Saving Grace

by Jane Green

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs. Chapman, but that’s impossible. Our warehouse is in New Jersey and there’s no way we can get you anything today I’m sorry.’

  ‘But . . . how did this happen? I filled out the form myself. This isn’t my mistake.’

  Deeply apologetic, the woman at the party hire company taps a few buttons on the computer. ‘It looks like the date was changed on the fourteenth. By phone.’

  ‘No!’ Grace insists, on the verge of tears. ‘I didn’t call. The date was never changed. Oh God. What the hell am I supposed to do?’

  ‘What?’ Sybil just stares at her as the horror dawns. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Grace is almost babbling. ‘But what the hell are we supposed to do? We have a hundred and twenty people who have paid a fortune for a sit-down lunch and there’s nowhere to sit down, no tables, no plates, no cutlery.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ Sybil moans, burying her face in her hands. ‘Maybe we can bring the dining table into the garden and use it as a buffet and people can stand.’

  ‘What about plates?’ Grace says. ‘Napkins?’

  ‘Paper and plastic. Not very elegant, but what else can you do? Maybe we can get hold of those nice square plastic plates. At least those are a bit nicer. Where’s Beth. Let’s send her. She’s resourceful.’

  ‘Beth!’ Beth turns at the sound of her name and walks over as Grace watches her, frowning.

  ‘Beth? There’s been a major screw-up with the party hire. They have the wrong date. They thought it was next week.’ Grace’s voice is quivering with shock.

  ‘What?’ Beth looks shocked. ‘But I confirmed by email on the thirteenth and confirmed the date.’

  ‘You never telephoned?’

  ‘No! Why would I telephone? I can forward you the original email if you’d like to see it.’

  ‘Never mind. What matters now is trying to salvage this mess. We’ll stay here and move what tables we can outside, but you need to find plates, flatware, and glasses. If we have to do paper we will, but please try and find something more elegant. I can’t believe how much we charged for the tickets and we’re having people stand around eating with plastic knives and forks . . .’ Grace groans at the thought.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Beth lays a hand on her arm. ‘I’ll go now and see what I can find.’

  The event was not the elegant affair Grace had imagined. The few guests who decided to stay were left standing in the burning hot sun, their heels sinking into the grass, for three hours. They ate their fig and camembert tarts and poached salmon with sweet pepper confit off X-Men paper plates, with Pinkalicious napkins, drank their Prosecco and peach nectar drinks out of oversize red plastic cups.

  There were, according to Beth, no white paper plates or napkins. The only things available given the time constraints were these children’s plates. Grace has no idea how this is possible – did everyone in the entire Palisades/New Jersey area suddenly decide to have a party today and buy all the white paper goods? But she has no time to question. It was a disaster in her eyes the minute she knew the hired equipment wasn’t going to turn up. The fact that they are eating off Wolverine’s face doesn’t make it any worse, only more ridiculous.

  Grace Chapman, known for her elegant, stylish parties, her gatherings always the most sought after in town, is today a laughingstock. The New York Times is here, covering the event, which had thrilled Grace – the more attention for Harmont House the better – but she knows full well the story will now focus on the terrible aspects of the event, rather than the importance of the cause.

  There was a mass exodus after the cooking demonstration. Standing on grass in heels was just too uncomfortable, and they were expected to eat standing too? Well. It was far more comfortable to run to one of the little restaurants nearby. They had already paid, had done their bit, and anyway, who would ever notice?

  Had one or two left, no one would have known, but almost half the people snuck out of the event, leaving sixty-seven good sports who happily bid on the silent auction, but still didn’t manage to raise anything near the amount they’d all anticipated.

  Grace has been fighting tears all day. Throughout the event she has forced a smile, despite the mortification threatening to undo her. She cannot believe how disastrous an event it is; cannot believe how badly it has gone wrong, how humiliated she is.

  Her reputation as a hostess is now something of a joke. Not that it should matter. At the end of the party, she walked past two women she knows vaguely from town and overheard them whispering about how awful it was, how Grace should be ashamed of herself, charging a hundred and fifty dollars a ticket to stand in the sun and eat oily salmon off children’s paper plates.

