Saving Grace, page 8
It had been a process, like a caterpillar entering the chrysalis and emerging as a butterfly. My time had finally come; I had completed my transformation, and I was ready for her. We agreed to meet at the beach, away from the distractions of other people.
I see her in the distance. Her butter-blonde hair and her signature effortless style – a leather jacket teamed with a short dress, black tights and ankle boots – are unmistakable. She treads cautiously down the weathered steps, holding the rusted rail for extra support.
‘It’s really you!’ she says as she approaches me.
My heart is caught up in my throat as her gaze travels down my body, over my dark jeans and carefully styled scarf before settling on my bare feet.
I hug my arms to my chest, protecting myself from the wind that has ramped up a notch and try to shield my nerves from pouring out of me, convinced she’ll be able to sense my unease, my feelings for her.
‘In the flesh,’ I reply.
She leans in for a hug, but I remain stone still. I take a second to take her in; her smell reminds me of a department store, when you walk in and take in the mix of expensive perfumes, new clothes, the tang of leather and money.
‘How have you been?’ she asks.
I wait a beat to find my voice. The voice I had practised.
‘Very well, thank you.’ I mentally berate myself for sounding like a pompous twat.
‘It’s so great to see you! All this time we’ve been texting, it’s nice that we have finally met up.’ Grace pauses for a moment. ‘But I know you’ve had so much to deal with.’
‘I’ve managed.’
‘You certainly have. You’re amazing, living on your own, making it all work. Even though my parents drive me up the wall, I’m not sure I’d be able to fly solo, not like you.’ She smiles. It’s warm and lights up her whole face. Her eyes are bluer than I remember.
We take a moment and look at one another before Grace breaks the silence.
‘Do you want to stay here or go get a tea… coffee?’
‘I don’t mind.’ Again, I scold myself, my limited vocabulary is jarring and not the person I want to portray. I’m being the old me – weak.
‘Actually, let’s stay here for a bit. There’s a bench over there and it’s been a while since I spent time at the beach. It’ll be nice to reconnect with you and the sea.’ There, that’s better. Confident. Decisive. Go me!
We walk in silence to the bench; the waves are starting to dance in a frantic rhythm. Grace folds her arms tightly around her slender frame as her shoulders hunch up to her ears and she pulls her knees up to her chest.
‘Bit chilly?’ I ask.
‘Just a bit, but I’ll be fine. I always have the heating on high in my car, so it’ll just take me a minute to get used to it.’
‘How’s life at the nursery?’
‘I’m enjoying it. I’ve started helping out at the florist’s in the centre too and I’m loving the creative process of it all.’ Grace reaches into her back pocket and takes out her phone. ‘These are some of the designs I’ve been working on.’
I take her phone from her hand and swipe through photos of seasonal blooms, wreaths with small artificial pumpkins, berries and pine cones with a mix of yellow and brown maple leaves.
‘Grace… these are exquisite.’
Her cheeks flush as she gently takes her phone back into her hands. ‘I love it. I think… no… I know this is what I want to do.’
‘Be a florist?’
‘I love growing the plants and tending to them, but there is so much more to floristry. It’s an art. And there are so many big occasions I’ll be a part of. Births, weddings, anniversaries.’
‘Funerals,’ I say, deadpan.
‘Yes… but giving flowers as a final farewell gift to a loved one is a beautiful thing. It’s a celebration of their life.’
I think back to Mum’s funeral and the few bunches of wilted supermarket flowers wrapped in cellophane I tossed on her grave.
‘So,’ Grace continues, her eyes wide with enthusiasm as she talks about her passion for flowers. ‘I’ve been offered an apprenticeship at Stalks.’
‘That’s great! I’m really happy for you.’ Somewhere deep inside my gut is a pang of something I can’t quite place… jealousy, maybe?
My days at the café are coming to an end. I can’t handle the endless piles of greasy plates and the stench of fried onions clinging to my clothes. But I have no other prospects. With my final results I can probably get a shitty admin job working minimum wage and spend my days making some fat bloke rich. With my earnings and when the benefits stop, I’ll barely have enough to get by and I’ll become one of them. A product of Grahame Warner Park locked within its miserable fortress of imprisoning walls.
