She moved away and went to find what she had come here for. And there she was, off the main galleries, almost as if the current owner was building up enough gumption to get rid of her all together but had not quite managed it yet. She wasn’t as opulent as the icon in the Paddwick Gallery, and the infant she was holding seemed less life-like, but he still held his cheek against his mother’s and she still looked out at the world as if hoping that someone would stop what was about to happen. Grace stayed for a while, not even looking at her watch. Let the world wait.
‘I know you’re probably not ready to draw a line under it all,’ she whispered to the icon before she left, ‘but can I just say how much I appreciate you listening.’
Back out in the street she walked more purposefully and had decided, by the time she reached the office, that she would ignore her father and get herself over to Newham once again. Mark was right: her mother needed to grow up, and her father too, come to that. If they were both acting like children, it was up to her to be the parent.
She waved at Bernice as she went past the door. Despite being on the phone, Grace saw her pull a face and mime something at the ceiling. Grace took it as a comment on Tate upstairs and made a similar face back. Esther twitched her lips in what could have been a scowl or smile.
Grace continued upwards, wondering what she might find when she arrived. Perhaps a full-scale party, a trashed office, Alistair tearing bits of paper into snowstorms in anger? No matter, she would sail resolutely through it all. The dangers were too great to tempt her to get emotionally involved in any way.
On reaching the office, she got a pleasant surprise – apart from the grease stains on the magazines, all was as it should be. She heard Alistair’s door open.
‘Ah, Grace,’ he said, coming towards her at a canter, ‘just the person. Checked the copy for the leaflet: fine, fine. And thank you for amending the website, doing the emailers, you’ve been busy.’
‘No problem, Alistair.’ She moved to go into her office, but he put his hand up.
‘Actually, there is a problem, Grace.’ He motioned to the sofa and she hoped he might say the problem was with Tate. Perhaps Alistair had come back and found him dancing or even making out with Bebbie in front of potential clients. She sat and tried to match Alistair’s concerned expression.
‘The thing is, Grace, the problem I’m talking about is how sharp I was with you this morning. Over the kettle. And then I left you to train Tate.’
She conquered her disappointment that Tate was not on his way out of the company to tell him it didn’t matter.
‘No, hear me out,’ he insisted. ‘I realise it was hard for you being thrown together with Tate like that. After all, you didn’t make it to the pub on Friday so this morning it must have been like jumping right in with a virtual stranger and showing him what’s what. And then, to top it all, Emma rang and told me you have your dad staying. Which made me feel even worse about being sharp with you. Now, I don’t want to pry, but I do want you to know I’m here for you. I’m here, and Emma’s here.’ He seemed as if he were going to give her a consoling pat on the knee, thought better of it and brought his hand to rest on the table. It looked beached and awkward and he obviously felt that too, as he moved it again. ‘So, don’t worry about finishing off anything else on your desk, you just take your time with your mother …’
Grace did a mental backtrack over those last words because she had been barely concentrating, thinking instead about how kind Alistair could be when he wasn’t in blustering boss mode.
‘I’m sorry? Take time with what?’
‘Your mother.’ Alistair nodded towards her office and Grace realised what Bernice’s mime had meant.
‘Felicity!’ she said, leaping to her feet. ‘Felicity is here?’
Alistair gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It’s all right, Tate’s looking after her.’
In her head, even as she launched herself at her office door, Grace could hear herself screaming, Nooooooooooooooooo!
CHAPTER 15
They both looked up as she came in, Tate sitting on his new-found treasure from the skip and her mother next to him, in the easy chair. Between them was the small table holding the tea and coffee things, moved from its usual position against the wall. With Tate in his billowing shirt and eye make-up and her mother in her usual boho get-up, she felt as if she’d walked in on Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb having a tea party and a cosy chat.
