Love of Grace and Angels

  ‘Oh dear. I feel perhaps I should have made more effort to see him. To try and help him in some way.’

  ‘Grace, you made plenty of effort. I know how fond you are of him and so does he, which is a great support in itself. Besides, you’ve had your own things going on … not an easy time for any of us.’

  Grace’s short pause spoke volumes.

  ‘I threatened him with that counsellor you used.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘They were excellent. He should go.’

  ‘I know, Grace, but he’s too heavy to carry. I know they’d come to us, but I want him to want it, you know? It all feels rather pointless otherwise.

  ‘So have you heard from that other young mischief of yours?’

  ‘Tess? Hardly young anymore!’ laughed Grace. ‘She called last night and left a message saying ‘Happy birthday, Mum, I’m off to France for three months, speak later and see you when I get back’!’

  ‘Ah. No change there.’

  ‘No. No change. As impetuous at thirty as she was at three.’

  ‘But France? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Provence, somewhere.’

  ‘Doing?’

  ‘No idea. No doubt we’ll find out.’

  ‘Well, let’s not keep talking or we’ll have nothing left to say tonight and then there will be three of us sat in miserable silence.’

  ‘You can’t say that! Poor Art.’

  ‘I tell you, if I didn’t laugh about it sometimes I’d end up exactly like him. See you later. Eight?’

  ‘Eight, yes. Before you go. What about you? How are you? I mean, really. It can’t be easy.’

  ‘I try to laugh about it a little, as I said. But mostly it all feels very sad. I told him this morning that I want my husband back, but truthfully I also want my life back, Grace. I miss my life.’

  Lotty burst out from under a bush, her long coat thick with pieces of bark, leaf and seed, small twigs caught on her sides, tail wagging so hard she could barely stand. Her mistress sighed. The dog would need a good brush.

  ‘It sounds dreadful. Perhaps the time has come to start moving him forward, with or without the counsellor? Push him a little, I mean.’

  ‘Exactly that, Grace. Exactly that.’

  ‘Poor you. I am so sorry. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your walk and get back to making the dessert. I’ll see you tonight. And don’t worry. It’ll be fine.’

  Famous last words, thought Art’s wife.

  Chapter 5

  FRIDAY EVENING GRACE

  Grace did many things well. She advised wisely, she kept other people’s private business to herself, she dressed well, enjoyed sex, lived healthily, raised her children with love and with values they could be proud of. She rarely blamed, often took a positive view of things and generally was a person people liked to know. The singular domestic thing she did incredibly well, however, was host a dinner party.

  Never in her life had it occurred to Grace to cut corners when it came to entertaining, not in terms of cost or time taken. She often broke dining etiquette by cooking a dish for the very first time for guests, but such was her skill that it did not matter. Whatever she created the effect was always the same, with recipients themselves pledging to invest more time in the kitchen, a vow unfulfilled for the most part.

  Sometimes, she used great extravagance; expensive and hard to source ingredients beautifully blended and carefully presented, origins researched and cause for conversation. Other times, much more simple fare was offered, something unpretentious, freshly poached or steamed, perfectly seasoned and equally memorable.

  Besides an avid interest in cooking, Grace knew complete culinary success depended as much on correct planning as it did on a good store cupboard and quality ingredients. For her, part of that planning process was to fully consider her guests. For this group, extra consideration had been required. Ted’s girlfriend was Chinese, and Ric, she now knew, hailed from an Italian background, ruling out both cuisines. Art did not particularly like fish and Art’s needs were paramount. If he were to have even an outside chance of enjoying the evening he should not be faced with food he did not like, even if she might have tried to turn him into a fish fan had times been different. Primrose was coeliac, which was easy as she had been since a child. Nevertheless, it was another thing to factor in. At least no one was vegetarian, or worse, vegan.

