Playing Grace

by Osmond, Hazel

  ‘Howling’s gotta be better than this, hasn’t it? And, come on. I’m sensing there’s something else. Am I right?’

  She nodded. ‘I … I was the one who burned Bill’s paintings. I built the bonfire. I hurled them on.’

  He did a good job of trying to look as if that didn’t shock him but he had cut the blood supply off to her fingers he was gripping her hand so tightly.

  ‘I told you when I go I really go.’

  ‘Yup, you did. Jeez.’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘So …’

  ‘When I came back to the villa after leaving hospital, Bill couldn’t cope with how I was. He was fine with emotion on a canvas, daubing great swirls of despair in paint, but not the real, standing-in-the-bathroom-sobbing kind. I think he felt guilty too, but in him it came out in bluster. And I spooked him. Suddenly I seemed to be more of a grown-up than him. I was sober and sad – he couldn’t handle that.’

  Tate made a noise but didn’t say any actual words.

  ‘One evening Bill lost it completely. He was ranting about how he knew I blamed him for what had happened and really I should just get over it – after all, it was for the best.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. ‘You can imagine how good that was to hear. He just kept spouting about how he was a free spirit; nothing weighed him down, not even his paintings. Boasted that he’d even destroy them if he suspected they were trapping him.’

  ‘And you called his bluff.’

  ‘I went to the bottom of the garden, to an area of scrub, and piled up a load of brushwood. It was so dry it went up really fast and I ran to the studio and grabbed the nearest painting. Two Sidewinder Days in Madrid it was.’ She heard herself laugh. ‘The look on Bill’s face was worth it. And you know what, Tate? It felt so good to see it go up. Felt right. He ought to lose something he’d created and cared about like I had.’ She remembered how the thick oil paint had made the flames spark into different colours.

  ‘Bill had followed me out and just stood there watching. I asked him if it hurt seeing his painting burn and he said it didn’t. I could tell he was lying. Always a liar about how much of a rebel he was. I roasted another painting and he still stood there, his hands twitching as he tried to fight the urge to salvage something.’

  ‘Weren’t you tempted to pick him up and hurl him on?’

  She managed a smile at that. ‘I did throw a lot of his clothes on, but he wasn’t in any of them. After that second painting I would probably have stopped, if Bill hadn’t suddenly rushed into the villa and come out with a box. He upended it into the fire and I saw it was all my baby books.’ She stopped talking for a while and let Tate pull her in closer.

  ‘After that I got three of his smaller works and immolated them, but I could feel my rage subsiding and I just felt weary. I needed to sleep but he told me I should finish the job. When I said “no”, he went and got one of his best pieces and chucked it on. Said he was going to show me what real courage looked like.’

  Tate slapped his leg. ‘Love it. He even had to be top pyromaniac.’

  ‘Yes, he did. He just kept bringing them out and burning them. When I felt that I was so tired I was likely to fall in after them, I left him to it and went to bed.’

  Tate gave a low whistle. ‘All of his Spanish period up in flames.’

  ‘Not quite. When I woke up next morning, the villa smelling of smoke, ash blowing about in the garden, I knew everything was over. I went home not long after. By the end of the year Bill had taken himself off to Mexico, but before he went he’d been busy. A couple of months after I got home, a big crate was delivered to the house in Newham. It had six new paintings in it – a record of our love affair from those blissful times on the beach to the gut-stabbingly awful trauma of the last months. The letter with them said Bill had painted them in the empty villa, wanted me to have them to make up for how he’d been. Said he regretted the way it had ended, how he’d been about me, about the baby.’

  ‘That was big of him. And so that painting last week?’

  ‘Sold it while I was in Edinburgh. I had no idea that it was on loan until I saw it with you. Another two I sold to a banker in Houston. The other three are still under my bed. Selling some meant I could get a nice flat, pay off a lot of the mortgage. It also gave me the freedom to take a job that I liked rather than one I needed for the money. You see, for a long time I wasn’t any good with pressure or stress.’

  She was seeing that bonfire again. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I burned those paintings. Is that what love becomes?’

  ‘No. And stop feeling guilty. Bill got what he deserved and, really, he could have stopped you at any point if he’d wanted. A guy who can break his own son’s jaw isn’t gonna be backward in getting his own way. He goaded you. It was all down to him.’

