The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  Flappy’s husband Kenneth had made his money in a chain of fast food restaurants that became popular in the 1970s. He sold it for millions in 1983 and promptly retired, buying the big house in Badley Compton and building a golf course for which the people of Badley Compton were enormously grateful. It had been Flappy’s idea to join their names together when they married, but no one in Badley Compton knew that. For all they were aware the Scott-Booths were an old English family with a house in the Algarve and plenty of money to spend on holidays in the Caribbean where they invited their four children and ten grandchildren for Christmas every year.

  Darnley was a pretty white house with a grey slate roof that boasted fourteen bedrooms, an indoor swimming pool and an outdoor tennis court. The gardens were open to the public for three weeks in June (when Flappy could be spotted floating around the borders in a big straw hat and summer dress wielding a pair of secateurs with which she lopped off the occasional dead rose). Tonight Karen, the girl who came to cook, managed to disappear in time for Flappy to put on an apron and start stirring the Napoli sauce before any of her guests arrived for dinner. The first to appear was Mabel Hitchens, who made it her business to arrive before anyone else. She had brought Sally Hancock with her in her small green Golf and the two of them were more excited than ever, ringing the doorbell three times with impatience.

  Flappy let them in, wooden spoon in one hand, glass of prosecco in the other, looking elegant and serene in an ivory silk blouse, floaty black trousers and pearls, her shoulder-length blonde hair immaculately coloured and blow-dried. At sixty-six she was still strikingly beautiful and aware of it. ‘Buona sera,’ she said, closing the door behind them. ‘What a bella evening this is going to be. Come, you must have some prosecco. I’ve been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon so I took the liberty of helping myself to a teeny tiny glass before you arrived.’

  The two women followed Flappy’s willowy figure across the black-and-white chequerboard floor to the spacious kitchen, which was warmed by a large Aga and scented with the savoury smells of fried onions and garlic. Both Mabel and Sally had dressed up for the occasion because Flappy’s interpretation of the word ‘informal’ was notoriously understated. Always chic with a Continental air and a permanent suntan, Flappy wore silk and cashmere and lots of gold jewellery even when she had no plans to see anyone. She detested denim and never wore boots. She abhorred trainers even on the young, and her shoes were dainty with a low, discreet heel. She professed that it was vulgar to show off one’s wealth (and came down very heavily on the modern celebrity who flaunted theirs) but managed to let the other women know by allowing the odd detail to slip out in conversation that her clothes were expensive designer items bought on Net-a-Porter and delivered to her door, then waving her manicured fingers in the air and adding breezily, ‘I don’t care for that sort of thing but Kenneth expects it, you know.’

  As the two women stepped into the kitchen Flappy caught sight of Sally’s sparkly gold stilettos and gave a little sniff. Anything sparkly besides diamonds was enormously vulgar to Flappy. But this small act of rebellion was as far as Sally would dare go. Being on the wrong side of Flappy Scott-Booth was an experience none of the women wanted to risk. Eileen Bagshott had been foolish enough to call a meeting at her house and worse, to chair it, an act of outright rebellion which had resulted in the end of her membership of the Badley Compton Ladies’ Book Club as well as invitations to Darnley. Eileen was now a sorry figure sitting in the shadows in the back row at church on Sundays, and had to practically beg for tickets to concerts in the town hall. So, besides her stilettos, Sally, who had written unashamedly trashy romantic novels for thirty years under the pseudonym Charity Chance, wore burgundy trousers (a touch on the tight side), a pink blouse and her red hair swept into what she believed to be a modern take on the 1960s beehive. Her leather trousers and glittery tops were reserved for dinners at home with her family.

