Saving Grace Read online

  Eleven

  Ellen spent almost all of her time with Ted, whereas Beth, even in the two weeks she has been here, manages to split her time fairly evenly. She is with Ted in the mornings and tends to spend the afternoon in the house, stocking up household supplies, sorting through the mail, even walking the dogs, with whom she instantly fell in love.

  She is, Grace realizes, the sort of girl who is entirely self-sufficient. She rarely comes to her asking what she wants her to do, instead dealing with most things by herself, leaving Grace a list of what she has done.

  In two weeks she has made herself invaluable. From the first day, Grace has felt as if she were on holiday. The house is running more smoothly than it has ever done before. Grace would never say this out loud, but as much as she loved Ellen, as much as she always thought they would not be able to find anyone nearly as good as Ellen, Beth is making their lives easier in ways they never would have dreamed possible.

  And more than that, she is such a pleasure to have around. She is never intrusive and seems to have a sixth sense, knowing when Grace isn’t in the mood to have someone in her kitchen, isn’t in the mood to chat; she will make herself scarce, while ensuring everything in the house that needs to be done is done.

  Grace’s only concern is that Beth may be overworking herself to the point where she realizes she can’t take it anymore, or starts to hate the job. She is aware that Beth is young and trying hard to please. She doesn’t want her to throw herself into this job with such abandon, do so much of everything, that she will end up resenting Grace and Ted and feel taken advantage of. Grace has seen this happen with other people and is trying to stop Beth from overdoing it, fearful of resentment being the inevitable outcome.

  But it is hard to stop Beth. Even when she grudgingly says that if Grace absolutely insists on her not doing it, she won’t tidy the living room, or sort out the pantry, or organize the cupboards, Grace will come home later to find her house looking more immaculate than she has ever seen it.

  Her two references were glowing, both emailing nothing but wonderful things about Beth. ‘She is the best assistant we have ever had,’ wrote one. ‘She doesn’t know how to sit still,’ wrote the other. ‘She is happiest when she is busy and she will take care of everything in your life.’

  How lucky they are to have found her. The Mrs Doubtfire of the assistant world; a girl who doesn’t take no for an answer; a girl who lives to make other people’s lives easier.

  It is lunchtime and Grace is first to arrive at the Sidewalk Bistro. She is aware, as she so often is when she goes out, that there are times when she is recognized. A glance that is a little too long, a head bent towards a friend, two sets of eyes appraising her, wondering if that is Ted Chapman’s wife, watching her to report back to their friends.

  Grace has never welcomed this attention, has done nothing to deserve it. The three women at the corner table have clearly noticed her, clearly know who she is, and Grace just shoots them a warm, friendly smile as they awkwardly smile back, unable to continue criticizing in the face of such honest warmth.

  Sybil is always late, but Grace does not mind. She sits comfortably, nursing a glass of wine, quite happy to sit and people-watch, knowing that Sybil will burst in shortly, a flurry of activity and apology.

  She has known Sybil since they first moved here. It is the kind of friendship that can only be formed when your children are terribly young, when you complain all the time of having no time, but in fact you have more time than you know what to do with: you are able to organize playdates every day with other mothers, meet friends for coffee, socialize constantly, desperate for your kids to have something to do, desperate for you to have some adult conversation.

  Grace remembers the first time she saw Sybil. The playdate was held at someone else’s house and it was a beautiful day, early summer. Everyone had been there for a while, when there was a hustle and bustle at the garden gate. In came Sybil, barely five feet, almost as wide as she was tall, in a paisley Earth Mother dress, her long curly hair pulled back in a clip, her face beaming as she alternately covered her children with kisses, before composing her features into a smile for the other mothers as she apologized for her lateness.

  She was carrying a plastic bag filled with chocolate chip cookies she had made that morning, but the chocolate chips, she said, had melted in the car, so they were a bit messy, but delicious.

