Emma still had her head bowed and Grace wondered how to distract her. They’d exhausted talking about the women in Emma’s office, who seemed to be either macrobiotic, bulimic or catatonic. They’d talked about Mark too, Emma making unsubtle suggestions that it might be time for Grace and him to get serious. They’d also ‘done’ Grace’s family problems, although Grace had edited the story and added more humour to it than she actually felt. They’d even done a quick tour around Tate, during which Grace had regurgitated the normal platitudes. She had been able to be dispassionate about him tonight having had a Tate-free day while he was off doing whatever he did when he wasn’t leading a tour or bugging the life out of her. To sit in her office without him either zooming around on his chair, flaked out on the sofa or holding impromptu coffee and jamming parties in reception had felt like a holiday.
She had even been able to resist the urge to superglue all the rocks back in place, although any new ones that wobbled free she had rounded up and chucked in the bin on the grounds they were a threat to health and safety.
‘It’s just Alistair seems … a bit jittery,’ Emma said, suddenly raising her head.
Grace was relieved to see she did not look as if she were on the verge of tears. If anything, her expression mirrored Grace’s earlier perplexed one. There was a group of vertical lines between Emma’s eyebrows. ‘It’s almost as if he’s on edge all the time, very volatile,’ she explained. ‘I think he’s taken on too much. You know, with these extra meetings, hiring Tate. He’s so tired when he does get home too.’ She glanced at Grace and away again. ‘And then there’s the money.’
Grace stayed quiet. Money and sex were two aspects of Alistair and Emma’s private life that she didn’t want to hear about.
‘He’s going through quite a bit. I do the accounts, you see; he’s hopeless with money. Well, I don’t need to tell you that … And he’s taking out a lot of cash, but I can’t seem to see what he’s spent it on. He tried to tell me he’d lost some of it, but he was lying, I could tell. Hiding something. You don’t think—’
A sudden need to calm Emma and make the conversation go away caused Grace to blurt, ‘I think perhaps … perhaps he’s saving up for something special for you for Christmas. Wants it to be a secret.’
Emma had large, quite beautiful eyes and Grace saw the worry seep slowly away to be replaced by what might be a willingness to believe Grace’s theory. It made her feel simultaneously pleased and cheap.
‘He could be, couldn’t he?’ Emma said, raising both hands quickly to scoop and push her sheets of hair behind her ears. ‘I’d never thought of that. You know, I did tell him I’d like one of those benches for the garden, the kind that go around the base of a tree? Perhaps it’s that … they’re really expensive.’
Grace pictured the locked cabinet: nope, it wasn’t big enough for a bench that would fit around a tree. Emma was wrinkling her nose and making an ‘ahh’ sound. No doubt she was already picturing Alistair and her on Christmas morning cosied up on their special bench. Emma’s hope now had a momentum all of its own.
‘The more I think about it,’ she said, a flush on her cheeks, ‘the more I think you might be right. Maybe the grouchiness, the mood swings, it’s just the wear and tear of commuting and running a business. We find it tough, very competitive.’ She giggled. ‘But in all other areas, we couldn’t be happier. Even when he’s terribly tense, I can relax him.’ She dropped her voice, looked like she had the biggest secret in the world to tell. ‘The sex is still amazingly satisfying. He’s very demanding. Very imaginative.’
‘Oh good,’ Grace said softly and refilled Emma’s glass. If only she still drank herself, it might take the edge off the picture of Alistair performing his marital duties that she now had thrusting away in her head.
*
Alistair had the television switched on, but he wasn’t really watching it or listening to it. All of his attention was on the mobile phone on the sofa cushion next to him. Shiny black against the red velour, it was like some hard-backed insect. Menacing.
When Emma rang to say she was on the train, he’d know from the sound of her voice. Just know.
Why hadn’t he told Emma and Grace the same story about last night’s meeting? All they had to do was compare notes and his lie would be found out. Either the meeting was a planned one as he’d told Emma, or it was an emergency as he’d told Grace. It couldn’t be both. And what the hell would constitute an emergency in tourism? Not enough street performers for Covent Garden? The royal family being replaced by the Muppets?
She’d have called straight away if she’d been suspicious about something, wouldn’t she?
He looked at his watch, not registering what the time was, in the same way he hadn’t registered it when he’d tipped his wrist before.
Why did she have to be meeting Grace today when that conversation they’d had about money over breakfast would still be fresh in her mind? He could tell she hadn’t bought that story about losing the money near the cashpoint.
Perhaps they wouldn’t talk about him.
No, women talked about everything.
The phone rang and he snatched it up.
‘I know what you’re up toooooo,’ Emma said into his ear and he was up and off the sofa heading he didn’t know where, until he registered that she sounded, (a) drunk and, (b) happy.
‘Are you a bit tipsy?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘A teensy bit. But I’m on the train safely. Safe. And. Sound. Gets in at eleven. And you … you’re a bad, bad man, but a lovely one too.’
His mind came back from the precipice. ‘I am … I mean, yes, I am, but why?’