  Grace knew there were many available options if she wanted a theme. Indonesian, Caribbean, Indian, Spanish, French. The list was endless. What she opted for was food that she herself felt like eating. British. At least, the blend of cuisines Britons enjoy. Sirloin of beef but no heavy dinner to go with it; the baton was certainly passing from summer to autumn, but it felt too early for jus and a full roast. Some sweet potatoes roasted in olive oil and a selection of good and interesting salads would be served instead. They could begin the meal with a mix of salamis, olives, pickles, fresh figs, homemade dips and breads. Perhaps some bruschetta, too; Italian, but a safe bet. They could finish with mousse, fruits and cream followed by local cheese and biscuits. For whatever reason, the supermarket had proven woefully inadequate. Despite their original intention, Grace and her daughter had decided not to leave the rest of the shopping to the morning, for that would change an agreeable period of preparation into a mad and unpleasant rush. So she and Primrose had driven straight into central Bath and bought the rest of what was needed from delicatessens, and the one butcher still trading there, declaring that this was what they should have done in the first place. Parked precisely where Moira had, the two women went about their business, passing the café Ric had already left, not knowing he was ever there, either this year or last.

  *

  The first to arrive for dinner were Primrose and Ric, a bottle of Champagne in Primrose’s hand, a colourful spray of chrysanthemums, irises and roses in Ric’s. Tucked under his arm was a parcel, wrapped in silver paper and tied with what appeared to be a type of dried grass, sprayed with gold. They also carried two small overnight bags and two helmets. Grace answered the door.

  ‘My goodness, all that on Ric’s moped? And since when did you knock and not just walk in?’

  ‘I don’t live here anymore, Mum.’

  ‘So? This is still your home. I see you decided not to drive. Good.’ Grace took the bottle, ‘less Champagne for me, of course, but that can’t be helped.’

  Ric gave her the flowers with a kiss. Grace noticed it was not the air-kiss so popular with younger people, but an actual kiss, lips pressed to cheek. Perhaps one a man might give his own mother, she thought, affectionately.

  ‘And this,’ Ric said, offering the gift.

  ‘From us both. Ric chose it.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you,’ laughed Grace as she took it, ‘and these flowers, they’re absolutely beautiful. Thank you.’

  Grace also looked beautiful. Glossy dark hair elegantly pinned up, she wore a long sleeved, knee length dress, simply cut but brightly coloured. She liked clothes and dressed well effortlessly; modern but not too youthful, elegant but not a slave to design or designer labels. Primrose, who had not inherited any of this, stood at the door in her best jeans with her newest tee shirt under a favourite hooded sweater, attractively fashionable but not striking in the way of her mother.

  Ric was similarly casual, but rather than a sweatshirt he sported a suit jacket. His hand patted a pocket, seeming to check its contents. ‘I love your sandals, Grace,’ he remarked, surprising both Grace and Primrose. ‘I worked in a ladies shoe shop many years ago. It sort of stuck with me.’

  ‘This before you were a mechanic and a chauffeur and now a barman?’ laughed Primrose.

  ‘A mechanic?’ questioned Grace.

  ‘Yes, for a private hire company. All that sort of work is subbed out now, although that’s not why I left. But long before all of that I was a Saturday boy helping ladies with their shoes.’ His perfect teeth shone through a wide smile, ‘It was good fun. A great w
ay to meet girls!’

  Primrose reprimanded him with a playful nudge.

  Looking down at her modestly high, rather too familiar and less than showy strappy sandals, Grace thanked him before ushering them inside, instructing Ric to place the bags at the foot of the stairs and the helmets by the door.

  They gathered where they entered, in the kitchen, enticed into staying by the inviting smell of hot ovens and roasting meat, toasted nuts and the occasional waft of freshly chopped tomato. This was where Grace intended they should eat, to enjoy the last of the very, very late summer that, just as last year, seemed to be keeping autumn at bay. Plus the kitchen table was bigger than the one in the dining room.

  In this glassy bright room that was always the hub and heart of the family home, Grace’s husband had started assembling drinks. He had barely finished making the first gin and tonic, when the sound of gravel crunching beneath rolling wheels penetrated the house.

  ‘That’ll be Art,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘Not yet. It’s Ted,’ Grace corrected.

  ‘New car,’ observed her daughter.

  ‘Nice car!’ commented Ric.

