Saving Grace Read online

  ‘Craigslist?’ Grace scowls. ‘I’m not sure how safe that is.’

  ‘Darren found his wife on Craigslist,’ says Ellen.

  Grace laughs. ‘Not exactly. She answered an ad to be a roommate. That isn’t quite the same thing.’

  ‘Point being, Sarah’s lovely. And he found her on Craigslist. I spoke to one of my friends who works for a domestic staffing agency and she says these days lots of the domestic agencies find their staff there too, there or the New York Times. It isn’t like before when you paid all that money to an agency knowing they’d do all the background checks so you’d know what you’d be getting. They’re advertising in the same places, and it’s up to us to do all the due diligence. Anyway, I haven’t had any responses yet, so I’m putting an ad in the Times next week. If I get anything that sounds interesting, I’ll forward it to you. How does that sound?’

  ‘Worrisome,’ says Grace.

  ‘Only because you and I are so old we don’t understand all this technology. Trust me. It’s what everyone’s doing. I did advertise on the noticeboard at the library, but I haven’t heard anything, and I’ve passed the word around. Didn’t John Foster say his old assistant was looking for something?’

  ‘Yes. We met her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was twelve.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I know I sound completely ageist, but I don’t want a young college graduate with stars in her eyes. I want someone like you. Mature. Efficient. Someone who has common sense and initiative.’

  ‘Young people can have that too,’ Ellen says.

  ‘This one didn’t. She was an hour and a half late because she got lost and had no service to check the GPS on her iPhone.’

  ‘She couldn’t have stopped and asked?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Grace says. ‘Maybe Craigslist is the way to go . . . if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Four

  ‘Ted? Are you ready?’ Grace slips the second diamond earring in as she calls up the stairs. ‘The car’s here. We have to go.’

  ‘Coming!’ The sound of footsteps as Ted clambers down the stairs, pausing as he catches sight of Grace. A smile spreads on his face as he looks at her, Grace mentally exhaling a sigh of relief.

  ‘Have I ever told you how lovely you are? How lucky I am to have such a beautiful wife?’ In the mirror, Grace looks at herself approvingly, aware of how they look together, he so debonair, so elegant in his tux, she in a white silk shirt and long black velvet skirt. It could so easily have looked frumpy, but the skirt is an inch tighter than it needs to be, the shirt a centimeter lower, the heels a smidgen higher. Her auburn waves are glossy and loose, and the only jewellery she wears besides the earrings is a chunky, modern gold cuff.

  ‘I scrub up well, don’t I?’ she says. ‘Although I may have to concede that you scrub up even better. Do you have any idea how good you look in a tux?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He raises an eyebrow before gesturing upstairs. ‘Do we by any chance have time . . .?’

  ‘No!’ She pushes him away with a laugh. ‘But ask me again later and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Thank God, she thinks. Thank God my husband is in a good mood. These flashes of Ted at his most charming, no traces of anger or irritation or disdain, are what Grace lives for. So often, of late, he has been at his worst, and Grace is beginning to feel more and more like she is walking on eggshells.

  And yet, in moments like these, it is easy to remember why she married him in the first place, easier still to imagine this may be the turning point, that this good mood may last for days.

  Even though it never does.

  Hand in hand, they go out to the car.

  Tonight is the thirtieth anniversary of the magazine Country Flair. A glittering occasion, the magazine has taken over the ballroom of the Mandarin Oriental, their guests an assortment of luminaries featured in the magazine over the years.

  Grace and Ted have been inside the pages many times: snapped at society or literary events, Ted interviewed for his new book, or, as in the thirtieth anniversary issue, on the cover as the personification of what every country dweller should aspire to.

  It is true, the house at Sneden’s is a beautiful example of a restored antique farmhouse; the barn, lined floor to ceiling with books, sliding ladders running along the length of the shelves, is regularly featured in articles about dream offices, and one of the most frequently repinned photographs on Pinterest.

  But it is more than the rambling house, the pretty gardens, the solid barn. It is Ted and Grace themselves, Grace unwittingly having become something of a style icon, however reluctant she may be to appear in public.

