Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Chapter 27

  I WALK OUT OF my apartment block, glancing up and down the street to ensure Horace, the dodgy journalist from last night, hasn’t decided it would be fun to accost me once more. There’s no sign of him or any other dangerous characters so I decide to walk the ten blocks to the client’s apartment and soak up some of the warm sun. It might warm me up, fix this lump in my belly.

  Maybe it’s the bright sun shining down on me or the crisp, cool air? Whatever it is, I begin to feel a little better—I begin to feel as though I can do this. Sure, it’s been a tough few weeks. But I know the truth.

  And I’ve got Sam.

  I get a spring in my step as I walk through the familiar streets of Wellington, past the shop windows, the cafés, the people going about their business. I see a group of about four or five teenage girls, dressed in their school uniforms, walking towards me. I’m reminded of Dylan and his shuffling embarrassment and say a little prayer of thanks I left puberty behind a long time ago.

  As I get closer to the girls I notice them all looking at me, talking quietly among themselves. I smile to myself. Maybe they like my outfit? It is pretty cute, if I don’t say so myself: self-made pale pink tunic, the navy cropped jacket I designed back in winter, black leggings, and cute high heeled ankle boots.

  Perhaps I should tell them I made most of my outfit? Inspire them to try making their own clothes? I smile to myself: or perhaps they’ll just think I’m an old lady in weird clothes at the grand old age of twenty-four and I should keep walking.

  As I pass them the one who appears to be the group’s alpha—you know the one: confident, loud, a little more mature looking than the rest of the group—mutters something under her breath.

  I look at her in shock as I come to an abrupt stop. “What did you say to me?” I ask, breathless, barely believing my ears.

  She pumps out her chest, raising her chin as the others in the group shuffle a little further behind her, all watching me. “You heard me. I said, psycho slut.” She shoots me a challenging look, her lips forming a thin line, her eyes narrowed in defiance.

  I look at her, wide-eyed with shock. She called me a psycho slut?

  On automatic pilot, I turn to walk away, stumble in my boots, jerking my arms out on either side of myself in an attempt to regain my balance.

  Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.

  I find a wall with my right hand and grab hold of it. Calamity averted, I straighten up, look directly ahead and walk with wobbly legs down the street, away from the Queen Bee and her adoring fans. I hear them sniggering behind me. It takes all my strength to resist the urge to run.

  “Yeah, you’d better leave, bitch!” Queen Bee calls after me as her friends erupt in laughter.

  My heart thudding, I turn the corner of the street, find an alleyway and dart down it. I lean against the wall, trying to calm my breathing.

  The article.

  I pull my phone out of my handbag and, with shaking fingers, type in my name. I hold my breath, steeling myself for what’s to come.

  And then I see it.

  Sam’s mistress goes UFC on journalist

  My stomach lurches. I think I might throw up or pass out—or both.

  The title is accompanied by the photo he took of me last night. I scan his words. Unhinged . . .. violent . . . thwarted by Sam . . . bitter . . .

  Every word hurts, it’s all so wrong. The last word my eyes settle on causes the most injury. Sad.

  I put my hand on my chest, feeling my heart race like a highly-caffeinated mouse on a running wheel.

  I can’t do this. I can’t.

  The articles, the way people treat me, the way they don’t know the truth.

  The confidentiality agreement.

  And no Sam here with me.

  Still shaking, I dial his number. I try to control my breathing. In out, in out, in out.

  Sam answers on the third ring.

  “Grace.” My heart leaps at the sound of his voice.

  “Hi, Sam.” I work hard to keep the tremble out of my voice. I fail.

  He picks up on it immediately. “Babe, what’s wrong?” His voice is soft, full of love. It’s too much to take.

  I burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” I think I manage to get out.

  “What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Still too many tears to be able to form words. I let out a puff of air. Try again. “I’m having a tough time.”

  At least that’s what I think I say.

