by Jane Green
Grace started laughing. ‘That’s fancying me? How does he behave with people he hates, then? Seriously, what is his problem?’
‘Seriously, he fancies you, and he’s embarrassed at fancying his little sister’s friend, so he’s pretending to hate you so you couldn’t possibly ever tell because the mortification would be huge. Also, he’s always had a thing about redheads, so there’s a double whammy with you. I, on the other hand, not only fancy you, I am perfectly happy to admit it. A relationship with me would be infinitely preferable to one with him, because A, I am completely straightforward, and B, I am, as I think you’re beginning to see, much nicer in every way.’
‘Would you be offended if I told you I didn’t fancy you?’
‘No. I’d only be offended if you told me you fancied Robert.’ He cast a sideways glance at Grace, who looked away. ‘Fuck. Well. It won’t last. He falls madly in love with girls until they fall madly in love with him, which they always do, at which point he becomes utterly disdainful and cruel. I’m not joking, Grace. You would be much better off with me. I’m an excellent long-term prospect, and sweet too.’ He batted his eyelashes at Grace, who laughed.
‘How about we become best friends instead?’
‘Bugger,’ said Patrick morosely. ‘That’s what they all say’
By the end of that week, Grace had forgotten she hadn’t ever been part of this family. Patrick with his teasing felt like the naughty brother she had always wanted, Catherine was Catherine, and Lydia was the kind of mother Grace thought only existed in books. David – Catherine’s father – was away on business, as he seemed to be most of the time, and Robert continued to be darkly elusive. Grace would look up from the kitchen table to find Robert staring at her from the doorway, but if she tried to engage him in conversation, he would mostly stalk off, or roll his eyes as if he found her very presence disdainful.
Her favourite moments were in the kitchen with Lydia, poring over recipe books as Lydia instructed her to choose something, which Lydia would then teach her to cook. They started, that first week, with meat. It was winter, so Lydia showed her the basics for rich casseroles and creamy mashed potatoes.
Grace learned never to add salt to the water when cooking potatoes until the very end, so as not to break down the starch. She learned to sear roast meats on the stove first, to caramelize the proteins and turn the meat a rich golden brown before placing it in the oven; she learned to keep a pan of water in the oven when roasting meat to keep the meat moist; she learned the importance of marinating, and of adding an acid – lemon juice or vinegar – to the marinade to break down the proteins in the meat and allow it to fully absorb the flavour and moisture of the marinade.
She surprised the family with salmon parcels wrapped in puff pastry. Lydia delighting in what a good student she was as they all polished off the food.
Slowly, over the week, as Grace grew more and more comfortable with Lydia, she revealed little bits and pieces about her family. Never enough to give Lydia the full picture, but enough to confirm what Lydia sensed about Grace the minute she walked in – here was a child with an aching need for a family, an aching need to be loved, and nurtured, and seen.
Patrick spent the week following her around like a lovesick puppy and when she eventually left, Lydia made Catherine swear to bring Grace home again at Christmas. Not that Grace needed any persuading.
Every holiday was spent with the Proppers. Every holiday saw Robert being darkly broody, although their mutual crush went unrequited, largely thanks to Robert suddenly showing up with his girlfriend, Emily. Emily was willing to put up with his moods and in fact seemed to ease them somewhat.
By the time Robert and Emily split up, just after Grace and Catherine graduated, Grace was making plans to go over to America, and it was clear her years of daydreaming about Robert would come to nothing.
The very last time she stayed there, with the whole family, before she moved to the States, met Ted and became someone entirely different from the unhappy, insecure girl she had been back in England, Robert was not supposed to be there, but had turned up unexpectedly.
‘Probably because someone,’ Patrick had glared at Lydia, ‘told him you were here.’ He looked at Grace, who shoved him playfully.