  Unlike Sally, Mabel would have rather died than induce Flappy to think ill of her. She was a nervous, conventional creature and eager to please. Mabel wore a busy floral blouse fixed at the throat with a pastiche diamond brooch, navy-blue slacks and gold buckled pumps on her small feet – a high street version of Flappy, worn with less flair. Her hair was shoulder-length, grey-brown and too thin to copy Flappy’s billowing bob. If it hadn’t been for the glasses that exaggerated the size of Mabel’s watery grey eyes, which had an unsettling habit of staring, she would have looked decidedly unremarkable. Now they stared at Flappy who had gone to such trouble to lay the table beautifully. Really, Mabel thought it remarkable how Flappy had thrown together a soirée at the very last minute, and for a moment she forgot about Gracie going to Italy and gazed in wonder at the clusters of candles, flower displays and starched blue-and-white Provençal tablecloth with matching napkins. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she murmured, propelling Flappy, already on a pedestal, to even greater heights.

  ‘Fa niente,’ said Flappy, taking credit for Karen’s good taste and hard work and feeling very pleased with her Italian, which sounded flawless to her ignorant ear. She handed them crystal flutes of prosecco and then swept into the hall to answer the door. A few moments later Esther Hancock and Madge Armitage, who had spent the previous couple of hours reading the book club choice in case Flappy asked them about it, hurried into the kitchen, bursting in their enthusiasm to talk about Gracie.

  Flappy had taken care to invite Gracie half an hour later than the other women so that they’d have time to discuss her decision to go to Italy before she arrived. Once Flappy was satisfied that the women had witnessed her cooking apron and the few professional-looking sweeps of the wooden spoon around the tomato sauce, she hung the apron on the back of the door and led her guests into the drawing room where Karen had lit the fire and scented candles. The four women had spent many evenings in Flappy’s cream-and-taupe-coloured drawing room and yet they hovered about the chairs until she invited them to sit down.

  ‘We need to talk about Gracie,’ said Flappy in her slow, well-articulated voice, and the other women listened respectfully. ‘I’ve been thinking about her ever since I heard the news. I believe I was the first. I’ve decided that the worry is not about Gracie going to a foreign country on her own, even though she hasn’t gone anywhere on her own for as long as I’ve known her, and really, as her friends, we must discourage her, it’s about her running away. What is she running from? What has happened to induce her to take such drastic measures?’ Flappy looked at each lady individually, fixing them with her topaz-blue eyes and silently asking them to think carefully and not all reply at once.

  ‘How clever you are, Flappy. Running away had never crossed my mind,’ gushed Mabel, enjoying the taste of prosecco but trying not to gulp it. ‘I just assumed she wanted a holiday.’

  ‘No, she’s never wanted a holiday. She’s running from something,’ Flappy persisted. ‘And we must find out what it is.’

  ‘She must want to run away very much to venture so far from home,’ said Esther, who had the deep, gravelly voice of a man and the ruddy, weathered skin of someone who has spent most of her life on horseback. ‘She could run to Land’s End, but to run to Italy . . . That’s very far.’

  ‘Boredom?’ Sally suggested with a grin that might have won support had the others not been so nervous of Flappy.

  Flappy put her head on one side and gave Sally a look as if she were a teacher ticking off a student who had said something unkind. ‘Just because you might think her routine a little dull does not mean to say that it is dull, Sally,’ she said. ‘Gracie is comfortable in that routine and she’s very happy to be given things to do for the book club. There’s nothing boring about being busy, I know that better than anyone! Gracie is not a woman who wants to be adventurous and social like us.’ Sally took a swig of prosecco and noticed that none of the others were willing to catch her eye.

  ‘I wonder what her daughter thinks,’ said Mabel, knowing that the mention of Gracie’s daughter would please Flappy
, who enjoyed criticising the girl for not taking trouble with her mother when Flappy’s four children and ten grandchildren made such a fuss of her.

  True to form Flappy inhaled through dilated nostrils and shook her head gravely. ‘That girl should be ashamed of herself. She hasn’t been down to see her mother for over six months. If my memory serves me right, which it usually does, I believe her last visit was in August. However busy her life is in London, she should spare a thought for her poor mama who is alone in that house with only her dogs for company. I know what comfort children can be. I can’t imagine being ignored like poor Gracie is ignored. Without us she’d have no one.’

  ‘Perhaps she just wants to see Italy,’ said Madge with a shrug. ‘After all, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to go to Italy, is there?’