  “You’re what? Oven a guffime?” Sam questions. I can hear the smile in his voice, his gentle jest. “Take a deep breath and tell me all about it.”

  I do as he suggests. Sniff, wipe my nose on my sleeve. I steady myself before I speak. “I just walked past a group of teenage girls and they called me names.”

  “Okay,” he replies carefully. “Is that what this is all about?”

  Indignant, I reply, “Well it was pretty sucky. They were so mean.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “No, they knew me from reading about me.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry about that, Grace. You and I both know it’s all part of the territory. You’ll simply need to weather it.”

  “Weather it?” I question.

  “Yes, you know, learn to live with it.”

  “I know what ‘weather it’ means, Sam,” I reply, irritated. “I just . . . I thought it would have all stopped by now.”

  “It will. Give it time.”

  “There’s this article—” I begin.

  “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to read about ourselves? Grace, please, it’s the only way. It’ll drive you insane otherwise.”

  “You don’t understand. This paparazzi guy found me yesterday and, well I ended up throwing my bag at him.”

  The memory stings.

  He lets out a laugh. “Oh, no. You know you shouldn’t have done that. These guys aren’t worth it.”

  “I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. And now he’s written this terrible article about me, about how I’m jealous of you and Vanessa getting engaged, how I’m unhinged and violent, how I’m—”

  “Grace,” he interrupts me, “please, don’t read that stuff. Keep your head up. This too shall pass.”

  “When?” I know I sound like an indignant child. Right now, I don’t give a damn.

  “I don’t know. Soon. Once the second movie is done and dusted.”

  “The second movie? Is that happening?”

  “Yes.” I can hear the excitement in his voice. “We had confirmation from the studio a few hours ago. I wanted to call to tell you but I’ve been smashed with work. And we’re getting onto it really fast. We start filming in a few weeks.”

  The sequel’s going ahead. Although I know I should be elated Sam’s career is off and humming, all I feel is deflated. My shoulders slump as my heart drops into my belly with a thud once again, this time settling in.

  “Grace? Are you still there?” he questions.

  “Yes, I . . . I’m here. That’s great news. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Thanks, it’s an unreal feeling, I have to say. When they . . .” He continues, talking about the movie. I barely listen, incapable of taking anything in.

  They’re making a sequel. I know what it means. David will want them to continue the engagement charade. Hell, he might even suggest they have a fake wedding to keep the interest in them going.

  And maybe it won’t even stop there.

  I swallow down a large lump in my throat.

  People talk about reaching the end of their tether and I’ve always wondered what a tether actually is. Well, in this moment at least I know how it feels.

  I wait until he’s finished. “Sam, I . . . I need to say something and please don’t stop me.”

  “Okay,” he replies. His tone is uncertain. Perhaps he knows what’s coming? Perhaps he’s been expecting this?

  Perhaps he wants it?

  I close
my eyes, bite my lip. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  “What?” His voice is breathless. “What can’t you do? Grace? What is it?”

  I take a deep breath, look up at the small patch of sky the narrow alleyway allows. “Sam, I’m not like you, I don’t live in your world. I’m . . . I’m not built for it.”

  I swallow, barely believing the words coming out of my mouth.

  “Grace, we can get through this. We can. Please, trust me.” His voice is edgy, panicked even.

  Tears well in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “No, Grace, no. I’m not going to let you do this. I love you. You love me. This will all be over soon and we can be together.”

  “When, Sam? When your movie has been made, when you’ve done all the promo? What about if the studio decides they want to make a third movie? What happens then?”

  “Forget about the movie. I’ll . . . I’ll quit. I’ll tell them I’m not going to do it. I’ll come clean about me and Vanessa.”

  I hear a tone of desperation in his voice and I feel the size of a flea, knowing how much I’m hurting him.

  “Do you want to quit the movie?” I ask.