‘Patrick!’ Lydia looked at her son with love. ‘I do think it’s time you moved on from this big crush on Grace. Stop blushing, Grace. It’s not as if you don’t know. Good Lord. All of us know. Patrick, you are a wonderful boy . . . man . . . boy-man. And you will make some lucky woman inexplicably happy one day, but it is not going to be Grace. Do you hear me? Mooning after Grace is not going to bring you happiness.’
‘Yeah,’ echoed Catherine. ‘Moonface.’
So Robert had come, and Catherine had gone into London for a job interview, and Patrick was at his summer job, teaching football at a boys’ summer camp. Lydia said she was taking a nap and left a picnic hamper on the kitchen table with a note for Robert.
Darling boy.
Take whoever’s around for a picnic. I’ll be down later.
Love you.
Mum xxx
‘I think she means you,’ Robert said, looking at Grace as she lounged on the sofa in the bay window, a cat on her lap, one leg on the floor, reading Jeffrey Archer, which is all she found in the library that she hadn’t already read.
‘What?’
‘A picnic. Do you want to go for a picnic?’
‘Is there a catch?’ Grace still thought Robert the most glorious man in the world, but was, after all these years, resigned to his moodiness, which had become irritating, and also resigned to the fact that despite everyone thinking his unpleasantness towards her was actually because he fancied her, in actual fact she was pretty damn certain it was just because he hated her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, do you actually want me to come on a picnic with you? Because I’m quite happy reading if you don’t.’
‘This isn’t a puzzle,’ Robert said. ‘If you want to come, come. If you want to read, read.’
Grace thought about saying, ‘What do you want me to do?’ but had a sense this might push him into a rage. Instead she removed the cat from her lap, brushed off the cat hairs, slipped her feet into espadrilles, and walked towards the door.
‘All yours,’ she said with a grin, as Robert picked up the picnic basket and followed her out.
Across the street there was a stile over the fence where the cows grazed. You could follow the field down to a hiking trail, which is what they did, not speaking, Grace walking in front, Robert following with the basket and a blanket he had grabbed on the way out.
Grace shook out the blanket, then sat back as Robert unpacked the hamper. Closing her eyes, she felt the warmth of the sun on her face, opening them again to find Robert’s face inches from her own, his eyes gazing into hers, searching, before leaning forward and kissing her.
Grace’s heart almost leapt into her mouth. She was kissing Robert! Robert was kissing her! He groaned and pulled her closer, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling away only to kiss her all over her face, back to her lips, insatiable, a moment she instantly knew he had been waiting for for years.
Grace felt herself float out of her body, delirious with years of anticipation. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Robert had only split up with Emily last week, and they had been together so long Grace had stopped thinking about any possibility of anything ever happening between them, whether it was a daydream or anything else. She just hadn’t bothered; clearly it wasn’t ever going to happen.
Except now it was, and when they eventually stopped kissing, Robert took a deep breath as he leaned his forehead on hers.
‘Do you have any idea how long I have wanted to do that?’ he whispered, opening his eyes and looking into hers.
‘Maybe as long as I’ve wanted you to do that?’ Grace said, and this time, he smiled. A genuine smile. One that contained warmth, lust, and – did Grace even dare think it? – a little bit of
love.
They spent the afternoon lying on the blanket, Grace in Robert’s arms, both of them giggling, teasing, kissing, Grace unable to believe she could be this happy, unable to believe this was really happening.
As she lay, quietly this time, cradled in his arms as he kissed the top of her head and ran strands of her hair through his fingers, she imagined their future, for of course they would have a future. She would still go to America, but only for the summer, for camp, and when she got back Robert would have missed her so much, he would suggest living together.
He would move out of the flat he shared with friends in West Hampstead, and they would get a tiny flat of their own. There was no question of today’s encounter being anything less than a relationship, anything less than permanent. Grace was already part of Robert’s family; this was fate. This was meant to be.
She saw herself cooking for him when he came home from work every day. He was a lawyer–young, hotshot, and almost breathtakingly gorgeous in his navy suits – going out with a circle of friends they would undoubtedly quickly develop, sitting in trendy cafes, drinking wine and laughing.