‘Shh. It’s a secret, but it makes me love you more and let’s just say Christmas can’t come quickly enough for this happy bunny.’ There was a clunk where she had obviously dropped the phone and then it was picked back up and she said, ‘Oops,’ before all went quiet.
Alistair sat back down on the sofa. Was he feeling relieved or even more of a bastard? No, definitely relieved – he was going to live to fight another day. Grace hadn’t dropped him in it. Good old Grace. He remembered how he’d shouted at her that morning and screwed up his face. That had to stop.
But what had that Christmas comment meant? Was she planning a trip away for them?
He went to fetch his car keys. Probably find out on the drive home – she was hopeless at keeping secrets.
That was his speciality.
CHAPTER 22
One-hundred-and-eighty-thread Egyptian cotton. Twenty-four-hour room service. Grace welcomed the solidity of numbers – you could count on them to be exactly as they promised. Do what you expected.
Like Mark. She turned her head on the smooth, cool pillowcase and watched him perusing the menu. Suntanned. Solid. Here when you wanted him, gone when you didn’t.
His brown hair was lighter than she remembered, but otherwise, he was a surprise-free zone.
Even down to the sex. Energetic, satisfying, but like having a good workout rather than someone throwing you over a cliff with both hands still clamped around your heart.
‘What do you fancy?’ he said without looking up.
‘Soda water. And a Caesar salad.’
‘Nothing else? No bread? Don’t want you wasting away.’ He glanced up, a hint of teasing about the eyes. But only a hint: Mark’s face, with its dark brows and straight nose, easily conveyed earnestness. It was an eminently straightforward face with nothing unsettling in it.
‘I’m fine. So … what are you having?’
‘Merlot, steak sandwich and chips.’
Of course he was.
She saw him put down the menu, felt his hand slide its way between her legs.
‘You first,’ he said, moving nearer, hand probing deeper. ‘You first and then food.’
That wasn’t a surprise either.
*
Grace was drinking her soda water in the bath later, her back against Mark’s chest, when he said, ‘This still working for you?�
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She wondered what he was really asking, but nodded, before adding, ‘I mean, of course it would be good to see more of you.’
His chest moved as he laughed. ‘There’s not much more of me to see.’
‘You know what I mean. And why are you asking anyway? Don’t I seem happy?’
She saw his glass go past her head en route to his mouth and thought how weird it was having a conversation where both of the participants this time were talking to the taps. Perhaps in a moment he’d put his mouth against her hair, talk into it.
Probably not.
‘I just don’t want you to think I’m taking you for granted, that’s all,’ he said when the glass, slightly emptier, had been lowered again. ‘I don’t expect you to sit around just waiting for the times we meet up again. I like it that you do, but I don’t expect it.’
She turned round, making the water run and splash up the side of the bath. ‘Everything’s fine, Mark. Absolutely fine.’ She put her hand on his thigh, registering how attractive he was when wet.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ he said, transferring his wine glass to his other hand. ‘I mean, in a couple of years’ time, you know, when I stop travelling so much, maybe then …’ She moved her hand over him, feeling how he had already hardened under the water, and he didn’t finish talking, simply leaned over the side of the bath and put his glass on the floor.
‘Yes, maybe in a couple of years …’ she said just before he sat back up straight and reached for her. Chest to chest this time. Mouth on mouth. No room for talk.
*
Grace took a taxi back from the hotel late on Sunday afternoon, Mark’s goodbye kisses still on her lips. London was spread out around her: a swirl of twinkling lights, silent parks, snatched views into shops and homes. This was one of those taxi rides where she felt everything was laid on purely for her pleasure – a stage set to entertain her eyes alone. She relaxed back into the seat. Two days seemed to have taken years off her shoulders. She thought of her father in her flat and there was no tightening of her chest. This week she would finally get him and her mother together and make them talk it through.
She thought of Tate. What a boy compared with Mark.
As the taxi headed over Putney Bridge, the Thames dark beneath them, all the things that had been bubbling away, threatening to boil over, seemed unimportant, like shadows on the edge of this glittering evening.
She walked along the path to the front door and opened it; almost felt she was gliding inside. Monday tomorrow – the dental surgery would be open again. She’d have to catch them to explain about the chipped paint, ask them about their holiday. She went through the fire door and up the stairs, a part of her brain telling her that she was smelling paint again and also, this time, something that made her think ‘white spirit’, and as she unlocked her own front door and pushed it open she saw her father running down the stairs towards her with a rag in his hand.
‘Now, Grace, it’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said, while his face suggested it was almost certainly worse. Still in five-star hotel mode, Grace was slow to register that Nadim was standing further up the stairs with a bottle in his hand and another rag. If possible, the expression on his face was worse than the one on her father’s. She wondered what was in the bottle as Nadim didn’t drink and then the earlier message to her brain about paint and white spirit collided with all the other information with which she was being bombarded and she lowered her eyes to the carpet.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
‘It’ll come good,’ Nadim assured her, getting down on his knees and rubbing at the carpet, which from the top step to the very bottom one was splashed with green paint, the pile slicked with it in some places and in others, where she presumed white spirit had been applied, rubbed into a wet, green, matted mess. On the buttercream-coloured wallpaper up both sides of the stairs, and on the paintwork, were splashes, dribbles and smears of green.