  The phone is silent for a moment. “I can. I will. I’ll do it to keep you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as tears pour freely down my face. “Sam, I’m not going to make you choose between me and your career. I know how much acting means to you. It’s your passion, it’s your life. I wouldn’t want you to decide to be with me then regret what you’ve given up. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  I can hear him breathing on the end of the line. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  My heart gives a painful squeeze. “I know. I’m so sorry, Sam. I can’t see another way out of this. I . . . I love you.”

  I hang up before I have the chance to change my mind, switch my phone to silent and stuff it into my pocket.

  If Sam were here, standing in front of me, I know I would never have had the strength to do what I’ve just done. He would wrap me up in his arms and I would melt into him, forgetting all the humiliation and pain.

  I dissolve into hot tears, slumping down the wall onto the dirty sidewalk.

  I can hardly believe what I’ve done. I broke up with Sam.

  Sam, the love of my life.

  Chapter 28

  I STUMBLE THROUGH THE day on automatic pilot, assisting Jessica at the appointments, running errands, ignoring my phone. I’m like a robot, devoid of feeling, going through the motions, pretending I’m a fully functioning human—knowing today I’m absolutely not.

  Exhausted by the end of the day, I open the door to my apartment and am met with a virtual wall of flowers. Their scent hits me in an instant. I blink in disbelief, my mouth dropping open as I look around the living room at the seemingly endless array of bouquets.

  “Hello! Earth to Grace!”

  I shake my head and notice Taylor standing in front of me, a bemused smile on her face.

  “Grace, I’ve been talking to you for the last thirty seconds.

  “I . . . That’s a lot of flowers.”

  She laughs. “It sure is. You’re one lucky girl, they’re all for you!” She looks around the room, frowning. “I didn’t quite know where to put them all.”

  There are bouquets covering every surface, from the kitchen bench to the coffee table, to the windowsills and floor. There must be thirty of them, all beautiful, all making me feel like a selfish, heartless bitch.

  “Mmm,” I mutter as I blink, trying to take in the scene.

  She shoots me a concerned look. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. You don’t look so good.”

  Like the robot I’ve become today, I let Taylor lead me past several large bunches of roses to the sofa. I carefully sit down. I gaze at the closest arrangement, at the delicate white orchids, the deep red roses, the pretty green foliage. They’re breathtakingly beautiful.

  “What’s going on, Grace? You look totally spaced out. Oh, I know, you’re probably allergic! Do you get hay fever? Grace?”

  “Hay fever? Ah, no. No, I’m fine.”

  Snap out of it, Grace!

  I drag my eyes away from one particularly large bouquet of some flowers I don’t recognise to focus on Taylor. I know I must look like some kind of druggie who’s just had her fix.

  “Sorry, I’m a little shocked by all . . . this.” I gesture around the current botanical state of the room.

  She grins at me. “Sam must really love you,” she comments wistfully.

  I try my best to smile back at her. My traitorous bottom lip begins to tremble and within moments I bow my head as fresh, hot tears flow.

  “Hey. It’s okay,” Taylor says gently, sitting on the sofa next to me, rubbing my back.

  I sob like a baby for a long time, eventually reduced to whimpering. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose with the tissues Taylor offers me.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks when I’m finally less hysterical.

  “No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know.” I hang my head. “It’s Sam.” It’s all I can manage before the tears threaten to spill out again.

  “Did you have a fight? Is that why he sent all these flowers?”

  “No, we . . . he . . . I broke up with h-him.”

  She recoils from me. “You what? I thought you loved him!”

  I scrunch my eyes shut, willing the flowers to vanish in a puff of smoke—heart-breaking evidence of Sam’s love for me everywhere I look.

  The floral scent persists, of course. I consider a clothes peg for my nose before I realise I’m being ridiculous and should probably open my eyes. I need to deal with this.

  When I finally speak, my voice is quiet. “It’s not that. I do love him. He’s amazing.” My heart warms at the thought of him, a smile creeping across my face through the tears. “It’s all this other stuff: the secrecy, the way people react to me, those horrible, horrible articles. It’s too much for me. I can’t do it.”