Lydia and David would be her in-laws! Of course! This was exactly what was going to happen, and the more Grace thought about it, the bigger her heart grew. This is what it is like to be happy, she thought. This is what it is like to be loved. I never knew it growing up, but I don’t have to yearn for something I worry I’ll never have anymore. Now I have Robert. Now I’m going to be fine.
They walked home hand in hand, stopping every few feet to kiss, tease each other. Robert was the gentle, loving, sweet man she had always hoped he might be, the man she occasionally thought she saw glimpses of behind the scowl.
They wandered down the road home, weaving, drunk with love, pulling up as they looked at an unfamiliar car in the driveway.
‘Who’s that?’ Grace had a sense of foreboding as she looked at the car.
‘Emily.’ Robert let go of her hand and Grace knew it was all over.
Years went by, Robert avoided her. Enough years that when they did see each other, after Grace was married, on one of her trips home to see Lydia, he was able to kiss her on the cheek and lightly enquire how she was, and she was able to respond politely, after which time the two of them had a gracious conversation and Grace wondered what had happened to all the pent-up emotion they both had carried with them for years.
‘Why don’t you just fuck each other and get it over with?’ Patrick had said after watching their exchange with amusement.
‘How about, because I’m married?’ Grace said.
‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Forgot. Jesus, Grace. How did you turn into an old married woman? You do realize to me you’ll always be a gorgeous eighteen-year-old?’
‘Rather than a gorgeous twenty-nine-year-old?’ Grace said.
‘Exactly. If you did ever split up from the great Ted Chapman, which obviously is unlikely because you’d have to be out of your mind, but if you ever did, then you really should fuck me rather than Robert.’
‘If I ever did, which I never would, because I love my husband very much, thank you all the same, fucking anyone would be the last thing on my mind. And really, Patrick. Do you have to say “fuck”? It’s so . . . crass.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Would you prefer “making lerrrve”?’
‘Yes, actually. I think I would.’
‘Well, you can make lerrrve with Robert, but if you were with me, it would be a fantastic dirty fuck.’
‘You’re still impossible.’
‘And still loveable.’
Then, for many years, Grace would fly over to stay with Lydia and David, sometimes with Clemmie, sometimes without, and wouldn’t even see Catherine, Robert, or Patrick.
Catherine was living in Australia with her husband. Robert was in Scotland with Emily and five children, and Patrick was becoming a rather well-known film director. He had made most of his films in the UK, but had moved out to LA for a while to see how it went.
David died suddenly of a heart attack ten years ago. Grace went to the funeral and tiptoed around the house, bringing Lydia cups of tea and glasses of Scotch when the tea didn’t do the trick.
She barely spoke to Robert – he seemed too immersed in chasing his children around the house to try and keep them from destroying everything in sight – and Patrick seemed distracted and a bit full of himself.
Grace has only been back three times since then. The last ten years went so quickly. She emailed Lydia, of course, all the time, and they spoke every couple of weeks, but life had raced along and suddenly it has been six years since she was last in Dorset, six years since she felt Lydia’s arms around her in a reassuring hug.
SALMON PARCELS WITH WATERCRESS, ROCKET AND CREAM CHEESE
(Serves 4)
INGREDIENTS
1 bunch watercress
1 bunch rocket
1 bunch spinach, all equal amounts
225g cream cheese
Zest of 1 lemon
1 pack, puff pastry
4 salmon fillets
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon milk
Salt and pepper for seasoning
Preheat oven to 180°C/gas mark 4.
Blend watercress, rocket and spinach in a food processor until finely chopped. Add the cream cheese, lemon, and salt and pepper and pulse until blended. Put half to one side to serve alongside the salmon parcels.
Roll out the pastry and cut into 4 squares. For each parcel, place one salmon fillet in the middle of the square, season, and spread ¼ of the cream cheese mixture over the top. Pull the corners of the parcel over the fish and seal at the top with beaten egg. Mix the rest of the egg with the milk and brush the parcels.
