by Faith Hogan
When would suit her? She wanted to call him back, I’ll be there in five minutes, but instead she Tweeted him that tomorrow was good for her.
It was too early to ring Kasia with her news. She’d be up to her eyes in flour and chocolate chips. She found herself ringing Grace instead.
‘Oh wow! I’m delighted for you!’ Grace sounded as excited as Annalise felt. ‘Do you need me to do anything to help you out beforehand?’
‘No, I’ll try and get nursery to hold onto the boys until I’m done. Apart from that, I think I’m good to go. They’re not going to ask me anything about current affairs, are they?’
‘I don’t know, but it’d be good if you knew a bit of background on what the documentary is about. I think most of those presenters do their own research, prepare their own scripts. If you’re really serious about it, then…’
‘Hit Google?’ Annalise kept her words light, but she couldn’t disguise the panic. She’d never been interested in current affairs. What could they possibly have to do with her? ‘Grace what have I done?’ The familiar feelings of inadequacy began to creep towards her heart like spiders on a fly. ‘I’m so totally clueless about current affairs or politics or anything that doesn’t involve fashion or reality TV.’
‘Stay where you are, I’m coming over.’ It seemed to Annalise that Grace was standing on her doorstep within minutes.
‘Come on, put the kettle on.’ She pulled an iPad from her bag. ‘We’re going to get you ready for this audition.’ They spent hours cramming like kids in secondary school. Grace gave her a test run at the end, firing a volley of questions at her.
‘Better if you volunteer the information. Work it into the conversation. Don’t mention your fashion career, not unless they ask about it,’ said Grace. It was comforting how seriously Grace was taking it all, as though she believed in her, as though she might actually have a shot at this. ‘It’s actually better if they ask about that than about this stuff, so get in there with as much as you can about the documentary. Let them see you’ve done your homework. Then, with a little luck, the off-the-cuff stuff they’ll ask you will be things you’re expert on.’
‘Grace, thanks so much for all of this. I really wouldn’t have thought of it. I was just planning on arriving and looking good. I would have been so unprepared!’ Her head was spinning, but in a good way. She felt more confident than she’d ever felt going for an audition and she knew it was in no small part down to Grace.
‘I’d really go for it, if I was you. It’s a great chance, Annalise. Even if they’re not paying you, it’s the kind of thing that could open all kinds of doors for you. It could change how people see you. You could really do something with it.’
‘I never thought that you would be… well, that I’d like you as much as I do.’
‘Stop it; you’re going to get us both emotional if you’re not careful.’ Grace’s voice wobbled. Then she laughed. ‘But, I will say this, when you were married to Paul…’
‘Was I married to him? I’m not so sure anymore.’
‘Well, when you were together, I probably hated you.’ She lowered her voice, ‘I used to call you Barbie.’
‘Really? Was that all? I’d have expected something much more highbrow than that. I called you Binky Banksy.’ They both laughed at that.
18
Grace Kennedy
Grace wasn’t sure how the weeks had passed by. As she stood by Paul’s grave almost four months after that terrible day, she thought of Evie, Annalise and Kasia. She knew that things had changed. They were not all bad. They missed Paul; his absence for each of them meant something different. She thought Evie felt his loss most fiercely. Having Kasia close was making a difference to her, but there was an unspoken fear – what would happen when the baby arrived?
Grace went out to Carlinville most days to draw. It would have been unthinkable before. She confided in Delilah that she hadn’t drawn since Paul had died. But Carlinville was soothing, and then, before she knew it, she was painting again. At first it was random things: the garden, capturing moments when the light was right or Evie sitting quietly in the shade – soon she was losing herself in the process. Now she was consumed by the energy it took to put the colours and contours on the page, the giddy excitement as the fluid strokes began to take shape. Each piece meant more to her than the one she’d just finished; each had, successively, a brighter, lighter touch. Delilah came with her when she could. Sometimes she listened while Evie and Delilah talked and laughed. They seemed to click, as though the decades didn’t count. Their connection went beyond the normal paradigms.
‘An exhibition, here?’