  As the event finishes, Grace takes some chairs back into the living room, hoping she might be able to stay there, won’t have to go out and face anyone any longer, for her pretence at laughing it off is now almost impossible to maintain and she is on the brink of tears.

  ‘Grace? Are you all right?’ She looks up to see Clarissa Moore, a tall, elegant blonde in the doorway, concern etched on her face.

  ‘Clarissa! So good to see you!’ Grace forces a smile as she turns to a woman she had become friendly with after meeting her on holiday Ted approved of the Moores, which was rare, and they had driven over to Westport a few times to have dinner or brunch at the Aspetuck Country Club. ‘How lovely to see you! It’s been far too long. How’s Mike? And that delicious little Maggie?’

  ‘They’re all great,’ Clarissa says. ‘And I’m so pleased I came, although sorry so many people left. They missed out. The food was delicious and I loved the cooking demonstration.’

  Grace sighs, knowing Clarissa is trying to make her feel better. ‘You didn’t mind eating off X-Men plates?’

  ‘I think mine was actually Despicable Me.’ Clarissa laughs. ‘Minions. It was sweet – I wish Maggie was here, she would have loved it! In the grand scheme of things, this really wasn’t so bad. So we didn’t get to sit down and we ate off children’s plates. So what? The point of it all is that it’s for a good cause. The rest is just details.’ She takes Grace’s hands. ‘Trust me, when you’ve battled breast cancer, these are the last things you worry about.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Grace is shocked into putting it in perspective, if only temporarily. ‘Of course you’re right. This is totally irrelevant. I’m going to just forget all about it.’

  ‘Good girl. And let’s get together soon. We’re back to Sandy Lane this year, and it would be so great if we were there at the same time again.’

  ‘Let’s definitely talk!’ Grace says, and the smile remains on her face until Clarissa has left the room, after which Grace buries her head in her hands.

  She can’t speak to anyone. She doesn’t find Sybil to tell her she’s leaving, just slips out and drives home, pulling onto the side of the road on the way in order for her tears of shame and mortification to fall.

  Sybil phones the next day. And the next. Grace doesn’t talk to anyone. Her mortification threatens to overwhelm her. She doesn’t want to see anyone, knows how her neighbours love a touch of Schadenfreude – who doesn’t? – knows that she will be the talk of the town.

  For a week she sees no one, speaks to no one, returns no calls. She can barely speak, the weight of depression forcing her shoulders down. Is this how my mother felt? she wonders, as she so often does during times in her life when things are not going so well. Am I going to end up like her? Is this how it starts? Not sleeping. Depression. Obsession. For all she can think about is the disaster of the party.

  When Sybil shows up, a week later, Grace is in her pyjamas at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  ‘Enough,’ Sybil says, putting the kettle on. ‘It wasn’t what we hoped for, but you need to pull yourself together. It’s done. So, big deal, it’s giving everyone something to talk about today, but trust me, it will be replaced by something else soon . . . Tell me again, Grace,’ Sybil continues, her voice flat, clearly as upset as Grace. �
�How did this happen? How did they get the date wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grace says. ‘It’s clearly their mistake. Both Beth and I confirmed in writing. The woman said someone phoned to change the date, but that’s just not possible.’

  What Grace doesn’t say is that the woman at the party hire business said that Grace herself had phoned to announce the changing of the date. The day after the last email confirmation of the original date. She was definite. Grace had phoned and changed the date.

  But I can’t have done, thinks Grace. There have been many times recently when she has worried she is going mad – things she forgets, confusion, showing up to things on the wrong day – but this is not something she would have forgotten and, more to the point, this isn’t something she would have done. It makes no sense. Why on earth would she do that? This is absolutely the hire company’s mistake. Not that it matters now. The mistake was made and they have paid the price.