  Once again Flappy put her head on one side and smiled patiently at Madge, whose bohemian clothes and unkempt grey hair more typically drew her sympathy. ‘My dear, if it were anyone else we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we? Of course, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to go to Italy, or with simply going to Italy, I’ve been many times and it’s a paese incantevole, but this is Gracie we’re talking about. Gracie can’t possibly go on her own. She can’t possibly go. She’s not up to it. It’ll be a disaster. Gracie—’ And at that point the doorbell went.

  ‘Gracie!’ Madge gasped, and as Flappy got up to open the front door four pairs of eyes followed her eagerly.

  Chapter 2

  Gracie was stunned and a little embarrassed to find herself the centre of attention. She usually arrived at these get-togethers unnoticed, but now every eye in the room was upon her and every ear cocked to hear what she had to say. ‘My dear Gracie,’ said Flappy, towering over her (for Flappy was very tall and Gracie quite small) as she thrust a glass of prosecco into her hand. ‘We’re having an Italian evening in your onore.’ Gracie frowned. ‘Don’t look so sorpresa. You’re the talk of the town. Do tell us all about it. We’re longing to hear. When are you going? Where are you staying? Is it true you’re going alone? Who will look after the dogs? Is your daughter stepping in at last?’ Flappy ushered Gracie into a chair and no one said anything. They all waited.

  Gracie would normally have shrunk beneath the weight of such scrutiny. But she didn’t. Not this time. Italy was already coursing through her veins like sun-warmed olive oil, giving her a heady sense of escape and adventure and courage. Yes, courage. She lifted her chin and replied, ‘I’m going to Tuscany, in April, for seven days. I’m going to learn how to cook Italian food.’

  The four pairs of eyes which had been fixed upon Gracie now fixed themselves upon Flappy. What would Flappy say to that? Flappy was almost too aghast to say anything, for April was one of the busiest months in Badley Compton and she needed all five women to be on hand, but she knew the ladies would depend on her to get to the bottom of it and she wasn’t going to let them down. ‘To cook?’ she exclaimed with a chuckle that implied she thought the idea preposterous and a little quaint. ‘Do you really have to go all the way to Tuscany to learn how to cook? I have some very good cookery books on Tuscan food I can lend you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Flappy,’ said Gracie, knitting her fingers on her lap. ‘But I’m going.’ The determined way she said ‘I’m going’ was surprising in itself. Gracie had never sounded so determined in all the years they had known her. This determination further aroused their curiosity, and a touch of resentment, for no one likes it when people are not themselves.

  ‘But surely, you’re not going alone?’ Flappy continued.

  ‘I am,’ Gracie replied.

  ‘What would Ted say?’

  ‘I think he’d be very happy.’

  ‘And surprised,’ Flappy added wryly. ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘In a lovely old castle on a hill.’

  ‘Is it an hotel?’

  ‘Sort of . . .’ Gracie didn’t seem very certain about this.

  ‘But you’re paying, obviously?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite dear.’

  Flappy looked at each of the four other women and took a sharp breath. Then she looked back at Gracie. ‘I don’t want to sound vulgar, as you know I never discuss money, but I find myself having to bring up the dreaded subject, just this once. Where is the money coming from, Gracie?’

  ‘My savings,’ said Gracie.

  ‘What, all of them?’ Flappy gasped.

  ‘Much of them,’ Gracie corrected. Flappy was now more than astonished, she was irritated. There was an air of recklessness about Gracie that she had never seen in her before. It was as if someone else had taken over her body and was being very unlike Gracie in it. Flappy took this as a personal affront and felt compelled to get the old Gracie back, the one they knew and could depend upon.

  ‘Well, I think that’s very rash. I’m sure we all agree.’ Flappy looked at the other women again, this time quite sternly. They all nodded, except Madge, who was staring at Gracie with admiration.

  ‘Oh, yes, we do,’ said Mabel, who was always quick to agree with Flappy.

  ‘Quite rash,’ Sally agreed.

  ‘I don’t think Ted would be very happy about that,’ added Esther in her gravelly man’s voice.

  Then Madge surprised them. ‘You only live once,’ she said, and Flappy resolved not to refill her wine glass.