I will myself to be better. Do better. Just like Grace.
‘Shall we go get that tea? And cake? I can’t ignore the cold anymore.’ Grace stands and takes my hand. It feels like an electric current is surging up my arm through my veins, and my heart begins to thud.
Thud thud thud…
I feel warmth spread over my skin; she wants to spend more time with me. She hasn’t called our meet-up to an end with a perfectly plausible excuse of the chilling winds and the rain that is starting to fall.
We cross the beach, and she loops her arm through mine. A triumphant symphony plays in my head, trumpets bellowing, tra-la-la-la.
The warmth of the café is inviting, the smell of freshly brewed coffee hitting us as soon as the bell chimes above the door. On the counter is a selection of home-made cakes in domed stands and delicious scones begging to be smothered in cream and a hefty dollop of strawberry jam. We take a table by the window, a thick mist engulfing the view of the sea and making the boats look like distant dark shapes out on the water. An older woman with a thick Cornish accent and a bright yellow apron with daisies printed all over it approaches us.
‘Shielding from the weather?’ She has a hearty laugh and tells us the specials. ‘Butternut squash soup. Made fresh this morning, perfect on a day like this, warms your insides right up.’
‘Actually, I think I’ll go straight for dessert.’ Grace looks up, her blue eyes sparkling, and there is some pink in her cheeks from the heating, which must be set to 100 degrees.
We talk for ages. Covering all kinds of topics and I am surprised I’ve been able to maintain a flow of conversation. We are from different walks of life, Grace and I. It’s either she is very down-to-earth or my desire not to be council scum has driven me far away mentally. Maybe it’s both.
I glance out the window and think about where we will go from here. Should I ask to see her again, or should I wait for her to ask? The conversation between us is coming to a natural halt, but it isn’t uncomfortable. I don’t feel the need to fill the silence. I can’t think back on a time I’ve felt so at ease. I haven’t ever been able to speak to anyone the way I have with Grace today, not anyone. I don’t know what it is about her, nor do I know why she seems to like me too, the odd one out.
The café owner comes over and asks if we’d like anything else. I politely decline and ask for the bill. It’s a bit of a risk, since neither of us has mentioned the next time we will meet up again, if at all. The thought of not seeing Grace again makes me feel off-balance, dizzy, and even a little ill. But I’ve made up my mind. I can’t just leave this up to her, I have to dive in and stop being such a fucking pussy.
My heart feels like it’s moved into my throat again. I try to find my voice, but I can barely swallow.
Is this how hard it is to ask somebody out, ask to see them again?
‘This has been so lovely. I know we’ve been texting, but you never know how things will be when you meet up, even if it is just with a potential friend and not a date.’ Grace runs her hand through her hair and laughs. ‘This has been so, so lovely and I am really pleased to see you looking so well. Absolutely gorgeous, I might add.’
Her words hang in the air and I pick them out, pick them apart: ‘Friend and not a date’, ‘Absolutely gorgeous, I might add’. What do I do with this? Where do we go from here? So we are just friends? Not a date. Gorgeous. I mentally dissect each word and try so very hard to smile. Does she not feel the same? My heart sinks into a pit. But I have to keep it together.
‘Are you okay? You look a little ill?’ Grace rests her hand on my forearm.
‘What? Oh, no. I’m fine. Just dozed off for a second!’ But she’s seen the disappointment on my face I couldn’t conceal.
‘Let’s do this again. My parents are away this weekend, so you should come over if you’re not busy. You can stay if you like. We can order a Chinese and watch a movie.’ There is that faint sound of the orchestra in my head again, but it isn’t quite as bold, not nearly as joyful.
‘That sounds great!’
