and Grace relaxes.

  ‘You must meet Annette,’ she says, gesturing to a tiny, impish woman in one of those black dresses that is so deceptively simple, it must have cost a fortune. She is carrying a power bag – alligator, oversized, shockingly expensive – that elevates her outfit to a level where everyone who looks at her will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is superior to them.

  ‘Annette is the new editor-in-chief. Annette? Do you know Grace?’

  ‘Grace?’ Annette looks surprised.

  ‘Grace Chapman? Our wonderful speaker,’ Ingrid persists as Grace watches the shock flit through Annette’s eyes.

  ‘Oh God!’ Annette forces a recovery. ‘I’m so sorry. I have only ever seen pictures of you. You look so . . . different from your pictures. I’m so sorry. I just . . . I would never have thought it was the same person. I would never have recognized you.’

  Grace stands there uncomfortably, knowing what this woman is saying, able to hear the message loud and clear. In your pictures you are slim and beautiful, but look at you! Look how fat you are! You are unrecognizable. Shame fills her from head to toe as she struggles to find a response.

  ‘Oh?’ is all she can manage, desperate to get away, wishing she could hide, wishing she were anywhere else right now than here.

  Annette just looks at her, clearly struggling to get o
ut of this mess, to make it right, as Ingrid glares at her.

  ‘You’re much more beautiful in real life,’ Annette stammers eventually. Lamely. Grace forces a laugh and, much to her relief, is steered away by Ingrid.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ingrid does not take her into the room that is already filled to bursting with excited, chattering women, but instead to a quiet corridor.

  Grace takes a few deep breaths. ‘I know I look different. I haven’t been . . . well. One of the unfortunate side effects of the medication I’ve been on is this tremendous weight gain I haven’t been able to do anything about. I’m sure Annette is lovely, but I can see what she is thinking, what everyone is thinking: God, doesn’t she look awful! What’s happened to Grace Chapman? Look at how much weight she’s gained!’

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ Ingrid says sternly. ‘You’re still you on the inside and frankly, half the women in that room have no idea whatsoever what it’s like to be middle-aged and have your hormones go crazy on you, and find your waistline went AWOL with your memory.’

  Graces laughs, this time genuinely.

  ‘Truly, Grace. I am not kidding. You are still beautiful, and you will always be beautiful. A few extra pounds does not change that. Quite apart from your exquisite features, your beauty shines from the inside. Your beauty is from all the people you help, and the service you give, and your wide-open heart . . .’ She looks at Grace, steadying her, making sure Grace hears. ‘And the problem with open-hearted people is that they are liable to get hurt, but that doesn’t mean they must close themselves off. You touch too many people, Grace. You have made too much of a difference in too many people’s lives to shut yourself away, however you feel about your physical self. I promise you, you are still beautiful. Annette? We adore her, but please,’ Ingrid leans forward to whisper, ‘you don’t get to be her size without a serious eating disorder. She didn’t mean to be cruel, but I had to resist the temptation to squash her minus-zero body with my size-eight shoe.’

  Grace laughs.

  ‘Better?’ She links an arm through Grace’s, instructing her to take a deep breath before turning to go into the main room. ‘You’re beautiful and brave and strong,’ she whispers. ‘Keep telling yourself that. That’s your mantra, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.’

  Grace tells herself that, over and over, but when her name is called, and she threads her way through the tables, making her way to the podium to a round of applause, she is aware of the shocked looks, the furtive whispers. She knows what people are thinking, knows exactly what they are whispering.

  When she reaches the stage, she scans the room until her eyes settle on Ingrid, who blows her a kiss and lays her hands over her heart. Grace starts to speak, realizing after her first laugh from the crowd that Ingrid was right: it really doesn’t matter much at all.

  Twenty-three

  It is six o’clock by the time Grace gets home. She spent the afternoon with Ingrid, and although she didn’t feel anything like her old self, getting out of bed, getting out of the prison her house has become, made her feel almost human again. Valued. Worthwhile.

  The house is quiet. Grace does what she always does now, a Pavlovian response to entering her kitchen: she puts her bag down on the table and immediately opens the fridge, reaching a hand in before she even decides what she is going to eat, before she even thinks that they will shortly be eating dinner, that given the amount she has already eaten today, she cannot possibly be hungry. She reaches for the cheese and slices off a wedge, then another and another, before closing the door and going upstairs to change, her skirt cutting into her waist.

  The day in the city has exhausted her. Climbing onto her bed, she clicks on the television and turns to the news, giving her iPhone a cursory check. Three missed calls from Sybil. The last thing Grace wants to do is speak to anyone, but what if this is an emergency? Why else would Sybil have tried her three times?

  ‘Thank God!’ Sybil bursts out as soon as she answers the phone. ‘I’ve been trying you all day!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was in the city. Is everything okay?’

  ‘No! It’s not. Oh, Grace. I don’t even know how to tell you this, but they called an emergency board meeting today at Harmont House.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t anyone let me know?’