  Yet seeds of doubt creep in. Her memory has been suffering of late. Even though she knows she would not have made this call – there would have been no reason ever to make this call – there are plenty of recent examples of how her memory has failed her.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to me either. But we have to move on, Grace. I promise you people have started forgetting about it already. You need to pull yourself together and get dressed. Did you have lunch?’

  Grace, who has barely eaten anything for the past week, shakes her head.

  ‘Get dressed. Let’s go into town and grab something to eat.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Grace says. ‘Please, Sybil. I just don’t feel ready to see anyone.’

  ‘Because they had to stand for a couple of hours and eat off paper plates? Please! Everyone understands that these things happen. It really isn’t nearly as big a deal as you think, and my God, Grace, it isn’t even your fault. I have no idea why they think someone phoned, but clearly they are mistaken. Let’s just put it behind us. I’ve seen a ton of people this week and everyone has been incredibly sympathetic. Hiding away at home just makes this whole thing bigger than it has to be. The quicker you get out and about, the better.’

  ‘I’m just so tired.’ Grace slumps at the kitchen table. ‘I haven’t been sleeping, and I really don’t feel up to going out.’

  Sybil stares at her friend, worried. ‘Grace? Is there something more going on? Because one bad party should not floor you in this way. Is everything okay? Everything with you and Ted okay?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Grace says, although her voice is flat.

  ‘You just seem depressed. Is it possible that this is unrelated to the event? That you may be suffering from a slight depression?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Grace snaps, a little too shrilly. ‘Just a bit down. Not depressed. That’s too extreme. I just have . . . the blues. It will pass. I get this from time to time. Nothing to worry about. Usually I just cloister myself away for a bit until it passes. It doesn’t last long.’

  ‘I’m just worried about you.’ Sybil reaches out a hand and squeezes Grace’s. ‘This isn’t like you.’

  ‘There is something else that’s bothering me.’ Grace frowns, looking up at Sybil. ‘Something about Beth. I know this may sound silly, but I gave her a load of clothes the other day, the ones she was wearing at the party.’

  ‘They looked great on her.’

  ‘I know. But this has been bothering me ever since then. I don’t remember getting rid of the scarf she was wearing.’

  ‘It was definitely yours?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Ted bought it for me for my birthday four years ago and it’s my favourite scarf. My memory may be bad, but there’s no way I would have got rid of that scarf. That scarf would have been hanging on the rack at the other end of the wardrobe. What was Beth doing with the scarf around her neck?’

  ‘So what’s the big deal?’ says Sybil. ‘Ask her.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t want to rock the boat, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that there is something amiss. I love that scarf. And I don’t want to even consider the possibility that Beth may have . . . well. You know.’ She can’t even bring herself to use the word ‘stole.’ ‘But I can’t think of another explanation.’

  ‘Is she here now?’

  ‘In the barn.’

  ‘Get dressed, then go out and ask her. I’m going to make a move anyway, I have some errands in town I need to do, and if you’re not going to join me for lunch, I’ll leave and get started. Good luck. Let me know what happens.’

  ‘Beth? Can I have a word?’ Grace pushes open the door to Beth’s office, grateful that she can hear Ted tapping on his computer, Bach emanating from his room at the other end of the barn. This is a private conversation; she is glad he won’t be able to hear.

  ‘Beth, there’s something that I need to talk to you about. The clothes I gave you, the outfit you wore the other day to the event—’

  ‘Thank you again!’ Beth’s face is so open and grateful, Grace hesitates, reconsidering, wondering if she is going mad. ‘I love everything!’

  Surely, if Beth was guilty, something in her face would have given it away, thinks Grace, but she cannot stop now.

  ‘You had a scarf around your neck that Ted gave me for my birthday four years ago. That scarf wasn’t on the pile of things I was giving away.’ Grace keeps her voice even. ‘That’s one of my favourite scarves. I would not get rid of that scarf.’

  Beth’s eyes widen in shock. ‘Oh my God! Grace! I’m so sorry! It wasn’t on the pile, but it was on the floor and I thought . . . Oh God. This is completely my mistake. I thought it had dropped out of the pile. Grace, I am so sorry. This was all my fault. I just presumed . . .’ She shakes her head, quietly berating herself.

