It seemed best to skulk in the fashion cupboard until she’d got her head straight. Or straight-ish at any rate. There had been several deliveries over the last two days, which Grace hadn’t got round to sorting out, and as she surveyed the messy rails and shelves she decided that it was no surprise that her life was in such disarray: she was surrounded by chaos.
She was happily colour-coding tights when one of the interns stuck her head round the door. ‘You’ve got a delivery.’
Grace didn’t even look up. ‘Be a love and shove it under my desk so no one pinches it, please.’
‘You have to come and look!’ the girl exclaimed breathlessly. ‘They’re so pretty.’
Grace took the bait, jumped off the kick steps and stuck her head round the door. Her desk was completely obscured by a huge bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper - a humble affectation employed by all the really chichi florists. Grace approached cautiously, the peppery, delicate scent of freesias assaulting her nostrils before she’d even taken two steps out of the cupboard.
‘They’re beautiful,’ the intern chirped. ‘Must have been one hell of a row if your boyfriend’s sending you flowers from Wild at Heart to say sorry.’
‘I haven’t got a boyfriend,’ Grace muttered, snatching up the flowers and rooting through the freesias and tiny bud-like roses, all in the duskiest shades of lilac, to get to the prize. Her fingers closed around the card.
Thank you for a lovely evening, it read in an unknown hand. Not his heavy black scrawl but whoever Ms Jones had dictated the message to over the phone. It was probably a task she had programmed into her calendar for the morning after each one of Vaughn’s dates.
‘They’re from a PR,’ Grace said shortly, tucking the card into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘You can take them home, if you like - my hay fever is way out of control at the moment.’
It was the first sensible thing that Grace had done since her birthday. And although when she got home that night she questioned the wisdom of stashing the card carefully in one of the side pockets of the Marc Jacobs bag, she wasn’t going to waste time angsting about it.
Over the next few days, there were other things to angst about. Like a daily torrent of official-looking envelopes or Kiki rejecting every single piece that Grace had called in for a winter coats story. And there was Lily turning into a bridezilla before Grace’s very eyes.
‘Would you hate me if I made you wear a buttercup-yellow bridesmaid dress?’ she asked Grace as they headed into Sainsbury’s after work.
Grace didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Yup. And while we’re on the subject, that goes for puce, mustard, khaki and brown too.’
‘I would never make you wear mustard,’ Lily insisted. ‘But my bridesmaids have to look a bit crap so I outshine them.’
Grace considered braining Lily with a wire basket for one brief moment. ‘You know you’re beautiful,’ she said baldly. ‘No one is going to be looking at your bridesmaids.’
‘They better not,’ Lily said as she groped avocados. ‘I’ve already refused to have Dan’s nieces and my cousin’s kids anywhere near the aisle. Toddlers would look sweet in the wedding photos but they don’t follow direction.’
‘Selfish little bastards,’ Grace deadpanned, selecting three Granny Smith apples and heading over to soups. ‘I’m done,’ she called, picking up a carton of carrot and coriander.
‘Is that all you can afford?’ Lily asked, pausing her bridely woes as she took in Grace’s evening meal. ‘I could treat you to a ready meal, one of the posh ones.’
‘I need to lose some weight,’ Grace admitted, because if Vaughn did want to see her again, she’d probably have to get naked and she wanted to banish her lardy arse before that happened. ‘See, it’s hot so if I make soup, I can only manage half a cup and apples are the model-approved snack food of choice.’
‘Really? You don’t look like you need to lose weight,’ Lily said as she poked her friend’s belly with one cautious finger. If it had been anybody else, Grace would have had their hand off. ‘You’re looking pretty hot actually, Gracie. Who did your hair?’ she added in a slightly annoyed tone. ‘I could have got you in somewhere for free.’
‘Oh, I slapped some L’Oréal on and then there was this hairdresser on a shoot who did the highlights and the cut,’ Grace said hastily, turning to stare at the salad bar. ‘You were right about the black dye; it really wasn’t doing anything for me.’
‘But your skin is looking amazing too - even Maggie said.’ Maggie was the Beauty Director and Lily’s boss who didn’t tolerate blackheads or open pores in much the same way that Kiki wouldn’t tolerate bootcut jeans or flip-flops. ‘Is it your apple and soup detox?’
Grace had been relying on Lily not noticing anything that didn’t have the word root ‘bride’ so she could only stand there and flap her mouth and wait for sounds to emerge. ‘It’s that mineral make-up, Lils,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘It really is,’ Lily agreed, peering at Grace’s face. As she was a trained beauty professional who might be able to spot the signs of a tri-enzyme facial, Grace reared back in alarm - but Lily obviously didn’t see anything suspicious on her friend’s unusually blemish-free face. ‘So, anyway, let’s talk bridesmaid dresses again,’ she continued. ‘What about a pale lemon sherbet if you don’t like the buttercup?’
Grace was saved from having to answer by the distant trill of her usually silent BlackBerry, which was just as well because she was on the verge of agreeing to pale lemon sherbet because she felt so guilty about lying to Lily. ‘Hi,’ she said, her voice breathy with anticipation.