Her father was jabbering. ‘I knew they’d be back tomorrow, see, the dentists, and I thought I’d just touch up that bit of paint I damaged. Well, couldn’t get the lid off downstairs so I brought it up to get one of the knives in the kitchen to prise it off and …’
He really didn’t need to say any more. Grace guessed he’d dropped the tin on the top step.
‘I’ll pay for everything,’ he added.
‘Be fine, Grace, just need to get it treated before it dries,’ Nadim assured her again. He was still trying to rub the carpet but she could see his heart wasn’t in it. The fumes of the white spirit and the paint were making her eyes water and she wondered how long these two had been breathing it in.
‘I’m going to open some doors and windows, let out these fumes,’ she said, feeling nothing. There was paint on her stairs. They were cleaning it. That was all.
She wedged open her front door and went downstairs to do the same to the others. Her father followed her.
‘Grace—’
‘Please, Dad. Just say nothing.’
Back up in her flat, she picked her way carefully over the ruined carpet and in the kitchen found the work surfaces were not only covered with various sheaves of paper and plans, but dirty plates, glasses and coffee cups.
Her father was behind her again. ‘I was going to get this all cleared up before you came back.’ He made an ineffectual attempt to move things about. ‘Only what with the paint …’
‘The Newham Gang have been round again, have they?’
She didn’t wait for his reply but turned and went back to the top of the stairs.
‘Leave it now, Nadim,’ she called to him. ‘Go on home. Thank you for all you’ve done.’
Nadim didn’t even protest; he was down the stairs and out the door before Grace had reached her sitting room. More chaos. Bathroom? She turned round quickly and retreated. Pointless going to her bedroom, it wasn’t even hers any more.
‘Grace, love … it’ll only take a few minutes to tidy … apart from the carpet. I can—’
The storm started to break in her without her knowing it was coming.
‘Dad, I can’t keep on living like this. You and Mum know I can’t handle chaos and mess, but you keep dragging me back into it. You and Mum – your stubbornness and her stupidity. This has to stop, Dad.’ She turned on him and saw how he was shrinking away from her. ‘Tomorrow, after work, you are coming with me to Newham and we are sorting this out. I don’t care what’s going on … it ends tomorrow and you go back home.’
‘No. Can’t.’ He was shaking his head.
‘You’re not listening to me, Dad. I am losing it here. I have no bedroom. I’m not getting any sleep. I can’t use my own kitchen, it’s so messy. You’re taking over the whole flat. I need peace and quiet at home, I need order – things are very … very … difficult at work.’ Her voice was getting louder and louder, she pulled it back. ‘This isn’t me asking, this is me telling. You and her, tomorrow. Talking.’
He shook his head again and it made her want to wound him to get him to listen. More disconcertingly, though, she had a craving for the contents of that biscuit tin in the kitchen and that realisation made her even harder on him.
‘Don’t keep saying “no”, shaking your head. We’re getting this sorted. Stand there now and tell me, tell me what she’s done this time that’s so bad you can’t forgive her. Come on.’ She pointed to the stairs. ‘Don’t you think you owe me that?’
No response.
‘Tell me now, Dad, or I’ll get Nadim back to ask him if you can go and stay there. I will throw you out, Dad, honestly I will—’
‘I caught them,’ her father said softly, his head right down. ‘In our bedroom. She had her … her bra off, he was …’ He ground to a halt and suddenly she didn’t want to wound him – she wanted to tell him it was all right, he didn’t have to say any more.
When he looked at her his eyes were brimming with tears. ‘She said he was practising his massage on her but he wasn’t, Grace. She was lying on her back.’ She saw him swallow
. ‘I’ve tried to put a brave face on it, but everyone’s got their tipping point, haven’t they? There’s only so much provocation a person can take.’
CHAPTER 23
Grace found a large note from Tate when she arrived at the office on Monday. It was so large it covered the entire surface of her desk and he’d decorated it with all kinds of curling tendrils and squiggles. It was beautiful, except for the message in large black letters in the middle. I. O. U, Gracie, it said, Big Time.
‘You been lending Tate money?’ Alistair asked.
Grace felt uneasy, knowing that Tate was going to get her back for the Esther incident, but there were so many other emotions she was experiencing at that moment, uneasy was going to have to take a ticket and join the back of the queue.
Shock at her father’s outburst had been followed by confusion, anger and then weariness. The anger was directed towards her mother; the weariness was a result of sitting for a couple of hours with her father on the sofa last night with her arm round his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it any more and she didn’t want to make him. When he’d limped off to bed, she had stayed up cleaning the flat, although the stairs were a job too far, even for her. She left all the windows open, shut the doors and decided to worry about it later.
Her weekend with Mark now seemed years ago, and apart from the first twinges of what might be cystitis, she had nothing to show for it. All traces of well-being, of having recharged her batteries to be able to withstand what else might come her way, had been replaced by an image of her mother lying naked on a bed with Jay Houghton massaging her breasts.
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