  ‘Have you taken a course in forgiveness?’ she said, putting her hand to his face.

  ‘Yeah, but it didn’t cover Bill. I’m thinking of going back to that gallery, pulling his painting off the wall and putting my foot through it.’ He laughed and there was so much warmth in it Grace felt it defrost her a little.

  ‘Right,’ he said, taking hold of her hand and waggling it about. ‘Gonna tell me you’re responsible for the fall of the banks? Climate change? Volcanoes erupting in the Pacific? No? Well, great. Means we can go to Paris then.’

  ‘Just like that?’ She heard the panic in her voice.

  ‘Exactly like that.’

  She looked at the taxi and saw the driver had reached the sport’s page of his newspaper. ‘The train will have gone.’

  He snorted. ‘Don’t think so. Got over an hour yet.’

  ‘But you said I had twenty minutes, half an hour at a stretch.’

  ‘Only ’cos I knew if I told you the real amount of time we had, you’d fight me for that long. Figured I’d go for the shorter fight.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do it, Tate. Even if I come round to thinking I’m not responsible for losing the baby and destroying the paintings, I still feel happier when I have structure, guidelines, rules, routines … without them, I don’t know where I’ll end up. I mean, look at the last few weeks: I started opening up to you, letting my grip loosen and everything went wrong. The robberies, Gilbert, Esther—’

  ‘Alistair dressing up in women’s clothes.’

  That stopped her in her tracks. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Picked the lock on his cabinet when he was out. Boy, they were big strappy shoes.’ He planted a kiss on her hand and let it drop.

  ‘You picked the lock? That’s so …’

  ‘Bad,’ he said with an evil smile.

  She was finding it hard to remember why she couldn’t go with him.

  ‘You didn’t make any of those things happen, Gracie. I made Esther have the hots for me. I got Gilbert drunk. Everything else would have happened anyway. You’ve just fitted everything into that negative theory in your head, like your dad fitted me into his theories.’

  She looked at the taxi driver. He was on the back page.

  ‘I can’t go. I’m starting a new job. A proper one. They’ll be expecting me. I’ll be letting them down.’

  ‘They’ll live. Got time to get someone else in.’

  Tate was standing up and he pulled her up too.

  ‘Gracie, you’re a bat-shit crazy woman, but ’cos you’re the bat-shit crazy woman I love, I’m gonna humour this Surtees Theory of Chaos. First stop in Paris is a stationer’s. Wall planner, notebooks, little sticky, coloured tags. We’re having rotas, rotas for everything, even sex. And boy, I’m going to keep you so busy you won’t have time for spinning out of control. You’re a natural organiser, Gracie, a manager par excellence. And you speak French, don’t you? So either you can get yourself a grown-up job, or you can manage me – I’m not dicking around with painting like it’s a hobby or a sideline. Besides, I’ll need you to do all the translating and interpreting. I can only say, “Vouz avez des seins magnifiques,” which I’m sure as hell gonna be using
a lot on you, but it’s not gonna get me far with any potential clients. Might even get my face slapped. Proper wages, Gracie, though. You’re not being my handmaiden. And …’ There was the subtlest of pressure changes in the way he was holding her. ‘Maybe, when you feel up to it, we could find some head guy to sort out all that guilt you’re carrying around. You know us Americans, we like to spill it all out and pay top dollar for the privilege.’ Another, stronger hug. ‘No, you’re not gonna have a minute free to slide anywhere and I’m gonna carry a handrail with me at all times so you can’t fall off the edge.’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

  ‘’Nother thing, Gracie – I’m not Bill. He was a lazy sonofabitch and I’m not. Look at me: managed to paint, hold down two jobs, get arrested and fall in love with you.’

  Her heart did a double beat at the way he said ‘love’ and he took her hand again and wrapped his around it. She let him, feeling the warmth start to spread down her fingers and into her wrist.

  ‘Know what else? His paintings are crap. Too showy. Bonfire was the best place for them.’

  She loved the way he’d got himself into a temper on her behalf.

  ‘Come on, Gracie, get in the cab.’

  ‘I’ve got no clothes.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘No passport.’

  He pulled it out of somewhere in his coat. ‘Your dad brought it round that day he and Fliss visited. Hung on to it … still had hope.’ He opened it and raised his eyebrows. ‘So, I worked out you changed your name by deed poll. What’s the real one? Truth now.’