  ‘I know better,’ she mutters as if to herself. ‘I know I always get into trouble when I presume. I’m so sorry.’ She looks at Grace. ‘I almost asked you. I almost asked you if you were sure about the scarf, but I didn’t, and now you must think I stole it . . .’

  ‘No,’ Grace says, flooded with relief. ‘I just knew there was some kind of mix-up, and I figured it must have somehow got into the pile by mistake. I thought maybe the cleaners put it there.’

  ‘No,’ Beth says. ‘It was entirely my fault. I promise you from now on I will not make presumptions. I will check with you before doing anything.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Grace smiles. ‘It was an honest mistake. I’m glad I said something. I just couldn’t remember what I’d done, but I love the scarf, and I just couldn’t figure out why I’d give it away.’

  ‘You didn’t! I’ll bring it back tomorrow!’ Beth says as they both laugh, that unsettling feeling now a mere shadow of what it was. Not gone, not entirely, but Grace knows that has everything to do with feeling low, which is probably everything to do with her hormones and nothing to do with Beth.

  But mostly she is grateful she isn’t going crazy. She has been forgetting so many things recently, has been so absentminded, it was entirely possible that she had given away her favourite scarf. Thank God I’m not going crazy, is the only thing that keeps running through her mind.

  FIG AND CAMEMBERT TARTS

  (Serves 8)

  INGREDIENTS

  For the pastry

  125g plain flour

  110g butter

  1 teaspoon salt

  120ml ice-cold water

  For the filling

  230g double cream

  2 sprigs thyme

  1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

  2 whole camembert cheeses, broken into pieces

  4 egg yolks

  1 egg

  4 ripe figs, halved

  Salt and pepper for seasoning

  For the dressing

  125ml extra virgin olive oil

  1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

  Juice of ½ lemon

  1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

  30g chopped hazelnuts

  Large bunch of flat-leaf parsley, chopped

  Salt and pepper
for seasoning

  Preheat oven to 180°C/gas mark 4.

  Dice butter and add to a food processor with flour and salt. Pulse gently until it is like damp sand. Very slowly pour the ice water in. You probably won’t use the entire amount – you want just enough to bring the dough together. Remove dough, cover in cling film, and place in fridge for half an hour.

  Grease a 9-inch tart pan with removable base. Lay pastry on top gently, press into all corners, trim off excess. Prick base all over with a fork. Chill in fridge while making filling.

  Gently heat the cream on the hob with the thyme, Dijon mustard, salt and pepper. Drop camembert pieces into cream. Remove from heat while cheese melts.

  Blind bake the pastry crust by lining it with greaseproof paper, pouring in either dry beans or rice, and cooking in oven for 8–10 minutes.

  When just below boiling point, break up the camembert using your fingers and drop it into the cream. Turn off the heat and allow the cheese to melt.

  While the tart is blind baking, add the egg yolks and add the whole egg to a bowl and slowly pour the cream mixture over them, stirring all the time so as not to cook the eggs with the hot liquid. Season well with salt and plenty of black pepper.

  Turn the oven down to 170°C/gas mark 3. Pour the mixture into the pastry case and place the 8 fig halves cut side up. Make sure this is done in a way that when the tart is sliced, each portion has its own fig.

  Place the pastry case back into the oven and cook for 20–25 minutes, or until the mixture has set.

  Once cooked, leave to cool for about half an hour before slicing and serving with the dressing.

  Prepare the dressing while the tart is cooking. Chop the hazelnuts and the parsley. Combine in a bowl with the Dijon mustard, lemon juice and red wine vinegar. Season with salt and pepper before slowly adding in the olive oil, mixing all the time until smooth, then drizzle over tart.

  Fourteen

  ‘Clemmie! What are you doing here?’ Grace is pulling a dish out of the oven – pork and lemon patties – as Clemmie bursts into the kitchen. She sets it down on the stove and gathers her daughter in her arms. ‘Especially,’ she steps back and frowns, ‘at four o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. Shouldn’t you be at work?’