  She didn’t seem aware that some of the mothers recoiled when she dumped the bag on the grass, all the children descending like starving vultures. None of them had been remotely tempted by the carrot sticks and sliced apples the host had offered, and all were covered in melted chocolate within seconds.

  Sybil shrieked with apologetic laughter, but clearly didn’t care in the least. She either didn’t notice, or chose not to notice, the mothers desperately reaching into their bags for wet wipes, shaking their heads as they caught one another’s eyes, filled with disapproval.

  Grace knew, instantly, she had to be friends with this woman.

  ‘Come over and have tea,’ she said to Sybil when they were leaving, scribbling down her address. ‘Tomorrow? After preschool?’

  Sybil had come, late, with three small children in tow, each of them dirtier than the last. There was also a large shaggy dog in the car that Sybil had rescued two weeks prior. She let him out the car, grasping onto a lead as the dog gratefully pulled in every direction.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sybil said. ‘He’s a bit of a terror.’

  ‘He looks like he’d love a run around. Perhaps you should let him off the lead,’ Grace had said doubtfully. ‘It’s very hot.’

  Muttley had been let out and had proceeded to tear around the property, diving into the Hudson, attempting to catch the ducks. When he came out he shook himself off as Sybil bellowed his name, proffering handfuls of treats, before ignoring her completely to go tearing off in the other direction.

  ‘He’ll come back eventually,’ said Sybil.

  ‘Grace!’ Ted’s voice came bellowing through the garden as Grace jumped up, leaving Clemmie with Sybil.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Ted was standing, holding on to the collar of a wet but happy Muttley.

  ‘It belongs to a friend.’

  ‘Get the damned thing out of here,’ Ted said through gritted teeth. ‘It just barged into the barn and shook itself all over my damn manuscript pages.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace said, turning away so he wouldn’t see her smile, for there was something so funny about this large, shaggy dog with the ever-present smile on its face. It was so clearly the canine version of Sybil.

  ‘I did warn you,’ Sybil said. ‘Sorry. Shall I put him back in the car?’

  ‘Can’t we just hold him here on the lead?’

  ‘We can try,’ she said. Muttley got away five minutes later, heading straight back to the barn, which brought their playdate to an abrupt end, but they tried again two days later, this time without dogs, and their friendship was forged. It helped that Sybil found Ted’s rage over her dog funny. Most people were intimidated by Ted; it was refreshing to see someone who not only wasn’t frightened of his rage, but didn’t give a damn. Grace hoped she could learn how Sybil did it, how she was able to find Ted amusing rather than terrifying.

  Years later, when Ted was raging about something and Grace was confiding in Sybil, Sybil had shaken her head. ‘He’s just a big little boy in a bad mood,’ she said. ‘They’re all overgrown little boys who need a mother figure around to tell them to stop.’

  It’s all right for you, thought Grace. Your husband isn’t an internationally known bestselling author used to having the world bend over backwards for him. And yet, she saw the way Sybil was with Ted – fun, funny, natural, never sycophantic in the slightest. If Ted ever started talking about books, or writing, Sybil would start yawning and tell him she wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Which she wasn’t. And Ted, instead of being greatly offended, thought Sybil a riot. He adored her. She was the only one of Grace
’s friends that he truly had time for. She made him laugh and was guaranteed to put him in a good mood.

  Sybil had a husband, Michael, who decided he didn’t really want to be married or, at least, not to Sybil, and had left her a few years ago. Sybil was fuelled by hatred and a vicious, spitting fury for a little while, but then she came to realize that actually Michael was probably not a very good husband and, much to her surprise, she was much happier by herself, until she met Fred, who does seem to be her perfect match.

  Always an avid gardener, she now runs courses on organic gardening and is the one person Grace can always count on. She is warm, and safe, and Grace thinks of her as more sister than friend.

  Even if she is, still, always late.

  The door bursts open as Sybil bustles in, clutching a bag that is so oversized it is more of a suitcase. She has to manoeuvre her way through the tables, apologizing constantly for knocking into people with her bag, until she finally reaches Grace, leaning in to kiss her cheek before setting her bag down with a sigh and sitting down.

