by Kerri Maher
She drank another gin and tonic, and felt drunk.
Much as she wished to talk to someone, to pour out her heart and receive some comfort in return, whom could she possibly call? She couldn’t admit any of this. To anyone.
She called Marta and thought she kept the drink out of her voice just enough to say she was feeling sick, and could she cancel her calls and let the nanny take care of the children that evening? One more gin and tonic and she was asleep on the couch in her office.
When she woke, it was dark, though it was only nine in the evening. Mercifully, the children were asleep, and Rainier was away. After drinking a large glass of water and eating a chunk of baguette slathered with butter, she poured herself a glass of wine and took it outside. Without heading anywhere in particular, without even thinking about where her feet were taking her, she found herself in the gardens. But even the scent of the honeysuckle, the light breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees and bushes and climbing roses, did not soothe her. Instead, she tuned in to the distant sound of the Mediterranean rushing against the sand. Crash and retreat, crash and retreat.
She stopped walking at the same spot where she and Rainier had chatted seven years before, when for a moment she’d forgotten the Paris Match cameramen following them around, forgotten the ugly dress she’d had to wear, forgotten that she was anything other than a girl meeting an attractive, intriguing man on a spring day.
Leaning on the stone wall and dangling her wineglass over the edge, the wide, delicate bowl of it between her thumb and middle finger, Grace tried to remember what it had been like to be that girl. She’d just won an Academy Award; she was decorating a beautiful apartment in Manhattan; she was looking forward to meeting a clandestine lover later in the evening. But none of that mattered as much as what she didn’t have. What she had now. That girl hadn’t felt any freer than the woman she’d become.
Instinctively, she gripped the glass tight and reeled back her arm, spilling the liquid on her jeans and sweater. Then she hurled the glass as far as she could. She watched it disappear, engulfed by the shadows of the night.
A clink rang out when the glass hit a rock, followed by a tinkling shatter as it went to pieces somewhere below.
It wasn’t enough.
Doubling over, hands balled into fists, she howled into the night curses that were swallowed by the vortex of the water, until she was out of breath and discovered that she was on her knees, and they had been scraped and dented by the rough stones that formed the road.
Staggering back to the palace, she shut herself again in her room.
* * *
Grace didn’t emerge for days, except to play with Caroline for an hour or two every afternoon. She always made sure to bring a box of Kleenex as testament to the cold she claimed to be nursing. Her nose was certainly red and stuffy enough to convince anyone she was sick.
After about a week, during which Rainier left her almost totally to her own devices, except to ask, perfunctorily each evening either by phone or from the other side of their bed, “Is there anything I can do?”
Divorce me. Let me be free in a way that I can still see my children.
“No,” she replied.
One fresh and sunny morning, she woke and remembered something Fordie had said after her father died.
They love you, and you treat them like the prince and princess they are. Keep that up. That’s what’ll heal the hurt you’re feeling inside you now.
I hope you’re right, Fordie. I sincerely hope you’re right.
After a scalding shower, in which she scrubbed herself raw with a sponge and fragrant rose-scented soap, Grace dressed as she had not in weeks: a casual but pressed cotton dress, a sweater tied around her shoulders, jewelry, makeup, perfume. In the nursery, Caroline ran to her mother and flung her arms around her, and Grace felt gummy emotion clog her throat. She cleared it, knelt on the floor, and hugged her daughter in return.
“Mommy, you look so pretty! And no more Kleenex!”
Grace laughed and touched her daughter playfully on the nose. “You are a perceptive girl, Caroline. Yes, Mommy’s feeling much better.” This was a lie, but she knew the only way to feel the role, to be convincing, was to perform it. “Let’s pick Albie up from school,” she suggested.
Her five-year-old daughter’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “And then let’s get ice cream!”
Caroline whooped with delight and ran to get her favorite doll ready to bring with them. Grace told the head of Albie’s security entourage about her plan, and as the guard reached out to pick up the phone, presumably to okay this with Rainier, Grace stopped him by saying curtly, “I’m his mother. I can pick him up from school.” He nodded, and even though Grace was sure he’d call Rainier as soon as she left, it had felt so good to say it, so good to defy expectations.
The three of them had a perfect afternoon, complete with extra-large gelato cones and rolling up their pants and getting them wet anyway as they ran across the beach. Grace even enjoyed taking them to Rainier’s zoo to check on Albie’s favorite animals. The children challenged each other to races through the gardens, and Grace thought to herself how much her own father would have liked to see them doing that, just like the challenges he used to stoke between his own children. They were exhausted at bedtime, and she read them her own favorite bedtime books on Caroline’s bed—the two of them sat on either side of her, their heads heavy against her chest. She could smell their hair, the light fragrance of the baby shampoo, as well as the sun and salt that still clung to the strands. Their bodies were warm, soft, and relaxed.
Just as both of them were dropping off to sleep, Rainier popped his head in and Albie jumped up. “Papa!” And he ran to Rainier with a hug. Caroline followed.