It was Evie who murmured the idea first; as though it were a secret she’d been keeping for a while.
‘Could you, Mum? It could be for Dad, like a commemoration,’ Delilah pleaded.
She’d never painted Paul. She had sketches of Delilah, right through her childhood: moments she’d captured so she could hold onto them forever. She’d started drawing Evie surreptitiously, just charcoal lines, weaved together from the furthest end of the garden while her subject was lost in the book she was reading. It was then that she realized: they had to do this.
‘Will you let me paint the boys?’ she asked Annalise.
‘Sure, if you can get them to sit in one spot for long enough,’ Annalise laughed, but she liked the idea. So they packed the boys into the car and headed for the Dublin Mountains. The day filled almost four hundred photographs, a medley of shots, some posed. Mostly, Grace snapped when they were unaware of her. She filled the studio walls with them, Dylan and Jerome, with their father’s mouth, their mother’s hair and twinkling eyes. Grace painted from early morning until she could hardly hold a brush. Soon she had a set of half a dozen watercolours, accompanied by autumn leaves and grey skies, with occasional darts of sunlight. The life and colour in each one came shining from her delightfully delinquent subjects. Grace was enraptured – almost happy – and it was then she decided she was going to wean herself off those little white pills. She made an appointment with Alice for the following week.
‘I’m dying to see them,’ Annalise said a couple of weeks after their trip to the Dublin Mountains and Grace began to worry the portraits might not live up to her expectations.
‘Could we aim for the anniversary of his death?’ Kasia asked. She was scrubbing and polishing away decades of indifference and depreciation in the drawing room. There was a growing lightness about the house. Each day, Kasia peeled away another layer of neglect and in its place, Carlinville’s elapsed splendour was exposed.
‘I think it’s the best idea ever,’ Delilah raved.
Evie echoed her sentiments, ‘Very fitting.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Some good is already coming out of it, you know!’ It was first a tribute to Paul, but opening Carlinville up again, revitalized, was good too. The four of them spending day after day together, planning, working, eating and sharing – it was almost cathartic. Delilah finally had what she’d always wanted – a family that consisted of more than just the pair of them. She had taken to the boys immediately. It was hard not to. They were such typical boys – playing cops and robbers, Lego, rock pooling. Delilah was completely smitten. They each had something of Paul in them, something that went beyond their pale blonde hair – which was quickly growing back, curlier than ever – and mischievous eyes. They had his chin, his smile, his easy laugh. Grace found herself drawn to them and wondered, if she’d had another child, would she have had a boy? Would it have changed things for them?
*
It was almost six when she arrived at Carlinville. Delilah had arranged to stay with one of her friends for the night. Grace knew she should be cutting through the work for the exhibition. The heavy front door was never locked now; instead, it lingered in a midway position, letting the sea and mountain air breathe through the once dark hallways. Grace veered right towards the sound of low voices in the library. The light streamed in through tall south- and west-facing windows. Today,
sitting in two old leather chairs at the furthest end, Annalise was chatting to a man who seemed familiar.
‘Ah Grace, you remember Jake?’
‘Jake.’ Grace’s stomach did a flip. If her brain hadn’t recognized him immediately, certainly her body did.
‘Hello again,’ he said. It was impossible not to notice how his eyes danced. ‘We’ll only be two minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair.’ He pointed the camera at Annalise again while she nodded silently. ‘We’re just picking up some extra footage.’
While Jake was filming, Grace watched him. His sunburned hands on the camera were strong and capable, his eye creased in concentration. She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. He was an attractive man, boyishly handsome, but she had a feeling there was much more to him than just good looks.
‘And that’s it,’ Jake murmured as he began to tidy away his gear.
‘How’s it going?’ Grace asked.
‘We’re nearly ready to finish it up. We were just doing a wrap up piece today and then it’s editing before we try and flog it.’
‘Do you think you’ll find a taker?’ Grace was pleased for Annalise. From what she’d heard, they were filming all around Dublin. The last place she expected to bump into them today was here.
‘There might be one or two interested parties.’ Jake gazed at her and lowered his voice. ‘I hoped I might run into you out here. Annalise said you often come here to paint.’