Grace didn’t begrudge them the tea, or the fact that the office had been rearranged, but she did very much mind the chat. While others swore by free-range meat, her mother was addicted to free-range conversation: she roamed at will, regardless of taboo or sensitivity. Nothing was off limits. Grace tried to read the expression on Tate’s face, hoping it might indicate what her mother had been saying. Apart from looking dazed, which was usual on first meeting Felicity, the message she was getting back from his green eyes was, You a foundling, Gracie? ’Cos this sure as hell isn’t the mother I’d have paired you with.
‘Here she is, my gorgeous Grace,’ her mother said, struggling up from her chair, and whereas Grace had been on a state of high alert before, she now went straight to Defcon1. The last thing her mother had done was slam down the phone on her, so either this show of affection meant Felicity was feeling guilty (oh God, what had she been telling Tate?) or she wanted something.
Grace only got out, ‘Mum, how long have—’ before she was swaddled in her mother’s arms and engulfed by the smell of patchouli oil. And, oh no, it was one of those days when Felicity had not bothered with a bra. Grace tried to ignore her mother’s unfettered breasts squashing up against her own. Over her mother’s shoulder she saw Tate grin.
Grace waited until her mother’s grip lessened, having learned years ago that struggling to escape only made her hold on tighter.
‘You’re looking well, Grace.’ Her mother had brought out the soft voice she used in front of young men. ‘I’ve been talking to Tate … just chatting, till you came back. You didn’t mention you had someone new here. He’s been making me feel very welcome.’
‘How kind of you, Tate.’ Grace talked without taking her eyes off her mother. She was pleased to see that Felicity was aware she was being scrutinised and was now starting to fret at the dangling ties on her peasant blouse.
‘No sweat. I’ve enjoyed it,’ Tate said, trying, half-heartedly, to maintain a straight face. ‘Felicity’s great, we’ve had a ball, haven’t we? She’s read my palm. Checked my aura. You name it.’
Felicity did something with her head and her laugh that combined the very worst features of a simper and a flirt.
‘Lovely.’ Grace meant exactly the opposite. ‘So glad you hit it off. But if you’ll just excuse us,’ she caught hold of her mother’s arm, ‘I need to show my mother something in … in … the toilet.’ Grace knew how weird that must sound, but having discounted hauling Felicity to reception because Tate would be able to eavesdrop, or the kitchen because it was likely Alistair’s door was locked and the route blocked, it was the only place left to interrogate her mother.
‘In the toilet, Grace? You’ve not had that problem …’ her mother did not get the chance to finish as Grace hustled her from the room and along the narrow corridor.
There was too much of her mother and too little toilet cubicle for either of them to fit in comfortably, but Grace had the shoehorn of determination on her side.
‘Right,’ she said, when she had managed to get the door shut and locked, ‘I am going to ask you this and you had better give me an honest answer: what have you told him, Tate?’
‘Nothing, love, nothing. Like I said, we’ve just been chatting. He seems nice – different. What is he? Twenty-two, twenty-three? I like what he’s done with his eyes …’ Her mother trailed off and was trying to look anywhere but at her. In such a small space she soon ran out of possibilities.
‘Mu-um …’
‘Honest, Grace, I’ve said nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Bill … or Spain?’
‘Not a whisper, although why you’re ashamed of all that, I don’t …’ Felicity obviously decided not to chance her luck and veered off to, ‘Honestly, Grace, all I said was that you’ve always been the brainy one of the family. I told him how well you did up in Edinburgh.’
Grace recognised attention-diverting flattery when she heard it, but Felicity seemed earnest enough and a touch scared. That realisation, now her initial panic was subsiding, made Grace feel slightly ashamed of herself. She regarded her mother in all her shabby glory – her hair in need of a bit less henna and a bit more styling – and wondered whether to give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘You’re sure, Mum? Nothing about what I did before university? You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?’
There was a hesitation before Felicity said, ‘I mentioned your sisters, just a bit. Now, don’t give me that look. What harm can that do?’
Grace wanted to say, It’s another door you’ve opened which someone like Tate will lean against, but she doubted Felicity, who was very much of the fling-every-door-open persuasion, would understand.