Grace was left on the bed, bereft and resentful that their perfect little moment had been shattered.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said Rainier, though he beamed at the affection of his children.
Grace stood, her legs sore and her joints stiff from their raucous afternoon. Watching Caroline and Albie cling to their father, after everything she’d come to realize that day, made Grace’s heart feel heavy and bruised when all day it had felt light and full. “Time for bed,” she said, sounding more strict than she meant to, even a little annoyed. She didn’t want to act frustrated with her children. That was the whole point. But she was too tired to tend to that problem right now.
Eventually, she got them to sleep. Rainier was waiting for her in their bedroom.
“I heard you picked Albie up from school,” he said, his voice as neutral as it had been for weeks.
“Yes,” she said simply. “And I plan to do it more often.”
Rainier was silent.
She sat at her vanity and started taking off her earrings and rubbing cold cream onto her face.
Then he said, “How will you do that if you’re making movies?”
“I won’t be making movies,” she said flatly. “I’m going to back out of Marnie. I’ll send out a statement tomorrow.”
Rainier didn’t respond right away. She could see him in the mirror, behind her. His face was inscrutable. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry it worked out that way.”
“I know you are, darling,” she said, wiping the cream off her face with a tissue, along with the makeup and grime of the day.
Then she turned in her seat to face him. “But before I send the statement, I want to have a meeting with you about the children. And about Monaco. If I’m not going to use my talents in film, I need to use them elsewhere. And you need to listen to me.”
Her blood coursed through her like waves in the ocean—she could hear it in her ears. But she didn’t feel like she was drowning this time.
Her husband pressed his lips together, then said, “It’ll have to be early tomorrow. I have a busy day.”
“I’ll be up,” she replied.
The cold cream hadn’t been enough to make her feel clean, so she took a shower and felt better. In her nightgown, she padded barefoot down the hall and looked in on Caroline, then Albie. Both of them were fast asleep, breathing deeply, blissfully unaware of what had transpired between their parents.
Chapter 35
1964
Grace was amazed to discover that Rainier actually listened to her and even took her advice about a few things. She was most surprised to discover the respect he had for her opinions about Monaco and its future, and on her suggestion, he curbed the construction in order to preserve the principality’s natural beauty. And he was allowing her more freedom to pursue her own interests, without requiring his approval. She had already founded a charity called AMADE, or the Association Mondiale des Amis de l’Enfance, which touched the lives of children in need all over the world by providing medical care and education, and she was well on her way toward forming a local foundation for the arts that would focus on dance, and also the crafts of Monégasque artisans.
“I don’t need another father,” she’d told him before she officially turned Marnie down. “I don’t need supervision. If you have suggestions, please do me the favor of treating me at least as well as a colleague. Or assume I won’t take your advice.”
Curiously, this warning had made him leave her alone almost entirely. He didn’t get involved with AMADE or the foundation. Once in a while, he would tell her that he’d heard this or that compliment on her work, and she told herself to be content with that—and for a while, she was. As long as her work reflected positively on him, she learned, she was free to continue. And it was work she was learning to relish. It got her up every morning. It wasn’t the same as acting. But it filled her life with purpose, and for that, she was thankful.
The sticking point was still the children. He’d promised to let her have more time and influence with Albie, but now she could see that he’d told her this only to placate her. First, Rainier arranged special language lessons for their little boy in the afternoons, without consulting Grace, and the lessons limited the extra time with Albie she’d recently been enjoying with him and Caroline after school.
“I thought we agreed to discuss these matters first,” Grace said, unable to keep the ice out of her tone.
“He needs the lessons, Grace. And I’ll pick him up in the evenings,” he’d said dismissively, “since it’s close to my offices in Monte Carlo. We’ll be home for dinner.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t agree.”
Rainier sighed imperiously. “I don’t know what you remember, Grace, but I never agreed to let you call the shots about Albie.”
“You’re twisting my words,” she said. “I never asked for that. I asked that we discuss Albie.”
“You say discuss, but what you mean is that you want me to agree with you.”
She knew this wasn’t true. But she also knew that there was nothing—nothing—she could say to convince him.
“You cannot have everything you want,” he went on. “Anyone would say you have more than enough already, and that you’re lucky to have a husband who’s interested in helping to raise the children.”
“The children?” she couldn’t help but shriek. “You leave Caroline entirely to me, except to tell me all the things I’m doing wrong, and then spoil her rotten with sweets and dolls.” She’d pointed this out two years before, after Marnie, and for a short time, the situation had improved. He’d said, and she remembered this so clearly, “I know you’re right, Grace, and I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more present for Caroline, and for you with her.”
But now he said, so calmly, not even responding to Grace’s anger, “She’s my sweetest darling. Can you blame me for spoiling her? I can’t help myself, really.”
Grace opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. She wanted to throw heavy objects around the room, wanted to scream. But what good would it do? She laughed in that moment, thinking of the absurdity of awakening any man with tears, screams, slaps, or even by shining like a star. What man had ever shown an ability to change in that way? Certainly not her father. Not Oleg. And not her husband.