She needn’t have bothered. ‘Miss Reeves?’ enquired the frosty tones of Madeleine Jones. ‘This isn’t an inconvenient time?’
Lily was now reading the nutritional information on a packet of spaghetti Bolognese, her lips moving soundlessly. ‘I can talk for a bit,’ Grace said.
‘I’m couriering over rail tickets tomorrow morning,’ Ms Jones announced. ‘What time do you finish work on Friday?’
Grace sagged against the chiller cabinet in relief - she wasn’t completely and utterly disgusting, after all. ‘Tickets to where?’
‘Vaughn wants you to meet him at Babington House,’ came the answer. ‘Miss Reeves? What time can you get to Paddington?’
When Kiki had had a row with her husband, she often got Grace to book a room at Babington House in Somerset so they could spend the weekend making up. Or Kiki could spend the weekend having spa treatments. Either way, if it got the Kiki Simmons seal of approval then it was absolutely fine with Grace. More than fine. ‘You can call me Grace and I can probably be there by five.’ Kiki always left early on a Friday.
‘A car will pick you up at Bath Spa. They’ll be expecting you at Babington but I’ll email over all the details.’
‘Is this, like, a whole weekend kind of deal?’ Grace asked hesitantly, because the prospect of forty-eight hours with Vaughn took the lustre off the whole country-house thing. Also, it would be good to know how many pairs of knickers to pack. ‘Is Vaughn travelling down with me? Do I need to meet him at Paddington?’
‘Until Sunday afternoon and Vaughn will be flying in to meet you at Babington,’ Ms Jones said icily. God knows what her issue was.
‘Flying?’ Grace echoed.
‘Yes, in a helicopter.’
Lily had finished counting up carbs and was looking at Grace curiously.
‘OK, fine. Thanks for letting me know,’ Grace muttered. ‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the flowers. I thought you probably sent—’
‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Ms Jones said quickly, but it sounded as if the ice had slightly melted. ‘Have a good evening, Grace.’
‘You too. Work,’ she added to Lily, hoping to forestall her, but . . .
‘Work? How’s it going? Is that why you need to lose weight? Do you have to wear a uniform? What are the tips like? When did you get a BlackBerry?’
‘Yes, work. It’s going OK, I’m
still on probation. No, that’s not why I need to lose weight because there isn’t a uniform but I do have a dress code. No tips as yet and Carphone Warehouse were doing a special promotion.’ Grace smiled blandly as Lily opened her mouth to fire off another rally. ‘Really, it’s just a crappy old bar job but a bit posher than when I used to work at the Queen’s Head.’
Lily chortled happily. ‘Do you remember on your last night you were so pissed by eight p.m. they had to send you home in a cab?’
‘Yes, and halfway down the road we had to stop so I could puke my guts up,’ Grace finished for her. ‘And I haven’t drunk gin since.’
‘Only old ladies drink gin anyway.’ Lily tucked her arm into Grace’s as they ambled towards the checkout. ‘Now, if you’re really anti-yellow, how do you feel about a very pale orange?’
chapter thirteen
Grace opened the window of the light, airy attic room she’d been shown to when she arrived at Babington House and stuck her head out as far as she could without plunging to her death. Her internal organs felt as if they’d tied themselves together, making it hard to breathe, so she took deep gulps of country air and peered into the fading light at rolling lawns and, further in the distance, green fields and hedgerows dotted with wild flowers. She was sure that if she strained her ears, she’d be able to hear the lazy buzz of bees punch-drunk on their own pollen, or the faint mooing of cows in far-off pastures. Then the smell of something farm-like wafted around Grace’s nostrils and she slammed the window shut.
It was eight o’clock, and she had an hour to get her gameface on before Vaughn arrived at Babington House. Unless his helicopter crashed on the way, because helicopters had a habit of doing that. Not that Grace wanted Vaughn to die, but while it didn’t have a Vaughn in it, the room was lovely. Grace had never been inside a Swedish farmhouse but she imagined it would have similar exposed beams, minimalist fixtures and fittings, and carefully distressed furniture. Grace bounced experimentally on the huge bed whose pristine white sheets were probably going to get seriously rumpled later, then turned her attention to the roll-top bath.
It was 8.50 p.m. when Grace wriggled into a white broderie anglaise frock, then caught sight of herself in the mirror and made a horrified face - she looked far too virginal. In the end, she pulled on her trusty Ossie Clark sundress, because when in doubt she always went for vintage. She arranged her hair in a messy bun, and settled for a slick of lip-stain, a couple of coats of mascara and some powder to take the shine away. It was so hot that any more make-up would simply slide off her face.
Half an hour later, there was still no whirring of blades, no light tread on the stairs, no one coming into the room with some well-meaning constructive criticism about her outfit. Grace picked up her new copy of Vogue Italia and the Michael Chabon book she’d been picking at for the last two months and headed for the door. Amazed by her own daring, she texted Vaughn as she walked down the stairs. Waiting for you on the terrace. Hope everything is OK. Grace didn’t think he would appreciate smiley faces and missed vowels.