‘All right, Mum. All right.’ Grace let her escape out of the cubicle, despite knowing that a released Felicity would be free to feel aggrieved. Grace could see it, even in the way she was smoothing out her skirt, if it were possible to smooth out pre-wrinkled cheesecloth.
‘Not a very nice way to greet your Mum,’ Felicity said, ‘imprisoning her in a toilet. Not that there’s a lot more room out here in this corridor.’
‘I’m sorry … it was a surprise to find you here.’
‘Well, I’m allowed to visit, aren’t I? Or has your father poisoned your mind against me?’
‘Stop being overdramatic, Mum.’ Grace folded her arms, wondering if she looked like a teacher again. ‘And, as you’ve brought up the subject of Dad, perhaps now you’d like to tell me what’s going on between the two of you? I’m presuming that’s the purpose of the visit? To win me over with your side of the story?’
‘No. I told you on the phone, I’ve got nothing to say. He’s the one who should be talking.’ Maternal arms were also folded.
‘Well, someone needs to say something. This is ridiculous. You know this is ridiculous. At some point, one of you will have to come clean.’ Grace let her mind clear. ‘So, what exactly have you come here for then?’
‘Some help.’
‘With?’
Her mother was looking evasive again. ‘Can we go back to your office first?’
‘No. Tell me here, without the audience.’
Felicity suddenly placed her hand on one of the walls and closed her eyes. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’m feeling a bit faint. Yeah, a bit woozy.’
Grace bit back the urge to say, ‘Come off it, Mum.’
The pattern of communication between her and her mother was well established these days. Grace would make some kind of headway, gain the upper hand and then Felicity would slap down the playing-for-sympathy card. If Grace was feeling brave, she would call her bluff, but today, the prospect of having to haul her unconscious mother back along the corridor and into the office in front of Tate made her uncross her arms and say, ‘All right, come and sit down. Have a cup of tea. I suppose if I’m actually in the room with you, you can’t say anything to embarrass me too much.’
‘Charming.’ Felicity’s wall-leaning and puffing subsided and Grace steeled herself to face Tate and that amused expression of his.
He was sitting in her seat, looking at the computer screen.
‘Just checking on how many more reservations I’ve got,’ he said cheerily. ‘Yup, two more victims. So, how did it go? Show your mother that rash?’
Grace’s laugh in response to that was a false one; her mother’s sounded genuine. If Grace hated an audience, Felicity revelled in one.
Tate was up and out of her chair. ‘Take a seat – warmed it up for you. Another tea, Fliss? Gracie? Should be plenty of water in the kettle.’
Felicity handed him her cup with a look from under her eyelashes. ‘Do all American men have nice manners like you, Tate?’
Her mother seemed to be playing the part of an English woman who had never met a real live American man before. Possibly she was in some time warp involving the Second World War, a brave nurse and some wounded American fly boy.
‘No, ma’am, we don’t. But us men from the eastern seaboard, well, we’re a breed apart.’
Great. Tate was joining in the fantasy. Any moment now they’d start singing a duet of that song that goes ‘You say tom-a-toes, I say tom-ar-toes …’
‘So, Mum, now you’re feeling better,’ Grace said, sitting down and giving her mother a look that brought her back to the twenty-first century, ‘what can I help you with?’
‘That’s it, that’s my Grace,’ Felicity said, chuckling coquettishly. ‘No small talk, no messing about, just straight to business. Oh, she keeps us all right, does Grace.’
Tate nodded. ‘I’m getting that idea.’ He bent down to switch on the kettle, which, now that the table had been moved, was sitting on the floor.
Grace saw her mother give his backside an appraising look and she was still looking as he straightened up and waited for the kettle to boil.
‘Mum!’
‘What?’
‘You were about to tell me how I can help you?’
Felicity tore her gaze from Tate’s backside. ‘I was? Yes, I was. Yes. Well, I need to know the ins and outs of starting a business from home. What do I need to do?’
‘A business? What kind of business?’
