chapter seven
Grace did a lot of knitting during the next two weeks. It was now late August and London was still in the thrall of a relentless heatwave. The sun beat down on her bent head as she purled and plained and moss-stitched on buses and in cafés and, on one occasion, in Waterlow Park in Highgate until she got harassed by a gang of hoodies. Knitting was good for soothing her soul, and as Grace had sworn that she was never going to use a sewing machine ever again after jacking in her fashion degree, knitting would have to do.
She liked the rhythmic click of the needles, the feeling of the wool wrapped tight around her fingers, and the satisfaction as row upon row of perfect stitches emerged. Technically she was lapsed C of E, but Grace liked to think that knitting was her version of the Rosary - but without all the Hail Marys and vows of chastity. Besides, she’d been in a state of extreme agitation for a fortnight and it was either knitting or Prozac. As she’d never get time off for a doctor’s appointment, Grace knitted a pair of gloves with love and hate stitched across the knuckles, a peaked cap for her grandfather because his ears got cold when he golfed in winter, and a stripy jumper to use up all her odd ends of wool. Now she was sketching out patterns for a range of knitted accessories including an iPod holder and a make-up case with a vague plan that she could make enough money to pay off a fraction of one of her credit-card bills.
She’d come back from New York to find that the pile of brown envelopes that Anita and Ilonka from upstairs had thoughtfully left on her doormat, stamped with friendly warnings like Final Reminder! and Immediate Action Needed! had reached critical mass. Grace had an inkling that things might get ugly again, like they had last year when she’d been tailed by a private detective from a debt collection agency who’d wanted to repossess her credit cards. Fun times.
It wasn’t as if work could distract her either. Even though it was August, they were already working on the November and December issues, which were always light on both editorial and ad pages so it wasn’t as if Grace was busy calling in clothes for shoots and assembling the fashion credits. Instead she was busy listening to a newly single Posy regaling her with tales of horrific blind dates with old Etonians and getting quotes for granite worktops for Lucie’s new kitchen.
Worst of all, Lily was spending her annual fortnight at the family villa in the non-chav part of Majorca and Dan had sent Grace a pointed text message before they left, instructing her not to contact Lily. And Grace needed to contact Lily so they could have a long, drunken night out and Grace could tell Lily about the art exhibition and the Waverly Inn and dinner with Vaughn. But mostly she’d spend hours reliving and dissecting those ten minutes in the limo afterwards. Then Lily would say that he sounded like a total bastard and that Grace was well shot of him and all the bad thoughts would stop tormenting Grace. Or they’d lessen at least.
Because the bad thought that made all her other bad thoughts seem like the most microscopic of potatoes, all centred on the moment when she’d got out of that car and watched the tail-lights fade into the distance as he’d driven away from her. If she didn’t concentrate really hard on other things, all she could hear was the way Vaughn had drawled out, ‘This is not going any further,’ in the face of her most determinedly sluttish behaviour. Which had been moments after he’d taken her hand off his dick.
So skulking in the fashion cupboard and shunning human contact had become a valid lifestyle choice until the summons from her grandparents to come to Worthing for the weekend. It didn’t matter that it was sweltering, there’d be a mammoth cake-baking session on Saturday afternoon, roast chicken for Sunday lunch and a twenty-pound note slipped into Grace’s hand as she said her goodbyes so she could ‘buy herself something nice’. It was routine, safe, a little boring. But boring was OK sometimes.
So Grace was confounded to find herself leaning against the counter of the Worthing branch of Carphone Warehouse on a Saturday morning because her elderly parental signifiers had decided to dip a toe into the twenty-first century and buy his ’n’ hers mobile phones. She watched as her grandmother harangued the spotty Saturday boy with querulous enquiries as to the benefits of a monthly tariff versus pay as you go.
‘Gran,’ she sighed. ‘Get the pay as you go phones.’
Her grandmother frowned. ‘Pay as you go?’
‘You’re only going to use the phone for emergencies, and maybe in six months’ time, you might have figured out how to send a text message,’ Grace explained patiently. ‘I promise it will take a year to use up ten pounds’ worth of credit.’
There was no rushing her grandmother, who never drove at more than thirty miles per hour and could make a portion of peas last fifteen minutes. ‘I’m not going to let your impatience influence my decision-making, young lady,’ she said grandly.
‘I’m gasping for a cup of tea,’ Grace wailed, but her grandmother was now asking to see phones with larger keypads, ‘Because my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.’
Later - much, much later - in the first-floor café in Beales department store, with a pot of tea and a scone each, her grandmother went on the offensive.
‘You need to do something about your hair,’ she announced, à propos of nothing. ‘It doesn’t suit you at all. Really, Grace, I don’t know why you meddle with what nature gave you.’
‘Because nature gave me mousy brown hair,’ Grace said without much bite.
‘You’re very listless,’ her grandmother continued. ‘Are you in trouble with the bank again? You’re sticking to the monthly repayments?’