‘Oh?’
Annalise moved past them, awkwardly. ‘I’m just going to help Evie in the kitchen.’ They waited a beat, and then continued their conversation.
‘It was Annalise’s idea to use this place today. She asked Evie. It’s perfect, like a library. Very fitting for a wrap up of the political debates that we expect will dominate the election. We could be in the centre of the city, but without the interruptions or tricky official permission to use it.’
‘Yes, this place is special. That was a great idea of Annalise’s.’ Grace felt a surprising surge of jealousy, wondering why Annalise hadn’t mentioned this to her. She helped him fold up flexes carefully. Most of the equipment, apart from his camera, looked as though he’d had it for years, but it had been well taken care of.
‘I think she was interested in getting me out here so I’d run into you,’ he laughed. ‘I’m always asking about you and your work.’
‘Oh!’ Grace blushed. Had she really been jealous of Annalise and Jake? She had to pull herself together; she was behaving like a teenager. ‘Looking to buy one, are you?’ she said in her most urbane voice.
‘No, at least not until I can get this thing sold. I hoped I might get your attention without having to make an actual purchase.’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘I think she assumed if she mentioned I was coming out, you’d disappear. Was she right?’
‘Annalise knows me better than I thought!’ Grace paused. ‘I was feeling reclusive for a while. But I’m better these days. In fact, we’re thinking of holding a small exhibition here,’ she smiled. ‘Maybe you could come, you and…’
‘Oh, it’d just be me.’ His voice dipped shyly. ‘Still just me, on my own.’
‘Ah, well. That makes two of us.’ Grace felt the colour rise in her cheeks. She had a feeling that if he’d pursued her she would have brushed him off, but here today, there was no denying the attraction between them. ‘Maybe you’d like…’
‘Dinner?’ His grin was a little lopsided, ‘I hear I may be the better cook. But, no, I wouldn’t mind cooking you dinner at all.’ They laughed their way out of her embarrassment and set a date for the following Friday night. Grace couldn’t quite believe that she had agreed to go on a date, but she had and she was pleased about it, which came as a bigger surprise to her.
*
Grace found Evie in the kitchen tossing a salad before placing it carefully in the fridge. She was dying to tell her about Jake, but she wasn’t sure how to put it.
‘I thought you were Kasia.’ The grandfather clock in the hall struck the hour and Evie frowned. ‘I expected her back ages ago.’
‘Maybe she’s gone out to pick up a few bits on the way home.’ Grace poured a glass of wine from the bottle on the table; perhaps it was late for Kasia.
‘Kasia is never late.’ Evie’s voice sounded strained and a tiny nerve knotted anxiously in her forehead. ‘I might just ring her.’ Her eyes were worried. ‘In case she needs a lift, or something. That job is too much for her at this stage.’
‘I’ll ring her.’ The number rang through. Something, she couldn’t say what, made her feel uneasy.
There was probably nothing to worry about. If she was feeling unwell, she would not take any chances. She liked Kasia far more than she expected to. There was something about the girl, not just the way she spoke to her that first day in the hospital. Kasia had unwittingly given her permission to move on. She had answered a question that Grace would never dare to ask. She answered it with the guilelessness of one who truly believed in human kindness and Grace knew that belief survived in Kasia against all the odds. Late one night, when Evie slept soundly over their heads, Kasia had told Grace about her life in Romania, about her life with Vasile and her hopes for her baby, a family. A blood tie to her that was true and real. Kasia would love her baby with all her heart.
‘I might nip down to the bakery, check that everything is all right.’ It was silly of course; Kasia had another month to go before they would be counting down the days.