I am already counting down the hours to the weekend.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I never go to Padstow, the people there look down on me, like I’m the piece that doesn’t fit the jigsaw. Here, the struggle is a long way off; gleaming Range Rovers and Jags choke the winding lanes and the shift of wealth moves up a hundred notches. But I’m here for Grace. It was supposed to be a night in, but she changed her mind and wanted to go out for a meal instead. At least it wasn’t a bar, where people chase shots – there is nothing fun about being sober and being around drunken idiots where everybody hugs one another or tries to jam their fucking tongue down your throat. But I’m invested in spending time with her, so I go with what she wants and wait patiently for her to arrive at the not-too-pretentious Italian restaurant. I bag my entertainment as I wait by watching a jealous girlfriend burn her beady eyes into her boyfriend’s back as he leans in too closely and chats up the waitress pouring a cocktail. The waitress has over-defined eyebrows and outlandishly false eyelashes; she simply oozes with too much unwarranted self-confidence. The girlfriend plays with her phone, scrolling with vacant, unseeing eyes. When the boyfriend finally comes back, she keeps her gaze fixed on her phone. He reaches for her hand, but she snatches it away. He really has no clue.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Grace says, breathless. It doesn’t matter that she’s late; she’s rushed, which means she cares.
‘Imogen broke up with her boyfriend. She was a bit upset and she’s never upset, so I felt I needed to be there.’
Imogen… fucking Imogen with her critical gaze and fucked-up posh voice. The very mention of her name gets my hackles up and I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I take a gulp of water, trying to wash her name out of my head, but Grace carries on.
‘I mean, it’s not the longest relationship she’s ever had, but I guess Ben got under her skin.’
‘That’s a shame.’ I sigh, hoping I don’t sound uncaring.
‘Well, this is what happens when you fall for a sociopathic player.’
Grace’s mobile vibrates on the table, a photo of Imogen and Grace with pouty lips lights up the screen and I want to pick up the butter knife and stab the phone. I imagine the cracked screen and jagged fragments of Imogen’s face. It feels satisfying.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace huffs. ‘She’s needy when she’s upset. I did say I was going out. I’ll just take this call quickly and I promise we can get on with our evening.’
‘It’s fine,’ I lie. I wonder if Imogen knows Grace is seeing me and that’s why she has suddenly succumbed to heartbreak. My insides churn. I scratch the underside of the table with my fingernails, all the while keeping a fake fucking smile on my face and waving Grace away while I whisper, ‘It’s no problem, not to worry,’ and point to the menu asking her if she wants me to order anything.
Grace leaves the table and I look back over at the couple and hear the guy say something about being oversensitive and that ‘possessiveness isn’t a good quality to have’. What a joke. I see how he’s twisting it, but she’s not backing down and tells him there’s a difference between possessiveness and loyalty. I kinda like her.
Finally, after what is a borderline rude amount of time to be away, Grace returns to the table.
‘So, so sorry.’
‘Is she okay?’ The words feel sticky in my mouth.
Grace grunts. ‘He’s a dick. He posted nudes of her on some site and is asking her for money to get them taken down. It just goes from bad to worse.’
I want to find this Ben and high-five him. People like Imogen think they own the world, that it revolves around them. It’s about fucking time somebody taught her a lesson.
‘May I take your order?’ the waiter asks.
‘I’m thinking of a cocktail.’ Grace eyes the menu and taps her red-polished fingertip on her chosen drink and motions to me to have the same.
I shake my head and tell her, ‘Not for me thanks, I’m on antibiotics.’ My excuse works a treat and Grace tells the waiter we’ll need a little longer to decide on food.
‘I’m starving and everything looks so good. What are you going to have?’ Grace stares at me. I mean I’ve had plenty of time to settle on my order, with all the Imogen drama saturating my time. But I was so pissed, I didn’t bother looking at the menu.
The phone buzzes again.
She takes a deep breath. ‘I am just going to let it go to voicemail.’
But I can tell she is waiting for me to give her my blessing: Go on… answer it… she’s your friend… she needs you.
Finally, the phone stops and soon it lights up with one missed call. She looks at me, gives me a weak smile and shifts uncomfortably, and I can’t push away the wave of annoyance. This is my night, not Imogen’s. So she whored in front of the camera and now the vengeful party-boy ex is taking advantage of it. Maybe if she were smart, she could pull a Kim Kardashian and make it work to her advantage. But Imogen, as much as Imogen might think, is just not that special.