  The car stopped and the doors opened.

  ‘Wow.’ Grace’s husband had by now raised his eyes from the job in hand and allowed them to rest upon Ted’s new girlfriend.

  Ted was an attractive man and, by default, always seemed to have an equally attractive partner. Even his infamous wife had been a beauty. But what unfolded from the passenger side of his iconic new car, a brand new guard-red Porsche 911, was unexpectedly glamorous, even for Ted. First to come into view were the long sleek legs, followed by thick black hair bobbing with loose curls, as the owner of this glossy coiffure pushed her way up and out of the seat. Next, as she straightened, came the incredible figure, willowy and slim, tightly wrapped in a tiny, sheer, strapless black dress.

  ‘Is that a belt she’s wearing?’ Grace’s husband laughed, forgetting to hand out the drink he had just made and swigging it instead, as he stared, ‘bit chilly, I would think.’

  Grace smiled, ‘Goodness. Isn’t she lovely? Quite tall.’ She looked to Primrose whose face bore the stricken expression of a child arriving at a party in fancy dress only to discover too late that she was the only one. She then looked to Ric, surprised and relieved to find that he was taking very little interest in the new arrival. Rather, he had taken himself off to the snug end of the kitchen. Sat in a comfortable chair, he was checking his phone.

  Grace opened the door and Ted strolled in with a prettily wrapped package in one hand and his girlfriend’s hand in the other. Grace beamed. The face was as beautiful and highly groomed as the rest of her. Undoubtedly this woman was a model, the sort that never went short of work. Knowing Ted of old, the flash car and the flashier girl suggested a bigger story, a tale that would no doubt be shared some other time.

  ‘Happy birthday Grace. This is for you. Grace this is Jude, Jude meet Grace.’

  Grace made them both welcome and, after further introductions, drinks were enjoyed while Grace pottered around and assembled a few bits and pieces to eat ahead of the official mix of starters. As she worked, she noticed Primrose did not look nearly as happy as she had. Her daughter was politely forcing interest in those around her, eyes repeatedly flicking to Jude while her face tried not to look. It was a sure sign of insecurity, for in a family situation Primrose would normally be centre stage, particularly with Ted around. Primrose had, in recent years, developed a special bond with Ted. Grace and her husband had made their feelings clear to him about his reciprocal interest in their daughter, and Ted, as an old friend, had acceded. However, even if not acted upon, their mutual attachment could not be denied.

  But it wasn’t Ted having a girlfriend that would be bothering Primrose, Grace knew. It was only that standing there before her was indisputable evidence that glamorous people bearing unattainable good looks actually existed beyond the computer generated fantasy of a magazine cover. Grace reflected that Primrose’s lack of confidence was a heart breaking fault in her daughter’s make-up, and wondered if she, as her mother, might have done more to guide Primrose away from such feelings of inadequacy. It was a reoccurring theme but had been absent for a long time, thanks to Ric. Now it appeared Primrose’s anxiety was about to rear its troubled head again. Later, once Ted and Jude had gone, the conversations would begin. The worry, the insecurity, the thoughts Primrose imagined others to be having about her own, perceived, inadequacies, would all come up. As would wild guesses about any thoughts Ric might be having.

  This, Grace could see, was a groundless concern, for he paid no more attention to Jude than if she were a middle-aged man. Having left the comfortable chair, he now stood respectfully within the group, but his body language suggested limited interest. All of a sudden, the two older men roared with laughter at some joke or comment made by the gorgeous Jude. Grace’s heart sank a little. Now poor Primrose would also have to deal with the fact that this woman was not only incredible to look at, but she was funny too, and that really would take some beating.

  *

  Uncomfortable with the feeling that her hair was not quite right – she felt it hadn’t been from the outset – Grace slipped quietly away from the kitchen and to her bedroom. The sound of cheerful chatter drifted up the stairs, her daughter’s happy voice amongst them; finally there was one less thing to worry about. When Grace had last seen Primrose she was comfortably settled and talking amiably with Jude in a surprising turn of events. Clearly what had been desperate unease had miraculously transformed into interest, and now laughter, amusing tales of photo shoots and shameless photographers, too much to resist. It was unusual for Primrose to have such a rapid change of heart, but Ric had been making obvious efforts to include her, drawing Ted into the conversation wherever possible. But interestingly, Primrose had gravitated towards Jude, regardless.