  Gracie smiled at Madge who was looking a little cross-eyed. ‘I read about the place in a magazine while Judy was colouring my hair and I thought just that. Just what Madge said: that you only live once.’

  Madge chuckled and drained her glass. ‘I would say you haven’t even lived once, Gracie. Now is the time. Seize the day. Before that daughter of yours stuffs you in an old people’s home and you can’t ever go anywhere again.’ That was a rather depressing thought, but it made space in Flappy’s mind for an idea to present itself. It was high time that daughter of Gracie’s stepped up to the mark. She’d dissuade her mother if Flappy presented a persuasive argument.

  After the women had left and Flappy had stood on the doorstep and shouted ‘Ciao’ into the wind in her most authentic Italian accent, she hurried back into the house to make a telephone call. It wasn’t yet ten – she thought it incredibly rude to telephone after ten – and she had Carina’s number from the time she had thrown Ted a surprise birthday party (he and Kenneth had played golf together, Kenneth rather better than Ted). She hoped the girl hadn’t moved or changed her telephone number. To her immense relief, she hadn’t.

  ‘Hello?’ said Carina in the refined voice she had cultivated since leaving Devon and settling in London twenty years before.

  ‘Darling Carina, it’s Flappy Scott-Booth.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the name registered. ‘Ah, hello, Flappy.’ Carina glanced at her watch, it was a quarter to ten, very late to be telephoning. It must be important. ‘Is Mum all right?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. She’s decided to go to Italy.’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘Yes, Tuscany. In April, for seven days.’ Flappy liked to be in possession of the facts.

  ‘She’s said nothing to me,’ said Carina.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’ There was a disapproving tone in Flappy’s voice.

  ‘About a month ago, I think.’ Flappy tutted but it wasn’t her place to berate Carina for neglecting her mother. ‘I’ve been so busy, you know, at work. I’ll call her tomorrow. Thank you for letting me know, Flappy.’ Carina hoped that her decisive manner would end the conversation, but Flappy was used to calling the shots and continued stridently.

  ‘Well, she came up with the idea only recently, but I thought I should tell you so you can talk some sense into her. Your father would be very unhappy to think of her going all the way to Tuscany unaccompanied, and using all her savings.’

  ‘She said that?’ Carina asked. ‘All her savings?’ That has done it, Flappy thought triumphantly. If Gracie were to return to an empty pot, Carina would have to suppor
t her.

  ‘I’m afraid she did. Now you see why we’re so worried about her.’

  ‘I’ll call her tomorrow and see what’s going on.’

  ‘I don’t like to get involved in other people’s business, but we’re very fond of Gracie down here. My daughters would never allow me to spend seven days in a foreign country on my own even though I’ve travelled the world extensively and speak four languages with the fluency of a native. If she does go to Italy, and she’s most determined to go, I would hate anything to happen to her. I’m sure you agree.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Carina replied, somewhat tensely. ‘As I said, I’ll call her tomorrow.’

  ‘Do. That would put my mind at rest. Really, when something dramatic happens the family must rally round, and you, Carina, are the only family she’s got. I’m sure your father, wherever he is, would be very pleased you’re taking control. And you know, April in Badley Compton is a very busy month. We have the Easter fête for a start and I really can’t do without your mother. She’s wonderfully competent at doing the behind-the-scenes administration I don’t have the patience for. I really don’t know what’s got into her. It’s so unlike her, which is why we’re all terribly worried. I’m sure you will change her mind. You’re our only hope.’

  When Flappy put the telephone down she gave a contented sigh. Carina would no doubt put a stop to her mother’s ludicrous plan and talk some sense into her. With any luck, the old Gracie, the Gracie they knew and loved, would return – and be around in April to help with the many events Flappy was planning for Badley Compton.

  Happily, Flappy settled into bed and reached beneath the pile of glossy historical biographies and literary fiction there for show to find the one she really wanted to read, in private, without anyone knowing: The Heat of Passion by Charity Chance.

  Carina hung up and gave a sigh of irritation. She did not need this right now.