The waiter returns and places a coupe glass with an illuminous cocktail cherry to garnish. It looks like a sophisticated drink sitting on the rustic wooden table, the tea light flickering against the glass making it look seductive and mysterious.
‘Actually…’ I say, ‘I want what she has.’
If there is going to be anything to exorcise Imogen out of this night, it will be alcohol.
Grace puts her hand on my arm. ‘You can’t. You’re on antibiotics, remember?’
I gently pull my arm away and stroke her fingertips. ‘One won’t hurt.’
And that’s how the night started.
The moon casts a diluted glow over the water. There’s a breeze with a slight chill to it making us both shiver. I pull my jacket tighter, my shoulders hunched towards my ears. There’s silence between us, a comfortable silence, like a spell has been cast and we’re just two souls intertwined and happy in each other’s presence. It’s enough. The sea sprays against the jagged dark rocks, and for a split second I can hear a whisper; ‘I’m here.’ It’s ghostly and faint. I shake my head, tell myself I’ve had too much to drink but it was only a couple of miles from here that the sea swallowed her to the depths of her burial ground. Then, in the distance, a light flickers.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Grace says.
I don’t want to ruin this moment between us. It’s the booze, this is why I don’t like to drink because I lose control of my mind and that’s not a good thing for me. I have to be in control one hundred per cent of the time or else it leads to stupid hallucinations like this one. When I was little, before it all happened, I always had this feeling that I was being watched, a looming feeling of dread. Of course, I never saw anything, but I wondered if it was a premonition of what was to come. Perhaps the watchful feeling wasn’t there to hurt me but to warn me.
‘I think it’s just the fresh air hitting me. The restaurant was boiling, we had a lot to drink. Perhaps I’m just sobering up a little.’
Grace laughs. ‘I’m far from sober. I’ve not drank that much since my last school dance, but then I felt worse because it was vodka, and vodka and I, let me tell you, do not mix.’
The wind is starting to pick up. Grace cuddles into me, and my thoughts of ghostly voices drift away as I close my arm around her small frame like a protective shield buffering her body from the sting of the salty air. Her body melts into mine, I’m not sure where I start and she finishes. My feet are bare, but I no longer notice the cold sand.
‘We should go, but I love being here,’ Grace murmurs. Her voice is dozy and relaxed, as if it’s drenched with sleep. I could listen to that version of her all day every day. It’s mesmerising, like that of a snake charmer. I’m the snake, helpless at her command, dancing to the rhythm of her plush tone.
‘Have you heard that the best way to warm up is to go into freezing water?’ Grace says, her eyes glinting. ‘Fancy a swim?’
I wait for her to start laughing and tell me she’s joking, but she pulls away from me and tugs my jacket while she unzips her jeans and pulls them off, revealing her long milky-white legs. She’s wearing a lace thong, and even in the darkness I can see her skin is dotted with goose pimples.
‘Sounds like the best way to get hyperthermia. I’m not going in that water.’
Grace strips to her underwear, her body slender and soft. I’m taken in by her beauty and the way the moonlight shines on her pale skin, making her look otherworldly. She walks away from me in the clear direction of the sea. I wait for her toes to meet the water and for her to run back into my arms, but she keeps moving forward until the water meets her waist and she pushes off, submerging her entire body into the sea. I run to the shore, fearful of her drowning, but her head bobs up and her smile is euphoric.
‘Get in.’
Hesitantly, I begin taking my clothes off, every blast of wind stealing my confidence to carry on, but I resist. I feel nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before, I’ve never let myself be seen and my relationship with my body is just a functional one, not sexual. Sex is something that represents pain, advantage, and shame. I always cover up, even in the blistering hot summers. Winter is my favourite season for that very reason, but it’s Grace, and she wants me to be with her. I want to lose my inhibitions, allow myself to just live. I’m down to my underwear and try not to focus on the cold biting my exposed skin. I work to steady my breath as my heart thuds in my chest. Finally, I allow my body to be swallowed by the bitterness of the sea. My skin feels like it’s been stung with tiny needles, but it isn’t unpleasant. It’s a painful pleasure and the further I move into the water and kick my legs, the more pleasure I feel.
