by Jane Green
Perhaps, she tilts her head as a smile of delight plays on her lips, perhaps it has nothing to do with my size and everything to do with how I feel.
I am drunk, she thinks. It has been years since I have been drunk, and what fun it is. I am drunk, and I am beautiful.
These past few days are the first time that she has felt beautiful in a very long time. Today might even be, she thinks, the first day in her whole life that she has felt beautiful on the inside, where it counts.
And there is a man waiting for her outside, a man who has, she knows, always desired her. She has always treated it as something of a joke, something to be trifled with and teased, until tonight. When all of a sudden it doesn’t seem funny at all.
‘You seem . . . jittery,’ Patrick says, raising an eyebrow at Grace, who is concentrating very hard on making it back to the sofa in a straight line. She sounds sober, she knows, but she has had enough to drink that her inhibitions are now below what they would normally be.
Patrick brushes her hand with his own as Grace stills, looking at their hands together on the sofa. Without thinking, without realizing what she is doing, she strokes his hand, turning his palm over and tracing it with her fingers.
Looking up at him, Patrick’s smile has disappeared. They stare at each other.
‘I think I need some fresh air,’ she says. ‘Do you want a walk?’
They stand just outside the entrance of the hotel, saying nothing, as people weave their way around them. They do not look at each other, the air between them thick with all that has not been said.
A girl shouts down the street after her friends and falls into Grace, pushing her up against Patrick, who steadies Grace but doesn’t let her go. They both smile at the girl’s loud apologies as she disappears off down the street, turning back to each other as the smiles on each of their faces slide off.
‘Do you not think . . . ?’ Grace whispers, Patrick’s face now inches from her own. ‘Do you not think that now might be a very good time to kiss me?’
‘Are you serious?’ he whispers back, even as his face moves imperceptibly closer to hers. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘Yes,’ she says as her lips brush his. ‘And yes. But not so much so that I don’t know what I’m doing, or that I’ll regret it in the morning.’
His mouth opens to meet hers as Grace melts into his arms.
Waiting for the lift, they kiss again, ignoring anyone who might be passing, Grace feeling a passion and excitement she’s not sure she has ever felt before.
‘Get a room,’ leer a crowd of young men leaving the hotel’s restaurant, and it is to Patrick’s room they go, Patrick fumbling to get the door open, pulling Grace back into his arms as he kicks the door shut.
‘Oh God,’ he groans, slipping the dress over her shoulders, Grace embarrassed, for a moment, at how ample her bosom has become, then sinks into lust as Patrick slips off her bra straps with reverence, moving from one breast to another, his lips, his tongue, hungrily suckling, nipping, licking as Grace sighs with an otherworldly pleasure.
She reaches down to undo the zip on his trousers, pulls him out, no longer aware that this is Patrick, taken into another realm with the feelings sweeping through her body. Her turn to lift his shirt over his head, marvel at his body, the strength, the firmness.
What bliss is this, this body, this man, she thinks, stroking her hands up and down his torso, pulling down his trousers, his underwear, sinking to her knees to help him get them off, then taking him in her mouth as he gasps.
Then she is pushed back on the bed, Patrick moving down her body, his head between her legs, expertly going down on her until she clasps his hair between her fingers, her back arching as the waves take her over.
And then, he is on top of her, inside her, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. It is only then that she realizes he is crying, tears welling in his eyes and dripping onto her chest.
‘What is it?’ She gasps, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. ‘Do you want to stop? I’m so sorry.’
‘No,’ he says, smiling through the tears. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve waited so long.’
‘Oh, Patrick.’ She pulls his head down to hers and kisses him, tasting the saltiness of the tears on his lips.
Thirty-three
Patrick is right: she isn’t alone anymore. Grace, who, despite husband, daughter, friends, has felt alone all of her life, seems to not be alone now that Patrick has reentered the picture, the irritating elder ‘brother’ she inherited somewhere in her eighteenth year.
Her childhood truly was spent largely on her own and when she now thinks of her marriage to Ted, which she hasn’t done nearly as much the last few weeks, she sees herself as alone in that marriage too.
Not that she doesn’t want it back. They had found a way to make it work, Ted with his writing, with Ellen taking care of him; Grace with Harmont House, her cooking, her lunching and socializing in New York.
But how empty it now seems, looking back. Of course she was going to be on her own much of the time, married to a writer, and more, one so much older than her. She hadn’t ever felt, all those years, lonely. She hadn’t felt in need of a partner, someone who was more on her wavelength, someone who made her laugh.
Ted hadn’t ever made her laugh. That hadn’t been their dynamic. He made her think, made her happy, she had always thought, but laughter? Fun? That had never been a big factor in their relationship.
She turns, examining Patrick’s profile in the car as he pulls onto the motorway on their way back to Dorset. It is a profile she knows almost as well as her own. He has always been my brother, she thinks, startled that she is not looking at him in the way she ought to be looking at a true sibling. She is looking at the curve of his chin, the softness of his lips. She is looking at his strong hands expertly steering the car, his hair, longer than she had ever seen it, gently curling over his collar.