  A remaining worry, apart from the usual concerns when trying to host an excellent evening, was the final two guests. When would they arrive? It was getting late and everyone was hungry. Grace assumed Art was struggling with the prospect of being sociable and had perhaps changed his mind about coming, although Grace knew he would not be allowed to back out. As she settled on her little padded white stool, the same one that had served her dressing table for twenty years, the sound of careful footsteps seemed to come from the stairs. She called out but no reply came, only a static hush resting above the noise from below. After adjusting her hair, Grace freshened her lipstick, carefully replacing the lid and laying it back down. Still she had the sense that someone was nearby. Opening the door fully she looked along the dim landing. All room lights were out, including the bathroom, only the light from downstairs breaking the darkness.

  ‘Primrose?’

  Nothing. Switching off her bedroom light, Grace returned to the party. The meal could not wait any longer. Arranging serving plates ready to dish up, she saw Ric bounce his way down the stairs. Perhaps he had been in the bathroom and not bothered with the light.

  He looked at her but the expression on his face was one she could not fathom.

  *

  Starters finished and main course more than ready, Grace began to unwrap the meat that had been resting for so long it could not fail to be tender. At that same moment, Art and his wife arrived almost an hour and half late. Save for a basic hello and apology, Art immediately disappeared to the bathroom leaving his wife embarrassed.

  ‘Good God, what a nightmare! Grace, please forgive me. Quite frankly, I didn’t telephone as I lost track of time because I was talking with Art, and then I was driving and didn’t feel I could ask him to call you. You know how he is. But we’re here now. You must all be starving.’

  ‘No need to fret. I quite understand. But we have started. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m glad you did. Mmm. Something smells good. Hope I am not smelling what you’ve just finished!’

  ‘Not at all. We’ve only had one course. Just sit down and
relax. No need to worry about anything tonight, just enjoy yourself.’ Grace re-covered the beef with foil and hastily began to assemble fresh bruschetta so the late arrivals wouldn’t miss out entirely. ‘Art looks pale. Is he okay, do you think?’

  ‘I really have no idea. Here, a small something for the birthday girl. I’ll pop it with the others. You haven’t opened anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I opened some this morning, but I seem to be doing rather well again this evening. I’m saving them for after dinner.’

  Chapter 6

  ART

  Art stared into the mirror. The effort involved in leaving the easy shelter of his home to come to a social event had been overwhelming. For the best part of the afternoon and early evening he’d soaked in the bath. He’d slumped with his face half submerged in bubble-less water until it was almost cold, topping it up with hot and remaining there until the last of the warmth drifted away once more. Over and over he had done it, his wife tapping on the door seemingly every five minutes to check on him. Each time he grunted a response, proof he had not drowned. He had no wish to end it all. This was not why he lingered. It was just the water seemed to hold him. It felt as though the very fact that he had to get out and get on kept his body utterly rooted in rebellion. He couldn’t imagine a single moment beyond the bath and felt crippled by his own lack of willpower, caught in a vicious circle. And what kind of man is too weak to simply pull out the plug, stand up and get dry? This kind of man, he’d thought.

  His wife was not a great help, which initially had been something of a shock. Yes, she had switched on the immersion heater, yes, she had shown concern for his welfare and yes, she had expressed her love for him through the crack of the door. Yes, she’d brought him a cup of tea. Two, in fact. But for the first time he could remember since the accident, she had nagged him. Instead of offering kindly reassuring words about taking his time and going to Grace’s when he was ready, she had pushed and pushed for him to get on. Long forgotten, it was an unwelcome return of an annoyingly huffy intonation she always used when trying to trip him up in some argument or another. It was undoubtedly there, the old impatient exasperation peering at him through the quiet voice of a private nurse. I-am-not-so-patient-anymore, it said.