It was all a fiction.
Children really were the crux of it all, weren’t they? There was nothing like the love they gave, and the love she could give to them. She felt connected to Albie even as Rainier tried to keep him from her, and she felt their mother-son love so strongly whenever they were together. Despite Rainier’s hypocrisy about Caroline, Grace secretly enjoyed having their daughter to herself.
She hoped their next—and last—child would be a daughter for that very reason. She was pregnant again. For the third time in two years. The other two—well, she couldn’t think about the other two. In recent years, she’d become extremely good at locking unpleasant thoughts away; she couldn’t survive any other way.
Excited as she was about the prospect of another child, she felt deeply superstitious and had vowed not to say anything to anyone until the first trimester was complete. When it was, she felt healthy and energetic, and told Rainier one morning over coffee and rolls while the children watched a television program, “I have some wonderful news, Rainier. I’m pregnant again, and I feel certain this time it’s going to stick.”
He smiled indulgently, and she wondered if he would bestow one of his rare compliments, for that had been one of the things she’d asked for two years ago as well: “You dwell entirely on the negative. I need for you to be positive, about me and the children. I need you to say we’re doing well, to express your love and pride in us. You used to be able to do that so well.” And again, for a while, she’d been showered with compliments. But those, too, had dwindled. The last time he’d given her a piece of jewelry, she gave it back to him and said, “I’d rather have words.” He’d looked at her with sad eyes and said, “My beautiful darling, please don’t make me into someone I am not.”
Now, her big news hanging between them, she looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, hope burbling like a spring in her chest.
“I did wonder when you would tell me,” he said.
“You knew?” she asked, surprised.
“Of course, chérie. You always glow, but you’re even brighter when you are with child.”
His eyes lingered a little longer on her, and she felt their warmth sink into her skin.
Then he turned his eyes back to his paper, and Grace sat wishing for more until she told herself not to be selfish. Then she rose to find out what Albie and Caroline were up to. The television had been switched off, and the two of them were arguing over what game to play next.
“Mommy can decide!” Caroline said as soon as she glimpsed Grace in the doorway, clearly thinking this would give her an advantage. Remembering the way her own parents had played favorites with her and her siblings, Grace suggested a coin toss instead. Albie’s choice, Chutes and Ladders, won the day. Grace promised to play Caroline’s game next, and the three of them sat on the floor and played companionably for the next hour. It wasn’t the set of Hitchcock’s next film, but it was her best shot at reshaping her own life. She swore to devote herself to her children as she had to the stage and then the screen. Mother, wife, princess . . . they were all roles, even if she hadn’t fully digested the script when she accepted the part.
Putting a hand on her belly, she thought, Hang on in there. I promise to do everything I can to make you feel loved and seen. And protected. You’ll have the life I never could. I love you already.
Even though it was too early for such signs, Grace could have sworn she felt the little one swim around inside her in reply. She laughed to herself. Already, this one had perfect timing.
Chapter 36
1976
Poetry? At the Edinburgh Festival?” Grace hadn’t even realized there was such a thing.
“I just spoke to John Carroll,
who organizes all the literary events, and he would be thrilled if you agreed,” said Gwen. The words came down the telephone line like a prayer, but in Latin, like in the old days. Grace could hardly understand. Her? Read poetry on a stage in front of thousands of people?
“Peggy Ashcroft’s done it,” urged Gwen. “And Ralph Richardson.”
Poetry, Grace found herself thinking, virtually around the clock. Poetry was not film. It was literature. What was more respectable than poetry? And Peggy Ashcroft! Grace had adored her in so many things, most recently a television drama series from England doing marvelous work with Shakespeare, The War of the Roses, in which she’d played Queen Margaret.
Grace carried the secret of the poetry reading around like a loose diamond in a pocket, feeling the hard, sparkling promise of it in the soft folds of her mind. She opened her mouth to discuss it with Rainier many times, but always wound up changing the subject in her throat, before any words like poetry, theater, or festival could come out. No, she kept thinking to herself. Silence. Don’t ask.
She hadn’t asked for permission to go to the Academy thirty years ago. She’d applied, gotten in, then presented her acceptance to her parents as a fait accompli. Oh, they’d given permission at some point—and revoked it, memorably. But she was almost forty-seven years old now, for heaven’s sake! And this was poetry. Nothing risqué or untoward about it. Something Rainier would sleep through in any case—no doubt about that. And hadn’t she promised herself that she would give some thought to who she was now? She wasn’t Grace Kelly anymore, but she had the sense that that girl, that persona, was her calling card—much more so than Her Serene Highness, Grace de Monaco. It was Grace Kelly whom John Carroll wanted to read at Edinburgh.
Before she could think it through further, she was calling John Carroll and babbling yes and thank you and won’t it be marvelous, she loved poetry, just loved it, and she couldn’t wait to begin.