  Sybil takes a deep breath. ‘Because it was about you. Grace, I’m telling you this because I am appalled, and I said so, but I wanted to prepare you, I wanted you to hear this from me. Beth was invited along to the meeting.’

  ‘What?’ Grace’s voice is an anguished shout.

  ‘She was asked to describe your mental state, which she said was extremely unstable, and it was decided that it was no longer healthy for you to be on the board.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How can they even make this kind of decision without me?’

  ‘Beth talked about you as if you were going mad. And they believed her.’

  ‘Didn’t you say anything? Didn’t you tell them she’s lying?’

  ‘I tried, Grace. I kept saying this wasn’t true, that I saw you almost every day and you were fine, just a little depressed, but nothing that would get in the way of your work at Harmont House. But they voted. And they voted that Beth would replace you on the board.’

  And Grace, in a moment of anger she later regrets, throws her phone against the marble fireplace in their bedroom, where it shatters as it falls to the floor.

  ‘Ted?’ No answer. Running downstairs in bare feet, the kitchen lights are still off, the house deserted. Her mind is whirling, it is taking all the energy she has not to burst into floods of tears.

  Forcing herself to slow down, she thinks for a moment, but doesn’t recall anything in the diary for tonight. As far as she knows, Ted is supposed to be home, although she is the first to concede the unreliability of her memory, which has grown even worse of late.

  Through the window she sees the barn lights are on. Please let him be there. Please let him make this better, let him explain to the board that she hasn’t changed, this is a huge mistake; she isn’t crazy; they cannot take this away from her.

  She can’t just go down there with no excuse. Throwing a cheese platter together, she puts a bottle of wine on it, two glasses, pretending everything is as normal.

  The glasses shake as she makes her way down the path, attempting to take deep breaths to calm herself. Through the door of the barn, Grace stands, frowning at the empty room.

  Music is playing, which is not unusual, but then, unexpectedly, a moan.

  Or is it a groan? Her heart stops.

  Oh God.

  Visions of Ted lying on the floor fill her head – a heart attack, a stroke. Three more steps and she is no longer staring at the high back of the sofa, but at her husband and Beth, wrapped around each other on the other side, Beth’s shirt undone, her husband’s hair tousled, neither of them hearing her as Debussy sweeps through the speakers.

  Frozen, she watches as if she is watching a movie. She sees Beth’s tongue dart into her husband’s mouth as he attempts to swallow her whole, moaning in pleasure. The way he used to moan with her.

  Beth’s eyes open and look at him, before moving to take in Grace, standing there, eyes wide with shock, as she drops the tray, glasses smashing, her hands flying up to her mouth.

  Twenty-four

  ‘What’s going on?’ Clemmie bursts through the doors of the hospital, into the waiting room where Ted sits, leaning forward, elbows planted on his knees, wringing his hands.

  ‘Clemmie!’ He stands, putting his arms around his daughter, attempting to reassure her, attempting to reassure himself for his life is spinning out of control and he has no idea what to do.

  ‘Where’s Mum? What’s going on? Is she okay?’ Clemmie turns at the sound of footsteps to see Beth walking into the room, two cups of coffee from the machine in each hand. ‘Beth? What are you doing here? What happened?’ She notices Beth’s face is swollen, a faint bruise forming on her cheek.

  ‘Beth was wit
h me when it happened,’ says Ted. ‘She’s the reason your mother had to be brought here. Oh, Clemmie, I didn’t want you to know anything, but your mother’s been unwell for a while. Tonight was some sort of psychotic break, but she’s been heading this way for a few months.’

  ‘What do you mean, “unwell”?’ Clemmie says, her voice catching in her throat, the word ‘cancer’ lingering on the outskirts of her mind. ‘What kind of unwell? What do you mean?’

  ‘She has bipolar disorder,’ Ted says softly. ‘She is medicated, but something snapped tonight.’

  ‘What? Whoa. What are you talking about? Mum is bipolar? That’s impossible. There’s no way. Bipolar means crazy. That’s not Mum. What the hell?’ Clemmie runs her fingers through her hair. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Clemm, I know it’s difficult, but it’s true. I know this is hard for you, but your mother has had her struggles with depression.’

  ‘But depression isn’t bipolar,’ blurts Clemmie. ‘She isn’t manic. She isn’t crazy.’

  Ted and Beth exchange a look. ‘She hasn’t been,’ says Ted. ‘Until recently. Her mania has been in the form of anger. She has struggled with these rages to the point where we all decided she had to go and see someone, and he was the one who diagnosed her with the disorder.’

  ‘But why is she here? What happened?’

  This time, Ted avoids looking at Beth. ‘I was working late and Beth was helping me. We were sitting on the sofa and your mother walked in. She immediately jumped to the conclusion that something was going on and—’

  ‘Why would she jump to that conclusion?’ Clemmie says. ‘That’s insane.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ says Ted. ‘It is insane. But she started screaming at us, ranting and raving, then she slapped Beth.’