There were so many monthly repayments that Grace was meant to be sticking to. ‘Yeah, of course I am. All that stuff is in the past, Gran,’ Grace assured her blithely. She’d decided long ago that lying to her grandmother for the sake of a quiet life barely even registered on the wrong scale. ‘It’s just super-hot and I’m really busy at work.’
‘Too busy to write to your mother?’ If ever the CIA were doing research into new interrogation techniques, they should send some scientists to Worthing to work out how her gran did that thing with her eyes. ‘She said you never replied to the email she sent on your birthday. Did you get the photos of Kirsty? Sweet little thing, we thought.’
‘You’ve seen one toddler in a pink fairy outfit, you’ve seen ’em all,’ Grace muttered.
‘She’s your sister.’
‘Half-sister,’ Grace reminded her, yanking out her knitting from her bag. ‘Gran, Mum left me. In fact, she didn’t just leave - she went to the other side of the world to get away from me. Then it took her - what? - twelve years to suddenly feel bad about it. Honestly, I’m glad she got married and that she’s having another bash at motherhood, but I don’t see why I have to get regular updates by email.’
Her grandmother’s attention was momentarily diverted by the skull and crossbones pattern on the scarf that Grace was knitting, before she efficiently distributed the last of the tea. ‘Well, it wasn’t as cut and dried as that. If you remember—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it! I just want her to leave me alone.’
Grace’s voice was rising, which was usually her grandmother’s cue to tell her to calm down, but this time she just stared at the nosy middle-aged couple on the next table until they looked away, and squeezed Grace’s hand. ‘She’s trying, dear. She’s making an effort.’ There was the most delicate of pauses. ‘You might as well know that Grandy and I are thinking of flying out this Christmas, to meet our youngest granddaughter, and Gary. He seems nice.’
Gary was the new husband. ‘You know it’s a twenty-four-hour flight, right?’ Grace blustered. ‘Plus it’s going to be the middle of summer in Australia and they have snakes and, Gran, they’re all Republicans. You’d hate it.’
‘We thought you might want to come too if we bought you the plane ticket as a Christmas present. What do you think?’
‘Do I really need to answer that?’ Grace snapped, watching her grandmother’s lips tighten and relenting immediately. ‘If I have a spare second,
I’ll bang out a thank you email, OK? That’s it. End of discussion. Now, can we change the subject? Please?’
Her grandmother patted a stray crumb from her mouth. She looked older. Her skin was thinner, like creased brown paper, her rigid curls more liberally doused with grey, and it weighed heavily on Grace. Like, her gran was a little old lady to the outside world and earlier, when they’d strolled down South Street, she’d had to glare at a couple of teenage girls who’d knocked into them and not apologised. Both her grandparents had become nothing more than doddery, vulnerable targets for muggers and . . .
‘So, are you seeing anyone nice? It’s about time you settled down. I was married by the time I was your age.’
Correction. There was nothing vulnerable about her grandmother. ‘When I said change the subject, I thought we’d talk about whether we should make chocolate cake or gingerbread.’ Grace suddenly giggled and her grandmother smiled too, with a naughty twinkle that made Grace reach across the table so she could squeeze one liver-spotted mitt gently. ‘I was seeing someone but we split up. He had no prospects.’
Her grandparents were big on people with prospects. Her grandmother nodded sympathetically. ‘Can’t stand a man who dithers,’ she said stoutly. ‘So - any other admirers?’
‘Oh yeah, I have a whole string of besotted boys lining up to mark my dance card. Sometimes I think I go for the wrong guys, like, maybe I’d be better with someone older, more focused.’ Grace hadn’t been thinking that at all, but there was no harm in putting it out there if only to see her grandmother’s face wrinkle up in consternation.
‘I used to think that an age gap was quite romantic until that horrid business with Charles and Diana,’ was her crushing verdict.
As weekends in the loving bosom of two seventy-somethings went, it hadn’t been too bad, but Grace was glad that she was back on the train to London by seven on Sunday evening. They’d wanted her to stay the night and catch a morning train at some horrifically early hour, which really was a case of hope over experience.
Even knitting couldn’t make the train move faster or the air circulate more efficiently. Grace was just unpicking her last row when her phone started to ring. Her grandfather had already rung five times as he pressed buttons on his new phone and tried to work out how to access his voicemail.
‘Grandy? You need to hit star, then number one,’ she squeaked in exasperation. ‘How many more—’
‘Am I speaking to Grace Reeves?’
It was a woman, her voice polished enough to immediately put Grace on edge. Usually they phoned in the mornings, pretending to be a long-lost friend, and as soon as Grace confirmed her identity, it was threats and counter-threats and bailiffs and debt specialists and, ‘It would just be easier if you signed over your firstborn.’ Phoning on a Sunday evening was underhanded even for them. And surely there were laws that prohibited them from working on the Sabbath?
Grace contemplated switching off her phone, then thought of her grandparents panicking when she didn’t answer the next ten of their misdirected calls. ‘Who’s speaking?’ she asked, her accent becoming crisp in a crisis.
‘My name’s Ms Jones, I’m calling from Mr Vaughn’s office.’