  ‘What the hell is in your bag?’ Grace starts to laugh. ‘The kitchen sink?’

  ‘Almost.’ Sybil hoists the bag onto her lap and starts rummaging through. ‘Magazine on gardening, couple of tools that probably shouldn’t be in there, wallet . . . God, what’s this?’ She pulls out a hairbrush, frowning before putting it back. ‘Flip-flops! There they are! I was wondering what on earth I’d done with them. And . . .’ She draws out a plastic container with a flourish. ‘These are for you.’

  ‘I can’t eat those.’ Grace feigns unhappiness. ‘You know once I start I’ll never stop.’

  ‘Exactly! Not that it ever shows. You’re the one who’s always telling me as long as it’s natural you can eat it. This is pure sugar, pure butter, and pure flour. I made them on a baking binge, but I can’t eat them.’

  ‘Uh-oh. What diet are you on now?’

  ‘No gluten, no sugar. Which thankfully doesn’t mean I don’t get to eat good stuff. I just don’t get to eat the good stuff I know how to cook, which is why I’m giving it to you.’

  ‘Not that I approve of any of your crazy diets, but why don’t you just cook things you’re able to eat?’

  ‘Thanks to Sandra, I don’t have to.’

  ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Sandra! You know! Blonde? Short hair? Married to the Greek guy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She’s started a business. Organic, all-natural sweet treats, sugar-free and gluten-free. She’s giving them to various people to sample to get feedback before she takes them to the stores.’

  ‘Lucky for you. And meanwhile, I get yummy cookies. These do look delicious.’ Grace pops the lid up, frowning as she reaches in and pulls out half a cookie. She raises an eyebrow at Sybil.

  ‘I only had half!’ says Sybil. ‘I couldn’t help it. I was starving. I’m back on the wagon tomorrow.’

  Grace starts to laugh, feeling a wave of love for her friend, who is always late, always disorganized, and always, always, starving.

  Grace orders the niçoise salad and an extra baguette for the table, i.e. Sybil; while Sybil has the warm goat’s cheese on toast, followed by mussels. And a side of fries to share – she looks at Grace for agreement and Grace smiles. Sybil will likely inhale the fries before Grace has a chance to touch them.

  ‘Make that two orders of fries.’ She smiles at the waiter. ‘With extra mayonnaise.’

  ‘It’s been ages!’ Sybil says when the waiter has gone. ‘I’ve missed you. Have you been busy being glamorous and important? I did read something in the Times about a magazine gala where you were honoured.’

  ‘That was ages ago!’ Grace says. ‘Honestly, we’ve been trying to get our lives back together since Ellen left. I’ve been a little overwhelmed. That’s why I’ve barely seen anyone. Between running my house and Harmont House, and looking after my husband . . .’

  ‘. . . Which is a full-time job if ever there was one.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t need to tell you what that’s like, but it’s all been a little much.’

  ‘Last time I spoke to you, there was someone you were trying out.’

  ‘We are now at the beginning of week three with Beth.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so far she may be the greatest thing since Mary Poppins.’

  ‘Really? Does Ted think so too?’

  ‘That’s the truly extraordinary thing. My husband, possibly the most difficult man in the whole world—’

  ‘—Unless you know how to handle him.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. The only person I’ve seen able to handle him, apart from Ellen, is you.’

  ‘And you, my dear.’

  Grace sighs. ‘I’m really not sure I handle him all that well. But this young girl, Beth, really does. He actually seems to respect her. He’s been completely calm and happy since she started. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard him shout once in the last two weeks.’

  ‘My God! Is that a record?’

  ‘I think it might be. But there’s nothing she’s not able to do. I was nervous about giving her the bills to pay – you just never quite know and I do hate giving new people that kind of access – but I just couldn’t do it myself. She not only took the bills and paid them, she also redid the whole filing system. Now you can actually see where everything is. And it’s logical! Beautifully labelled and alphabetized! I hate to say this, but it’s much more efficient than it ever was before.’