  She regards me with sympathetic eyes. “Yeah, it sucks. All that attention just isn’t you, is it? You’re much more like me. We like our quiet life, don’t we?”

  I smile at her. “We do. If it were just Sam and me and none of this extra crap we would be together. I know that in my heart. But it’s his job, his career. I can’t ask him to give it up for me.”

  The door bangs open and Tiffany sashays into the room, Rangi following close behind.

  “Holy crap! It’s like a bloody florist shop in here,” Tiffany states.

  Rangi sneezes.

  Tiffany turns to him. “Oh, poor baby. Are you allergic?”

  Rangi sneezes again. “Pollen.” He shakes his head. “Not good.”

  “Go to my room and open the window. I’ll be right in.”

  She turns and walks towards us, doing a kind of slalom course around the bouquets.

  She moves a bunch of roses from the front of a chair and plonks herself down, looking at me. She takes in my red, puffy face, the pile of used tissues scattered on the sofa next to me.

  “I’m guessing Mister Movie Star is apologising for something. Did he cheat on you?”

  Taylor jumps in. “No! He didn’t cheat on her. And for the record she didn’t cheat on him, either!”

  She laughs. “Well I knew that. No woman in her right mind would cheat on Sam Montgomery now, would they?”

  A fresh lump rises in my throat as tears prickle my eyes.

  “Grace broke up with Sam,” Taylor states, rubbing my back.

  “You did what?” Tiffany screeches, making me jump a clear foot off the sofa. “You broke up with Sam? One of the hottest guys on the face of the planet, a guy who adores you? Are you certifiably insane?!”

  “Everything okay in here?”

  We turn to see Rangi standing in the doorway. His handsome face is almost as swollen and red as mine.

  He sneezes.

  Tiffany stands up, puts her hands on her hips. “Grace broke up with Sam. Can you believe it? She hasn’t had a boyfriend i
n God knows how many years, had pretty much been awarded her Reclaimed Virgin status, and now she’s pushing away the best thing to ever happen to her.”

  Rangi takes a step closer. Sneezes. “Well, you could see it from a different perspective, I think, Tiff. She’s probably doing the right thing. Sam lives in a completely different world from her, in another hemisphere. And not only that, he’s dragged her into his world with this media attention, which has to be so hard. And she can’t talk about any of it, not even to respond to the gutter press.” He turns to me. “I think you’ve done so well to get where you are, Grace. You’ve made a mature decision and I respect you for that. It can’t have been easy.”

  All three of us gape at him. Rangi, the strong silent type, speaks out. And it’s impressive. Who knew this sensitive, observant man was there all along, lurking under the surface?

  I’d thought he was little more than a male slut. And now it turns out he’s the freaking Stephen Hawking of emotional intelligence.

  Taylor finds her voice first. “That’s right, Rangi. Grace is very brave.”

  Rangi sneezes in response. “Come on, Tiff. I need to get out of here.”

  “Sure, babe. And Grace? I guess Rangi’s right, you have to do what’s right for you.”

  This emotional intelligence must be catching.

  I attempt a smile, imagine it looks fairly pitiful. “Thanks,” I croak.

  “Want a cup of tea?” Taylor offers.

  “Sure, thanks.” I smile at her. “I have a call to make.”

  As Taylor busies herself in the kitchen I pick up my phone and dial Sam’s number with shaking fingers. He answers immediately.

  “Grace. Thank God. How are you? Did you get the flowers?”

  “Yes, I . . . ah . . . got them all. Thank you, they’re gorgeous.”

  “I might have gone a wee bit over the top. I just want you to know how much you mean to me. I’ve been thinking about us all day and I’ve decided to cancel some work and come to New Zealand next week.”

  “Sam, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I do. I want to see you. It’ll be good for us. We can get away, spend time together, just be us.”

  In an instant, my thoughts turn to our incredible weekend at Waimarama Beach. My heart squeezes in my chest, wanting that—needing that.