‘Vaughn? As in J. Vaughn, art dealer?’
‘This is Ms Reeves then?’ The woman sounded irritated, but then if she’d had to work Sunday evenings, Grace would have had a strop on too.
‘Yeah. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘Mr Vaughn would like to arrange a meeting with you. Are you free at eleven tomorrow morning?’
Er, why? Grace thought. ‘Well, I’ll be at work,’ she said out loud. ‘I guess maybe lunch-time or . . .’
There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. ‘Seven thirty in the evening? Shall I give you the address of the gallery?’
‘But what’s the meeting about? Why doesn’t he just call me himself? Is he there with you?’ Grace could have fired questions without pause until the train pulled in at Victoria. But she was stopped by a terse cough.
‘I’m going to give you the address. Have you got pen and paper?’
‘Hang on.’ After a quick rummage, she found an old flyer and an eyebrow pencil. ‘OK.’
The Mayfair address from the business card was reeled off. ‘It’s just off New Bond Street.’
‘Could you just tell me—’
‘Mr Vaughn will see you at seven thirty. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.’ There was a decisive click as the connection was severed.
Grace decided she wasn’t going to answer the imperious summons. Not after Vaughn had dumped her on the street like a broken fridge. Well, technically it had been the entrance to her hotel but same difference.
When she woke up the next day, she planned to be on the 134 bus heading back to Archway at seven thirty that night, but just to keep her options open, Grace put on her black and white, fifties polka-dot sundress that smooshed her breasts right up to her chin. She even took the Marc Jacobs bag out of the oven with the idea that she’d stalk in, place it on Vaughn’s desk and walk out without saying a word. Just to show him that she had some pride.
But Vaughn obviously had a reason for wanting to see her again. Maybe to tell Grace that he couldn’t stop thinking about her and he’d been beating himself up for the callous way he’d spurned her advances. But no, that wasn’t Vaughn’s style. Which was a pity, Grace thought, as she spent the morning doing a Google image search on ‘j vaughn + art dealer’ and turning up photo after photo of Vaughn, usually stiff-backed in a dinner jacket, standing next to Icelandic ambassadors and YBAs. He was much better looking in the flesh.
By lunch-time, Grace had decided that Vaughn was going to offer her a job. Because she’d totally rocked when it came to scaring away aggressive agents, and his current assistant had a very poor phone technique. That was why Vaughn hadn’t wanted to succumb to Grace’s blatantly offered charms. She rehearsed the moment when she’d turn him down with a cruel smile playing around her mouth. Then he’d know exactly how it felt.
During her mid-afternoon Diet Coke break, Grace toyed with the idea of asking what the salary and benefits package would be. Just to satisfy her curiosity. And by seven, she was slowly walking up Bond Street towards Mayfair, pausing to stare at artful window displays of expensive bags shiny with gilt hardware, dresses that would change her life the moment she slipped them on, shoes that were the very epitome of ‘fuck me’, until she could practically hear her one solitary credit card begging to be allowed out to play. It simpled things up though. She loved fashion. And she was going to stay in fashion for as long as it would have her - or until Kiki pushed her down several flights of steps for calling in an unphotogenic belt.
chapter eight
17 Thirlestone Mews was a pretty, stucco townhouse with a discreet brass plaque to the left of the imposing black door. Grace wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress and pressed the bell. She heard the sound of a bolt being pulled back and steeled herself for a face-to-face confrontation with the unpleasant Ms Jones but it was Vaughn standing there in shirtsleeves, a pair of grey suit trousers with razor-sharp creases, and a harried expression on his face which suddenly disappeared as he saw her.
‘Grace,’ he said smoothly, as if that horrible scene in the limo had never happened. He stepped aside, so she could enter. ‘Glad you could make it at such short notice.’
Grace was all set to walk past him, but Vaughn took her arm, fingers sliding into the crook of her elbow, and pulled her towards him. So this wasn’t a job interview, Grace thought, as she tilted her head so Vaughn could kiss her on the cheek.
But he didn’t. His lips found the corner of her mouth for one fleeting, unbelievable moment and then he was stepping away as Grace touched her fingers to the tingling spot where his lips had just been, because when she wasn’t saying something dumb, she was doing something dumb instead. She risked a glance at Vaughn but he wasn’t half-smirking as she expected but giving her a long, considered lo
ok that she couldn’t begin to decipher but made her feel like her blood was coming to a slow boil.
‘Let me show you the gallery,’ he said in exactly the same voice he’d used to greet her and didn’t even try to touch her as he gestured to the right.
A huge skylight at the back of a long room spilled mellow evening sun over the stark white walls. The canvases on display were bold splashes of electric blue and shocking pink, sludgy reds and a stinging acid green that made her eyeballs itch.
‘Our current exhibition,’ Vaughn said from behind Grace. ‘An Austrian artist called Wilhelm Bauer. I’ve been buying up his work for years.’
‘Oh, are they for sale or just, like, a retrospective?’ If he could pretend that nothing had happened, so could she. Though he was far better at it.
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