‘I know you’re staring,’ Patrick says, never taking his eyes from the road. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that was rude?’
‘I was just thinking how grown-up you are.’
He shoots her a confused glance. ‘You’re always accusing me of never having grown up. Make up your mind.’
‘No, I meant physically. You’re really a man.’
‘Please tell me that this moment, today, in this car is not really the first time you have noticed that.’
Grace flushes. ‘Oh God.’ She drops her head in her hands with a sheepish grin. ‘I think it actually is.’
Patrick shakes his head as he reaches over to take her hand. ‘Better late than never.’
That night, Grace cooks dinner. With an affectionate nod to her adopted home, she makes chicken and dumplings, followed by apple pie, which sends Patrick off in rapturous praise.
Lydia watches them, saying nothing. They are careful not to touch each other, not to give anything away, unaware that the chemistry between them is electric; that even a blind man could tell there is something going on.
‘I’m off to bed, you two,’ says Lydia when the table has been cleared and Grace and Patrick are standing by the sink, finishing off the dishes. ‘Make sure you turn off all the lights.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ they both say in unison, and laugh, giddy in the first spell of lust, Patrick sidling up to Grace as Lydia disappears up the stairs, pulling her in and lowering his lips to meet hers as her arms snake up around his neck.
‘God, you are gorgeous.’ He nuzzles into her neck. ‘You’d better be sneaking into my room tonight.’
‘I haven’t got the nerve.’ Grace laughs. ‘What if your mother catches me? You come sneak into mine.’
‘Done.’ He smiles, taking her by the hand and starting to lead her up the stairs as Grace hesitates.
‘Emily Tallman,’ she says. ‘Let me just try again. One more time, then we’ll go up.’
Upstairs, Grace emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Patrick lying on her bed.
‘You really do have to go home,’
Patrick says. ‘I know you don’t want to, and I certainly don’t want you to, but Emily Tallman isn’t picking up the phone and she isn’t responding to your messages. The only way you’re going to get an answer is to go. You haven’t seen Clemmie in over six months. Grace, you know it’s time.’
Grace nods. She is strong enough now to deal with whatever might be waiting for her.
She misses Clemmie. Desperately. Their regular phone calls do nothing to assuage her guilt at leaving, even though she has always known it was the only thing she could do.
As for Ted, now might be the right time to see him. He is with Beth, it is true, but Grace knows him better than anyone. He falls hard for his obsessions, but they do not last long. When they are over, when he has moved on, he comes out on the other side loving Grace more; needing her more.
And then there is Beth.
Grace shudders as Patrick looks at her with concern. ‘What?’
‘The thought of seeing her. All these months away I’ve built her up into this terrible, evil creature. The thought of seeing her now completely terrifies me.’
‘It terrified you before because you were so vulnerable. You’re not anymore, Grace. And you’re not alone. I do see how you’ve demonized her, and I see that you don’t have to do it anymore. I promise you, you don’t have to be frightened. I may not be there physically, but I’ll be with you every step of the way.’
Grace nods.
‘I love you,’ he says, standing up to hold her.
‘I know.’ She smiles, allowing herself to be held, as Patrick gently unwinds the towel and lets it drop to the floor.
Grace immediately covers herself as Patrick gently takes her hands. ‘Stop,’ he says, gazing at her naked body with such love and such acceptance that Grace, so awkward in her nakedness now, starts to relax.
‘Please don’t lose any more weight,’ he says, tracing the roundness of her stomach, cupping her full breasts in each hand and leaning forward to kiss them. ‘I have never seen anyone more beautiful, more womanly than you.’
‘You’re biased,’ says Grace, who has not had anyone worship her body, be she fat or thin, ever.
‘Maybe. But I have known you at both sizes, and to me this is truly the most perfect you have ever been.’ His hand slips between her legs, and soon she is sighing with pleasure, as both of them sink back on the bed.
Grace awakens early. It is 5.34 a.m., but the possibility of sleep has gone. Patrick hasn’t bothered sneaking back to his own room so Lydia doesn’t find out. It wouldn’t have mattered, thinks Grace, for Lydia almost certainly already knows.
She turns to examine Patrick, fast asleep on his back, his strong profile reassuringly familiar, his body less so. She pulls the sheet down slightly, shivering with lust as she looks at his hands, remembers what they were doing to her just last night.
He has awoken her sexuality, something she had long ago put to bed in her marriage to Ted. It had been years since she had thought of herself as a sexual being, years since she has felt what it is to desire someone, to look at them and itch with longing.
I am home, she thinks, marvelling at the familiarity and safety of being with someone she has known, and loved, for so very many years.
She has loved him like a brother, but will never again think of him in that light. She studies his chest, watching it rise and fall, wanting to reach out and touch his skin, not wanting to wake him up.
I don’t want to leave, she thinks. Never have I felt more myself than during these days with Patrick. I don’t want to leave him, but this is not my life. This is not where I belong. This may feel like home, but it isn’t home. Home is where my family is, home is where my house is, my life.
Whether I want to or not, she thinks, Patrick is right: it’s time for me to go back to America.