  ‘She sounds unbelievable.’

  ‘She is! She’s unbelievably efficient and organized – the house has never looked more spotless.’

  ‘She cleans too?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t clean, but wherever she goes she organizes. I came home last week and all the chair covers were missing. She said she noticed they all looked a bit grubby, so without asking she’d just removed them all and taken them to the dry cleaner’s. And she hauled all the pool furniture out from the back barn and cleaned it with teak cleaner. It’s ridiculous. I feel like I’ve died and woken up in some version of heaven.’

  Sybil fixes her gaze on Grace. ‘Is she married? How old is she? She’s not a big, busty blonde who’s going to steal your husband, is she?’

  Grace shakes her head. ‘I’m reticent to ask too much, I don’t want her to think I’m prying, but she’s thirty-eight, although honestly, she looks thirty-two, and she’s newly divorced. She didn’t say much about the ex-husband, just that it didn’t work out, and I quite like that. I would have felt so uncomfortable if she’d said awful things about him. It shows discretion, which is, as you know, so important to us. And her references were amazing.’

  ‘Have you had her sign a non-disclosure?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A confidentiality agreement. You must. At this point I am going to say awful things about my ex-husband, who is, as you know, a complete arse. However, I can also say something good about him, which is that he was a damned good lawyer, and he was big on the NDAs. If you’re in the public eye, anyone coming into your home has the potential to make money selling a story about what your life is really like. You’ve been remarkably blessed with Ellen, who would rather die than talk about you, but you have to get anyone new to sign one. Get on to your lawyer and have him send one over, then get her to sign it.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re right. It just feels a little uncomfortable.’

  ‘A whole lot more comfortable than opening the Enquirer and discovering your husband beats the dogs every night and has sex with the chickens.’

  ‘Ha! We really don’t have any secrets. There’s nothing about our lives that would be interesting for anyone, let alone the Enquirer.’

  ‘That may be true, but people can and do make things up all the time. Lord, Grace. For someone who’s married to such a well-known author, you can be shockingly naïve at times.’

  Grace extends a leg clad in old, worn-thin leggings, a pair of muddy Bogs on her feet. ‘Do I look like a famous writer’s wife
to you?’ She grins, pushing aside the thought that she may not be a famous writer’s wife for too much longer. The fame part continuing is questionable, given Ted’s terrible recent sales, a subject she cannot discuss with anyone, preferring to keep the illusion that Ted is still one of the biggest writers in the world.

  ‘Compared to this?’ Sybil extends her own stubbly leg, a Birkenstock on the end. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Grace says, changing the subject. ‘I’ve been thinking of doing something to widen the circle at Harmont House.’

  ‘What do you mean, “widen the circle”? Fund-raising?’

  ‘Ultimately, yes, but I hate bringing new people in and instantly hitting them up for money. I thought of doing something a little different. You know they have an abandoned yard in the back? I thought perhaps we could do an event. You could give a talk on vegetable gardens, maybe create a small garden, and show them how to be self-sufficient. I can cook, and maybe even get one of the local chefs to come in to do a cooking demonstration – that always seems to be a big hit. We could sell tickets, have an auction. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Where do the new people come from?’

  ‘That’s the point. Everyone I know is already involved. I was thinking if you gave a talk, perhaps your clients would come, plus people who don’t know you but would want to hear you speak.’

  ‘I’m not that well known!’ Sybil says.

  ‘Around here you are.’

  ‘I think it would need something else. How about we get one of the big local chefs to do a cooking demo with you? Something using ingredients pulled straight from your garden?’

  ‘That’s why you needed to get involved.’ Grace smiles. ‘See how clever that idea is? I would never have thought of that. Excuse me?’ She signals to the waiter, who comes straight over. ‘Is the chef in today?’ He nods. ‘Would you mind telling him Grace Chapman would love to say hello?’ He walks off to the kitchen as Grace winks at Sybil. ‘No time like the present.’ Sybil raises her glass in a toast.