  Her casual style – jeans and Bean boots, teamed with sloppy oversized sweaters and one of her husband’s ubiquitous Barbours, some fabulous huge ring or a pair of abstract gold earrings – was never something she thought much about, and she is constantly surprised at how people compliment her on her style. She wears what is easy, comfortable, without much thought as to what other people think.

  On the cover of the thirtieth anniversary special issue, a bumper issue, it is Grace and Ted smiling out at you, sitting on their bench overlooking the water, a chicken perched on Grace’s shoulder as she tips her head back with laughter, Ted turned to gaze at her. His long legs, in old jeans, are stretched out in front of him, one dachshund on his lap, the other two at his feet. Behind them are the apple trees in full bloom, for this issue was planned months in advance, and the photographs taken during the glory days of summer, when the house and garden are at their most beautiful.

  Grace’s phone rings, her face lighting up as she looks at the screen.

  ‘Clemmie!’ she says, lifting the phone to her ear. ‘Darling daughter who we never hear from anymore. How much money do you need this time?’

  Her daughter’s laughter rolls down the phone. ‘Can I name my price?’

  ‘Only with your father,’ says Grace. ‘I’m a harder sell, as you well know. Where are you?’

  ‘In my apartment getting ready for a hot date, and guess where he’s taking me?’

  ‘Dinner? A movie? A walk in the park?’

  ‘Much more glamorous. To the thirtieth anniversary gala for Country Flair magazine.’

  ‘No!’ Grace can’t hide her delight. ‘We’re on our way too! They’re honouring us!’

  ‘I know! But my date doesn’t, and now I have to tell him who I am. Unless I ignore you all night, but what if this is “the one” and he ends up proposing before diving into a fury that I withheld the terrible truth from him.’

  Grace starts laughing. ‘You like him, then?’

  ‘He’s kind of deliciously sexy in a sexily delicious way.’ Grace can picture her daughter’s swooning smile as she speaks.

  ‘Name? Age? Prospects?’

  ‘You’ll find out for yourself in about forty-five minutes,’ says Clemmie. ‘But briefly, he’s Luke, he’s a musician who teaches guitar to kids on the side, and this is our first grown-up date.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking the obvious, but what on earth is he doing coming to the Country Flair gala? That doesn’t quite compute.’

  ‘That’s what I said! Turns out his mum is an editor there, and she invited him, with a date. She even, apparently, rented a tux for him. See what a good mother does?’ she says.

  ‘I give you all my old clothes!’ says Grace.

  ‘And I’m grateful. I’m wearing one of your favourites tonight.’

  ‘The silk skirt and bustier top that I gave you last year? The Yves Saint Laurent one?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘And you’re complaining? That was always my most favourite outfit in the world. The only reason I’m not wearing it tonight is, thanks to the delightful side effect of ageing, my waistline appears to have gone AWOL.’

  ‘Your waistline is fine. You’re beautiful.’

  ‘You have to say that. I’m your mother.’

  ‘I’ll say it to your face soo
n. I have to go. My hair still looks terrible.’

  ‘Wait! This is important.’

  Clemmie’s voice is again loud and clear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hair. Up or down?’

  ‘Surprise,’ Clemmie says, putting down the phone.

  There is nothing Grace loves more than spending time with her daughter, particularly when it is unexpected. Those times when Clemmie calls and their schedules align to enable them to have a quick lunch, or a rush round Bendel’s as a treat.

  When she was pregnant with Clemmie, Grace worried terrifically about what kind of mother she would be. Her own mother was terrifying, nothing like the loving, present, warm mothers she read about in books. Grace had been so frightened she would follow in her mother’s footsteps, she had determined to be the sort of mother she had always wanted; but she hadn’t counted on Ted, on having a husband who had so many demands of his own.

  Would she really be able to shower love and attention on both Ted and a child? Would Ted simmer with resentment because Grace had to give the baby a bath, or walk them through the fields, take them to mother and baby groups, at which all men, even the great Ted Chapman, would be excluded?