Howth was cold and damp from the day’s rain and Grace moved quickly against the biting sea breeze. Occasionally she caught a whiff of chimney smoke. It reminded her of those gloomy days before she came to Dublin. When she rounded the corner, the bakery was in darkness, save for a sliver of light that seemed to be coming from a door slightly ajar at the rear of the shop. She pushed the front door, but found it held tight. It was all locked up, and no sign of Kasia. Grace walked past the bakery towards the village centre, pulling her light jacket close. Bowing her head into the wind, she made her way further down St. Lawrence’s road, along Church Street and past Wrights Findlater, towards the seafront. ‘Damn this weather,’ she muttered. She should head back to Carlinville, but there was something stopping her. One more round of the shops, then she’d walk back. She poked her head into some of the smaller shops still open; there was no sign of Kasia. She walked back towards the bakery again. Outside, she tried to make out the small vale of light poking back at her through the glass.
‘Can I help you?’ A large man wearing a very pink bowling jacket startled her.
‘Um, I…’ Grace couldn’t decide if he was friend or foe. The accent was either English or very posh. ‘I’m looking for my friend. She works here. I can’t get her on her mobile.’
‘You’re a friend of Kasia’s?’ His face seemed to erupt into the most effusive of emotions; smiling was too bland a word to describe his expression. He was someone who belonged on the front of a seaside postcard.
‘Yes.’ She stuck out her hand automatically, a gesture more of relief than courtesy, that someone might be able to help her.
‘Martin,’ he said by way of introduction. So this was her boss – Kasia had described him as kind and brilliant, never florid and gay. Then again, wasn’t that just Kasia, seeing the inner person rather than the thing most people would notice? ‘You must be Grace?’
‘Yes, that’s right. She’s mentioned me?’
‘She has indeed. She speaks very highly of you, my dear.’ He stood back from the shop, surveyed it from top to bottom and satisfied that all was well; he let out a small whistle, which lingered on the cold air. He walked to the door then pulled a long chain with a waggle of keys from an even more colourful waistcoat. ‘She should have left at least an hour ago. She was going to stay on and bake a red velvet cake for Evie. I’ve shown her the recipe a few times, but this is her first attempt on her own.’ He pushed open the door. An obstinate movement made him jerk a little. ‘That’s funny,’ he said sniffing loudly.
‘Wha
t’s funny?’ Grace expected him to say he should be smelling raspberry instead of strawberry. There was something of the consummate artist about him.
‘She hasn’t started to bake. Perhaps she left earlier. You were meant to meet her, were you?’
‘No, she never arrived home and we were a little worried about her.’ Evie’s opaque silent anxiousness had suffused Grace’s judgement; she worked hard to hide the growing sense of panic.
‘Kasia, are you here, treasure?’ he called out, his voice a falsetto. He shivered slightly. ‘Someone has opened a door; it is too cold here and there have been no ovens on since this morning. Something is wrong.’
‘Kasia?’ Grace whispered the word, but she leaped the four strides it took to get behind the small counter and pushed open the door. ‘Oh, no – Kasia?’ She was stretched out, a lifeless delicate form on the floor. Her hair was pulled and torn in clumps from her usual neat net; her arms lay defensively about her small rounded bump. At her back, there was an ominous pool of black-red blood. Grace fell to her knees. ‘Ambulance,’ she said tersely. Martin, standing shocked and wooden, jolted and pulled out his phone. It took a while to get Kasia’s pulse. Grace whispered into her ear, her head as close as she could get to her. ‘Please, God, let us not be too late.’
‘Get help. You need to go and get help.’ Martin had dialled, but couldn’t speak. She grabbed the phone from him and spoke. ‘Emergency services.’ A man’s voice, calm and clear, answered the phone. For a second, he sounded like Paul. ‘Can you tell me where you are, please?’
‘I’m at the Soho Cup Cake; it’s a bakery in Howth. My friend, she’s been attacked.’ There was no doubt in Grace’s mind that Vasile was the culprit. ‘She’s unconscious. She has a pulse, but it’s very weak. She’s lost a lot of blood.’ It was everywhere. Grace’s hands were wet, covered in the warm substance. ‘And she’s pregnant. Please, be quick.’ God, let her be alright, Grace sent up the prayer, knowing that what she was asking for was a miracle. The man on the other end of the phone introduced himself as Ted. He talked her through what she needed to do to staunch the flow, to keep Kasia warm. Minutes later the ambulance pulled up outside. Martin led in two young men, fit and strong.