She reaches out then, gently traces the profile of his face as he stirs, opens his eyes, rolls towards her.
‘What time is it?’ he mumbles.
‘Too early to get up,’ she says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Why are you awake?’ His eyes are still closed, his voice thick with sleep, sluggish.
‘Too much on my mind. I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, about going home.’
Patrick opens his eyes then, sits up in bed, looks at Grace.
‘You’re right. I can’t hide forever, and I can’t move forward unless I go back. I’m going to see if there’s a flight tomorrow. It’s time.’
Patrick nods, but doesn’t speak, just looks down at the sheets.
‘Patrick? This was your idea,’ Grace says gently. ‘This . . . us . . . has been lovely. It has been the most gorgeous thing to have happened to me in years. But it can’t last. You know that, yes? You have your life in Los Angeles, and I’m married. Even if everything’s over, I can’t dive into something else. There are too many moving parts.’
‘I know,’ Patrick says quietly, still not looking at her.
‘I will always love you,’ Grace says. ‘And we will always be friends.’
‘Yes,’ says Patrick, reaching out to put his arms around her in a hug, blinking back the tears that have sprung so unexpectedly into his eyes.
Thirty-four
In New York, in their Manhattan apartment, Luke stretches his long legs out on the sofa and pulls Clemmie down towards him as she walks past, saying, ‘I like this,’ kissing her as she shrieks and playfully tries to disengage.
‘I have to go,’ she says, pausing for a few minutes to sink into his arms. ‘What do you like?’
‘This. Us. Living together,’ says Luke, gesturing around the tiny apartment they had just rented together. ‘I even really like going to the bathroom and having girl things around.’
‘Girl things?’ She barks with laughter. ‘Like bras drying on the radiator?’
‘Yes. And makeup on the sink. It’s weird, but in a good way. It makes me feel all responsible and mature.’
‘Careful,’ says Clemmie. ‘Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to marry you.’
‘You should be so lucky,’ grins Luke as they both smile into each other’s eyes, knowing they are both far too young, that marriage is something only to be joked about, that if it were to happen for the two of them it wouldn’t be for years, something that stretches out into the future, allowing them to treat it lightly now.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to my dad’s?’ Clemmie’s voice catches itself. For years it was “to my parents”, and it has only been recently that she has started saying, ‘to my dad’s.’ It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel right. It lends a permanent air to a situation Clemmie prays is temporary.
She has spoken to her mum, but the conversations have been light, neither of them daring to speak about anything too deep, anything that may cause a wider rift. What she wants to say is, When are you coming home? When are you and Dad going to talk? Why is any of this happening? And most of all, Are you really okay?
Clemmie thinks her mother is. She sounds okay. She sounds like herself, and it has been a very long time since her mother has sounded like herself. Clemmie hadn’t even realized how bad things had got, but now she is hopeful it is over.
And if it is, couldn’t they all carry on with their lives as they were before? For a while Clemmie hoped she might be able to orchestrate them getting back together or, at the very least, her mother coming back home to America, where she belongs. At least if she were here, Clemmie might have a chance, but her mother is adamant that she has to be in England to get better.
Clemmie tried talking to her father, which felt awkward and wrong, as much for him as it did for her.
‘This isn’t something that’s appropriate for you and I to discuss,’ he said gruffly, turning away. ‘I’m sorry this is difficult for you, but it will resolve itself in the way it is supposed to.’
But how? thought Clemmie. How can this messy, awful situation ever resolve itself?
Perhaps by Clemmie being around more, she thought, awa
re always of the seed planted by her mother, that Beth would move in. But Clemmie has taken to turning up unexpectedly, walking into the house, her heart in her throat, expecting to find her father and Beth in flagrante, but there is never anything going on other than what you would expect between a writer and his assistant.
Admittedly, he seems to rely on Beth more. But why wouldn’t he? He says she is his saviour. The one woman who has got him through the most insane period of his life.
‘If it weren’t for Beth,’ he has said, numerous times, to Clemmie and to anyone else who will listen, ‘I don’t know how I would have survived.’
Word has got out now that Grace has bipolar disorder, has deserted her family after refusing the help she so desperately needed. Luckily, word hasn’t reached the press, but the village is buzzing with gossip, with people wanting to know, indulging in a spot of schadenfreude, for who does not enjoy seeing the mighty fall from grace, or indeed, Grace fall from the mighty.
Clemmie doesn’t call before driving out to Sneden’s. She wants to collect her warmer coat, which hangs in the wardrobe in her bedroom, with the rest of the clothes she doesn’t have room to store in their tiny apartment.
‘Hello?’ she calls into the kitchen, out of habit, jolted always when her mother’s voice doesn’t sing down the stairs to her. The house feels dead, as if the life has been sucked out of it, which, Clemmie thinks, it has, despite the fresh flowers on the table and new curtains in the window. Odd, she thinks. Her father would surely never have bothered with new curtains.
Out to the barn to see her father, she stomps along the garden path, watching her breath mist in the air. Perfect timing for her coat, she thinks, pushing the door of the barn open.
‘Clemmie? What are you doing here?’ Beth walks out of the office at the end, holding a file. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’