  She had nothing to worry about. From the minute Clemmie gazed up at her father with her big blue eyes, she had him wrapped around her little finger. She was fiery and funny and stubborn, and instead of finding her distraction a problem, Ted welcomed it.

  Clemency. Noun: mercy; lenience. There was a reason for her name.

  Grace taught Clemmie to cook, the two of them side by side at the kitchen counter, baking pavlova, Clemmie delighting in watching the egg whites transform into pale, puffy clouds as she whisked. Grace wanted her to love cooking, just as she had loved learning from Lydia, but Clemmie wasn’t a cook, couldn’t be a cook, not when writing called to her as soon as she learned how to put pen to paper.

  Of course Ted had bought Clemmie her own notebook and set her up on his old vintage Corona typewriter. She would punch down the keys while biting her lip, telling endless stories, before gathering up sheaths of paper and sitting at her own little desk in the corner, with a box of crayons to illustrate.

  ‘She’s rather good,’ Ted would say in delight, bringing her finished books in later that day, showing them off to Grace. ‘I think we may have another writer in the family.’

  She is a good writer, thinks Grace. Better than that, she is a wonderful writer. Every door could be, would be, open to her if she announced herself as Ted Chapman’s daughter, but she has always refused to use her family’s name or influence to help her work get published, which Grace cannot understand.

  Clemmie could be, should be, pushing out novels. Instead she works on a local paper in Brooklyn, writing features every day, which is – as her father always says – the greatest training a writer could hope for: when an editor is standing over you every day requesting a thousand words in an hour, you aren’t able to say you’re not inspired, or ask that they try again when you feel a little more motivated. At home, in Clemmie’s nightstand, is three quarters of a novel that no one has read, other than Grace, who was sworn to secrecy.

  Grace is not a fan of nepotism, but she saw instantly that Clemmie’s work stood up for itself. Clemmie’s refusal to jump on what she calls the ‘celebrity offspring bandwagon’ makes no sense to Grace, who wants her daughter to do what she loves, who knows that she is merely treading water at the newspaper while her manuscript sits, doing nothing, at the back of her nightstand drawer.

  Grace suggested Clemmie use a pseudonym if she felt that strongly about not being connected to her father, but Clemmie said no, that people always know when a pseudonym is being used, and as a child she featured in enough articles about her parents that everyone in publishing would know who she is; word would quickly get out.

  In the world of newspapers, no one cares. Clemmie Chapman is just another journalist on the job, trying to make her way in the world. No amount of pushing, pleading, suggesting from her mother will make her step out of her comfort zone and follow her dreams.

  The car pulls onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway and Ted reaches into his bag for his speech. He rustles back and forth, sighing as he pulls the bag onto his lap and pulls out all the contents.

  ‘Where’s my speech?’ Ted’s voice is dangerously cold as he flicks through the papers, his jaw set in a familiar way.

  Grace’s heart starts to pound, the familiar thumping in her ears as anxiety forms. ‘I haven’t seen it,’ she says calmly. ‘It must be in there somewhere.’

  ‘It’s not here,’ he says quietly, dangerously calm, even as he hits the seat with the sheath of papers, the loud bang making Grace jump.

  ‘Why didn’t you put my speech in my bag?’ he says slowly, looking at Grace with an expression that turns her blood to ice. Grace deliberately keeps her voice calm and soothing, in an effort to regulate Ted’s mood. She read somewhere this was a tried and tested method of calming down the angry, but it has never worked. It doesn’t stop her from trying.

  ‘Ted, I’m sorry, I don’t know where your speech is. I didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ says Ted, his voice dismissive, dripping with disdain. ‘Of course you didn’t think to do this.’ He shakes his head before practically sneering. ‘Ellen would not have let this happen.’

  I’m not Ellen, thinks Grace, who says nothing, dizzy with fear. There’s nothing she can say to calm him down when he gets like this. She cannot say it’s not true that she does nothing, that every moment when she’s not at Harmont House she runs around making sure her husband is happy. She cannot say that his speech and the placing of it in his bag was not her responsibility. Whatever she says will fuel his rage, so she sits, her heart pumping, praying this will quickly pass.