Cook for around 25 minutes, or until the pastry is golden.
Serve with the rest of the cream cheese mixture and a green salad.
Twenty-seven
Grace wakes up in her old bedroom, unchanged since she was last here, unchanged since she was a student: the Laura Ashley sprigged wallpaper, the pretty yellow and white quilt, the mahogany dressing table and little stool. On the bed, where he has always been, is Buff – the knitted teddy bear Patrick gave her for Christmas one year, his knitted paw clutching a knitted red rose.
Grace slept clutching Buff, too exhausted by all that had happened to even talk about it with Lydia. She had fallen into Lydia’s arms, allowed herself to be guided to the car, where Lydia switched on Radio 4 as Grace was lulled into a state of calm.
Straight to bed, where she slept the sleep of the dead, waking up to see the view she has always loved – through the many-paned windows straight out to the fields opposite, the cows gently grazing next to the pretty old brick farm.
Waking up, shuddering with horror at the previous night spent on a park bench. Unwashed. Unfed. No longer living with the fear of turning into her mother, but the realization that – only temporarily, thank God – her fears had been fulfilled.
It is deathly quiet. She had forgotten how quiet it was here. Sneden’s Landing was never noisy, but the birds sang, the water rushed, their house built of wood allowing all the noises of nature to pass through the walls.
Here the stone mutes everything. It is still. Peaceful. It is the sound of safety, Grace thinks, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and examining herself in the mirror.
Tall but now round. She turns to the side to look at her stomach, her breasts that were always so tiny, now pillowy and large. She wishes she could accept what she now looks like, wants to feel beautiful, regardless of her size. Her shame is just as much at how unaccepting she is of her new shape, how harsh her judgement is of herself.
She turns and pulls her pills out of her bag. Sybil hadn’t grabbed the pillbox in which Grace diligently empties every day’s worth of pills, but instead had grabbed every pill bottle in the medicine cabinet and had swept them into a bag.
Thank God I wasn’t stopped by customs, thinks Grace. They might have arrested her for being a walking pharmacy.<
br />
Automatically she empties out the pills she is supposed to take today: Lexapro, Lamictal, Provigil, Phentermine. She looks at them, then back at her reflection in the mirror. There is no doubt that her exhaustion, her weight gain, the dullness of her life is connected to these pills. The pills she never wanted to take in the first place, took only because she had no other choice.
She cradles the pills in her hand, considering. She has spent her life terrified she might have the same disease as her mother, which is perhaps why, when Frank Ellery made the diagnosis, some part of her accepted it, even though she didn’t believe it; even though she read copious amounts about it and struggled to make it fit.
Surely, as Sybil said, taking medication is supposed to make you more of yourself? Make you better? Bring you back to your best self? What is the point of taking medication that makes you feel nothing? That has turned you into twice the woman you once were? That, if anything, has stolen your life?
She honestly doesn’t know what to do, so she does the easiest thing. Taking a gulp of the glass of water next to her bed, she swallows the pills. Sometimes not thinking too hard is the easiest thing of all.
Lydia is feeding the cat when Grace comes downstairs, dressed now in the clothes she was wearing yesterday, the clothes she had flown in.
Lydia looks up, beaming. ‘Did you sleep well? Oh, Gracie. I’m so horrified you weren’t able to reach me. I still can’t believe you slept on a bench. I’m just mortified I wasn’t there.’
‘I can’t believe it myself,’ says Grace. ‘The whole thing feels completely surreal. Had that kind gentleman not offered me his phone, I’d still be there. I had no idea what to do.’
Lydia gazes at her. ‘You must have been thinking about your mother.’
‘Oh, Lydia.’ Grace wells up. ‘It was all I was thinking about. This all-consuming shame at my mother being homeless, this fear that anyone would find out, that I might somehow end up in the same boat, and there I was. It has been months and months of hell, of me dreading I was like her . . . and then the culmination on a park bench.’