  God, she loved him; she must do if she was prepared to tell him this: ‘Tahiti Supernova Larkspur.’

  He looked as if he’d chewed something really cold. He closed the passport. ‘You know, Grace is a really, really good name.’

  ‘Gracie’s better.’

  He grinned. ‘Now, get in the cab.’

  The prospect of such happiness still seemed unlikely. Could she really just go and not worry about the consequences? Maybe leave some of that guilt on the pavement?

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you went first and I came out when you’re settled?’

  ‘Don’t think so. You’re gorgeous, I’m desperate for you, we’re going to Paris. Get in the cab.’

  ‘Tate …’

  ‘Come on, you’re going to be the grain of sand in my oyster: so irritating, I can’t help but make pearls.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Me neither. But what about this, Gracie? Understand this?’

  His hand was on the skin at the base of her neck and the longer he kept it there, the more she felt the heat rolling and twisting in her.

  ‘Ohhh,’ she said, her breath coming in hard. ‘I feel like I flung myself on that bonfire. And you?’

  ‘Hand on fire, arms, groin, chest. Colours flashing in front of my eyes.’

  ‘Is that “color” without a “u”? Because if it is, that’s another reason for me not to come. We don’t even speak the same language.’

  ‘True, but actions speak louder than words.’ Suddenly he was kissing her, deep, urgent kisses, his tongue pushing into her mouth and his hands in her hair, and she was inside his coat, her arms locked around him. They stopped when it seemed like one of them might suffocate. ‘French kissing, Gracie. Loads more to come. Now, get in the cab. I want to take you to Paris and paint you.’

  ‘In sand and blood, like Bill?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said into her neck. ‘I mean paint you. There’s a shade of blue I want to start with at your wrist, like ice in your veins. Then a darker blue further up your arm, growing darker and darker until it’s red flame. Then, Gracie Surtees, I’m gonna take the finest brush and paint your nipples – haven’t decided what colour yet, but whatever colour I choose it’s gonna end up on the sheets, on my mouth, everywhere.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ she said, feeling every nerve-ending blow with the thought of it.

  ‘Sure as hell hope so. Get in the cab.’

  She was still hesitating and he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Time to step up to the plate, Gracie. Stop pushing me away. Get in the cab.’

  ‘Yeah, get in the bloody taxi, love,’ the driver shouted, throwing his folded paper on to the passenger seat.

  Tate was moving away from her.

  ‘I can’t wear cheesecloth,’ she shouted after him.

  He frowned. ‘OK … whatever that means. OK, no cheesecloth.’ He gave her one of his tender looks, opened the door and climbed in.

  ‘And you won’t let me fall?’

  A definite, ‘No,’ came back to her.

  Grace looked at the open door as the taxi started up again and thought of the risk and uncertainty, all the things that could go wrong. She thought of Capital H for History waiting for her on Monday morning and her flat, the paintings still under the bed, and Mark and all the reasons she couldn’t just up sticks and leave. And then suddenly, decisively, she kicked her shoes into the gutter, left one, right one, and sprinted towards the open door.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Steven Davidson for advice on police procedures; to London Art Tours for information generously given which I messed about with shamelessly to fit my plot (sorry), and to the Courtauld Gallery for being inspiring and uplifting – I have borrowed its setting and some paintings, but that’s where the resemblance to my fictional Paddwick Gallery ends. An honourable mention too for Shanna Wells – her local knowledge of Rhode Island was invaluable, and apologies to Texan friends Leah, John and Evan. You are nothing like the Baldridges.

  Huge gratitude, as always, to my agent Broo Doherty (sound judgement, calm voice, wicked humour) and to Charlotte, my former editor at Quercus, who saw the book part of the way through the edit process and to Jo, my new editor, who completed the process. To Nicola and Kathryn – I really appreciate your hard work and patience in the face of my vagueness.

  And now, the kind of thanks that can’t really be put into words, but I’ll have a go.

  All my love to Matt, Kate and Becky for their support, understanding and the enthusiastic way in which they embrace wherever this writing takes me. And to my sisters Ruth and Anne – I couldn’t have chosen two better ones this last year or any other year. TFFS.