  She recognizes her terror has less to do with Ted and more to do with her childhood. Anger instantly sees her regressing to a small child, cowering in fear, helpless and hopeless in the face of a fury that has nothing to do with her.

  By the time they pull up outside the hotel, where a host of photographers await, Ted is calm and Grace is, as she always is, determined to keep her pain and fear to herself. Thank God Clemmie will be here, she thinks. Clemmie always puts him in a good mood.

  They exit the car, Grace putting her arm through Ted’s for the photographers, the picture of a loving couple, no one guessing that she is terrified of the man she stands beside, that right now, in this moment, she is about as unhappy as it is possible to be.

  Grace glides into the foyer alongside Ted; she air-kisses and smiles, air-kisses and smiles, all the while her eyes scanning the room for Clemmie, relief flooding her body as Ted turns to her and kisses her on the cheek. His mood has passed. All is well with the world.

  For now.

  PAVLOVA

  (Serves 6–8)

  INGREDIENTS

  4 egg whites, room temperature

  100g icing sugar

  1 teaspoon white vinegar

  ½ tablespoon cornflour

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  115g double cream

  Fresh fruit, e.g., strawberries – cut up; raspberries; kiwi fruit

  1 tablespoon lemon juice

  Preheat oven to 150°C/gas mark 2.

  Whisk the egg whites in a squeaky-clean bowl until soft peaks form. Add the sugar while whisking, a spoonful at a time, and keep whisking until the peaks are glossy and stiff.

  Sprinkle cornflour, ½ teaspoon vanilla, and vinegar, and fold in.

  Spread the meringue on an oiled or silicone baking sheet, in a circular shape. Make a slight well in the middle.

  Bake the meringue for around 1 hour and 15 minutes, until a pale eggshell colour.

  Turn oven off, but DO NOT REMOVE MERINGUE! Open the oven door very slightly to allow the meringue to cool in the oven. Expect cracks.

  Plate the meringue before serving.

  Whip cream with remaining ½ teaspoon of vanilla until peaks form.

  Spread cream
over cool meringue and cover with fresh fruit.

  Five

  ‘I told him,’ Clemmie whispers in her mother’s ear as she reaches up to kiss her cheek. ‘Mum, this is Luke.’

  Grace steps back to greet Luke with an extended hand and an approving smile. He is handsome and sweet, bearded, with the bloom of youth that instantly makes Grace feel old. Too old. She shakes her head to dislodge the thought, pleased that her daughter has such good taste.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Luke.’

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Chapman. Are you having a good time?’

  Grace laughs. ‘We just got here, but I’m sure it will be a wonderful evening.’

  ‘Not for Dad,’ Clemmie says, turning to Luke. ‘He detests small talk, but he’ll be fine if everyone is pandering to his every whim.’ The three of them turn their heads to see Ted, surrounded by acolytes, playing up to them, enjoying the adulation.

  ‘See?’ Clemmie says. ‘He’s fine. Give him a drink and he’ll be even happier.’ As they watch, someone comes over and places a glass of Scotch in Ted’s hand. The three of them burst out laughing.

  ‘How’s Ellen?’ Clemmie says, her face suddenly serious. ‘I feel horrible that I haven’t phoned her.’

  ‘She’s refusing to stop working for us,’ Grace says. ‘She has so much on her plate with her poor mother and trying to organize the move, but, bless her heart, she’s still helping us manage the chaos of our lives. Our assistant.’ She turns to Luke, explaining. ‘She just moved to Florida to look after her mother and we haven’t found a replacement yet.’

  Clemmie frowns. ‘Have you advertised on Craigslist?’

  Grace nods. ‘I think we just haven’t been on top of it. I’m going to have to try and find someone soon, though. Your father goes nuts when I forget everything.’

  ‘I still love you, Mum,’ Clemmie says, putting an arm around her mother and squeezing, the two of them tilting their heads together, mutual love and affection flowing between them, making Luke smile.