Once she was seated at a quiet end table on the terrace, with a faint breeze stirring the sticky night and candles to keep the midges away, Grace felt less like she was about to hyperventilate. A tureen-sized glass of Sauvignon Blanc helped too. She flicked through Vogue, and made no attempt to even open Kavalier & Clay.
All the other tables were occupied by a large pre-wedding-party. Grace surreptitiously stared at them from behind her menu and tried to work out if it was the future groom who was looking as if his whole world had turned to broken biscuit. The bride-to-be was book-ended by two older women, who had to be mother and mother-in-law-to-be, and appeared close to tears. Grace gave the couple two years at best, but before she could start pontificating on the topic of marriage, which usually left her in a foul mood, Vaughn appeared through the French doors.
He looked around slowly, but didn’t smile as he caught sight of Grace. He still wasn’t smiling as he wove his way through the tables to get to her, and Grace’s heart sank. She’d screwed up. He’d been expecting some decadent buffet of oysters and lobster laid out in their room so they could get straight down to the shagging . . .
‘You look very Daisy Miller sitting there,’ Vaughn said as he reached her, and leaned down to brush his lips across her cheek.
Grace took a moment to get the reference. ‘That’s probably one of my favourite books,’ she lied. It wasn’t, but she’d contemplated having her hair cut into a Mia Farrow crop when she’d seen the film.
‘Are you enjoying this?’ Vaughn asked, picking up her ragged copy of Kavalier & Clay as he sat down.
‘It’s all right. Long though,’ Grace admitted. ‘I always get intimidated by big books before I’ve even started them. Is this all right?’ She gestured at the candlelit terrace. ‘Eating out here, I mean. It’s so hot and they said they could hold the table if you were late.’
Vaughn nodded. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt - untucked, Grace was pleased to note - but his casual clothes didn’t make him seem friendlier. Instead they highlighted how stiff he was, his face pinched in the soft light.
‘Are you OK?’ Grace asked, before she could stop herself.
He nodded again. ‘Long day,’ he elaborated. ‘And then we were last in a queue to take off. I don’t like helicopters. They’re too flimsy.’
Grace had been thinking exactly the same thing. ‘You should have a drink,’ she decided firmly, because it was her answer for everything. She picked up the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the ice bucket and reached for his glass. It was a very mistressly thing to do - maybe that’s why Vaughn smiled approvingly as she carefully tilted the condensation-slicked bottle.
‘It’s nice to get out of London,’ Grace ventured once he’d taken a small sip of wine. ‘It’s really pretty here.’
‘Let’s order.’ Vaughn summoned a hovering waiter with a flick of his hand. Grace wasn’t in any rush to go upstairs, and she could have stretched out the meal to all three courses and suggested that they linger over coffee, but wary of Vaughn’s hard gaze, she ordered a mozzarella salad.
‘As my main course and with a side order of chips.’ Anything more solid would never have got round the lump that had suddenly materialised in her throat and she needed the carbs to soak up the alcohol, because, once again, she wasn’t exactly sober.
None of Grace’s carefully prepared conversational forays worked. ‘Don’t ask,’ Vaughn sighed painfully when she enquired how the global art market was faring. And her thoughts on the new exhibition at the Tate Modern, that she’d prepped on the train, met with a dismissive, ‘It’s just for the tourists. All that gimmicky rubbish goes down well in the cheap seats.’
Forty-six hours, Grace thought to herself. It’s forty-six hours out of your entire life. You can get through this. But then she could imagine another forty-six hours next weekend, plus a couple of evenings during the week; that would be eight more hours. Her whole life for the foreseeable future would be made up of blocks of time when she didn’t know what to say or how to act, or how to do anything that might possibly please him.
Vaughn was picking at his Dover sole, brows knitted together. Grace put down her knife and fork and pushed away her salad. Across the terrace, the blushing bride was gulping down a cocktail with a haunted look on her face as she was harangued by the Mamas. For a second, Grace thought about whipping out her phone and taking a picture to send to Lily with the caption Behold your future!
‘What are you smirking about?’ Vaughn asked, startling Grace from her evil plans.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Grace mumbled hastily. Vaughn didn’t sound like he minded the smirking, but she was terrible at reading his moods. ‘Really. Just this silly idea I had.’
For the first time that evening, she finally had Vaughn’s full attention, though Grace wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He was looking at her as if she might actually have hidden depths, so he was doomed to be disappointed. ‘Do share,’ he drawled, with just
enough challenge that Grace couldn’t back down.
‘It’s so dumb.’ If she started with the disclaimer then Vaughn wasn’t allowed to hold anything Grace said against her. Well, he could, but he’d been warned. She gestured discreetly at the other tables. ‘That’s a wedding-party over there. The bride’s getting aggro from what can only be her mother and her soon-to-be mother-in-law and that bloke who’s wearing the blue shirt - I think he’s the groom - he looks like he wants to call the whole thing off.’