There was a hint of defiance in the tilt of her mother’s chin, but her fingers were once again straying towards the ties on her blouse. Her bangles slid, rattling, towards the crook of her arm. ‘Readings,’ she said. ‘You know, palms, auras. The cards. And classes, small ones, for yoga, meditation … and other stuff.’
Grace checked on Tate. He was still watching the kettle.
‘Other stuff?’ she mouthed at her mother. The stuff she had mentioned was bad enough – the constant companions of her childhood and teenage years; the things that had helped make her who she used to be.
The defiance in her mother’s chin had obviously spread to her mouth. ‘Grace doesn’t believe in mysticism, Tate. In harnessing the power of the universe, anything like that. Not like her sisters.’
‘Yeah? Well ain’t that a surprise?’ Tate said to the kettle and Grace tried to fire another warning shot across her mother’s bows with a particularly ferocious glare. She got a look back that made her wonder who was the child and who the mother.
‘What other stuff?’ Grace repeated, out loud this time, and had to wait for a reply while her mother watched Tate bend down again, switch off the kettle and carry it over to the table. He was standing putting the teabags in the teapot, half obscuring her mother, when Grace heard her say, ‘Massage and reflexology.’
Tate did a good job of not missing a beat but she saw his shoulders give one hike up and then down as if he were laughing. Grace was glad he found it funny. She concentrated on watching the steam rise from the water being poured from kettle to pot before choosing her words very carefully.
‘Massage and reflexology? You’re practising those? Is this something new?’
‘No and yes.’ Tate was returning the kettle to the floor and it was only when Felicity had got watching that out of her system that she elaborated: ‘No, I don’t do it, and yes, it is new. My partner’s going to do it. Oh, thank you, love.’ She simpered up at Tate as he handed her a cup of tea.
Partner? Not in a million years could that mean her father. The only way he would lay his hands on anyone he didn’t know was to frisk them. Partner? Ah, she had it. ‘Is this Maureen, the one with the mobile nail service? She does a bit of massage, doesn’t she?’
‘No. Not Maureen. It’s a man called Jay. Jay Houghton.’
The name arrived at the same time as the cup o
f tea which Tate was holding out towards her, and despite having her fingers round the handle, she seemed unable to grip. Obviously aware of this, he continued to stand there looking down at her as she let that name wander round her brain, zap across a few synapses and come up with a face. A face attached to a guy who was all pecs and flash. Didn’t he work in that gym by the station? There was a Nikki Houghton too, from school. His sister. Grace thought she remembered something about shoplifting. Or was Nikki the mother?
‘Jay Houghton,’ she said, and found herself looking into green cat-like eyes, uncomprehending but amused nonetheless. A cat picking up a scent of something.
‘You gonna take this tea?’ he said. ‘Or shall I just keep holding it and you can bend forward and slurp? See you got your mouth open ready.’
She closed her mouth, took the tea and opened her mouth again. ‘I think there’s something else I need to show you in the toilet, Mum,’ she said, putting down her cup without spilling anything and getting up without appearing to rush.
But her mother was shaking her head, feet in her pointy boots still resolutely planted on the floor. One hand plonked her cup on the small table. Grace saw tea lap over the side of it and splash on to the wood.
‘Not going,’ she said, her telephone voice replaced by that of a truculent toddler.
‘I see. Well then, Tate, would you mind giving my mother and me a few minutes alone?’
Tate shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘No you don’t, Grace Surtees,’ her mother said, struggling to her feet now, bangles rattling. ‘You stay right here, Tate. Go on, Grace, say what’s on your mind. Attack me, even though you know how sensitive I am. Even though I’ve brought you up not to be small-minded. Narrow. God knows I tried hard enough to make you a free spirit like your sisters. But if all you can say is, “Isn’t Jay young?” Or, “Aren’t you old enough to be his mother?” Or even, “Who’s he been practising his massage on then, Felicity?” Well, don’t bother. It’s a business arrangement. That’s all.’
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