A Night In With Grace Kelly

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘That was rather my point. Still, perhaps you’re just a salutary warning of what might happen to me if I let myself go.’ She has a business-like air as she gets up from the Chesterfield and begins to pace up and down. ‘Now, talking of salutary warnings,’ she goes on, swishing the train of her wedding dress as she turns back on herself, ‘the last conversation we had, you were telling me all about some fellow named … Joe, was it? John?’

  ‘Joel.’

  ‘That’s right, Joel. Let’s continue to call him that, shall we? Rather than … well, Rainier, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, look, he didn’t represent Rainier, I promise you. And it hardly matters, anyway, because he’s not in the picture any more.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not in the picture?’

  ‘Just that. I’m not going to see him again. He lied to me, you see, about being a billionaire, and—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Her mid-Atlantic voice is imperious. ‘He told you he was a billionaire, and he wasn’t?’

  ‘No, he told me he wasn’t a billionaire, and he was. Or rather, to be more accurate, he didn’t tell me he was a billionaire. It’s not like he—’

  ‘You’re making absolutely no sense.’ Now she sounds really cross. ‘Why on earth would any girl in their right mind turn down a billionaire?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ I sound rather cross myself, although I’m much less good at it than she is. I just sound petulant and grumpy rather than regally wrathful. ‘That’s the worst reason in the world to be with someone!’

  ‘Is it?’ she demands. ‘Don’t you think it’s just as easy to fall in love with a billionaire as it is to fall in love with a man who doesn’t have two cents to rub together?’

  ‘It’s not about whether or not he’s a billionaire! It’s about the fact that he lied.’

  ‘So?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Men lie, darling. That’s not enough to turn down a fellow if he has all kinds of other things going for him. Is he handsome? Funny? Kind?’

  ‘Well, yes, OK, he is …’

  ‘Lord above, then don’t cut off your nose to spite your face! Snap him up! Tie him down! It’s exactly what I did with the prince! I wasn’t about to let some other girl come swanning along and nab him, not when I was in with a chance … Didn’t I say exactly this to you earlier? That life is for doers?’

  ‘Yes, you did. But I’m not cutting off my nose to spite my face. I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life than be with someone I couldn’t trust wholeheartedly.’

  ‘Oh, pish!’ Grace whirls around, snapping the train of the dress behind her this time. She seems rather feverish, I have to say, perhaps because she thinks there’s a ticking clock on our encounters, and that any minute now I’m going to vanish with the dawn and never communicate to her whatever messages she thinks I’m filtering from her subconscious. ‘You’re only saying that because you’re still mooning over your other fellow. The one you really wanted to be with, before Fate … what did you say? Screwed it up for you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ I’m suddenly feeling rather desperate, which is probably why I blurt out, ‘I mean, I know you’re impeccably clear-eyed and unsentimental about love, Grace—’

  ‘Miss Kelly.’

  ‘Miss Kelly … I know you’re perfectly happy thinking of romance as some sort of business transaction, but not everyone can do that quite like you can.’

  ‘Well, now! That’s not entirely fair!’ She glares at me. ‘I’ve never said I think of romance as a business transaction. I’ve just said that I don’t believe in leaving something as important as love in the hands of Fate. Frankly, I can’t believe anyone ever does anything so foolish. Fate is fickle, and cruel, and stupid. If I’d just blindly accepted what Fate had in store for me, I’d still be scrawny little Gracie from Philadelphia, least successful of my vastly accomplished siblings and destined for a lifetime of disappointing my mother and father. If anyone’s an advertisement for making their own luck, it’s me. Now, are we going to agree that you’re doing the right thing by getting involved with this billionaire, or not?’

  ‘No! I’m not involved with him. I’m not going to be. And this isn’t about you, justifying your choice to marry the prince! This is my life, OK?’ Now that she’s letting me get more than two words in edgeways, I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. ‘I’m not some cipher for all your own hopes and dreams. Which, by the way, I don’t know if you’re all that great an advocate for in the first place. I mean, for someone who’s so sure they’re doing the right thing by marrying their prince tomorrow, you’ve certainly spent a hell of a lot of time talking about the ones that got away!’

  She looks, quite suddenly, as if I’ve just punched her rather hard in the stomach.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I … shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t.’ There’s another of her rather beady-eyed stares, and then she seems to give up. She folds, somehow, in the middle, and ends up sitting back down on the Chesterfield. ‘Golly,’ she says, in a rather small voice, ‘but I’m exhausted.’

  ‘I know.’ I go closer, think about sitting down right next to her, and then think again. She might seem suddenly vulnerable, but she’s still Grace Kelly, after all. I pick a spot a respectful distance along the sofa, and sit down there instead. ‘I can only imagine.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She remains silent for a moment, then she goes on. ‘If it does seem as though I can’t stop talking about … well, certain people from my past, it’s only because you’re the only person I can speak to about it.’ She lets out a rather brittle laugh. ‘Absurd, isn’t it? That this is what it’s come to. Only being able to have an honest conversation with the dream-girl inside my head.’

  ‘I wouldn’t feel too badly about that,’ I say. ‘I’ve had some of the best conversations of my life with people who aren’t really there.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, although she isn’t really paying attention. Her bright blue eyes are rather misty, and she looks just as exhausted as she says she feels. ‘Of course I think about the men I’ve loved before,’ she goes on, more to herself than to me. ‘Tonight, more than ever. But if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that moving on is the right thing to do. Why waste a single moment crying over a doomed love affair when the chance to forge a lasting one is staring you in the face?’

  There’s a sudden sharp knock at the front door downstairs.

  And just like that, Grace Kelly vanishes.

  I stay sitting on the Chesterfield, rather dazed, for a moment.

  Then the knocking starts again, so I get to my feet to go and answer it.

  ‘Libby?’ I can hear, even as I approach the door, that it’s Cass on the other side. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s freezing out here!’

  I open the door. ‘Cass, hi, it’s … not really a great time.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I probably should have called. But honestly, Lib, I was just so relieved to get out of there in one piece! Oh, do you have a couple of quid for the Uber guy,’ she goes on, gesturing over her shoulder to where a man is hauling suitcases out of a slightly ropey-looking Prius just along the street. ‘He’s been such a sweetheart, fitting all my cases into his car and being a shoulder to cry on … I mean, this is the kind of situation that makes you so reassured about people’s basic kindness. Plus, he’s Romanian and so he’s got nothing good to say about Bulgarians, trust me. Isn’t that right, Corneliu?’ she adds.

  ‘Is right,’ Corneliu the random Uber guy agrees, as he struggles along to the front door with a case in either hand and a huge holdall slung over each shoulder. ‘She is lucky to be escaping from this man with life.’

  I’m still too dazed by my encounter with Grace to do anything more than hand Corneliu a couple of quid I dredge up from my hoodie pocket, and then hoick Cass’s bags through the door myself so that they don’t stay there blocking the pavement outside and enraging the Willington-Joneses … It’s only when the door shuts behind us, and I watch Cass heading up the st
airs ahead of me, that I can form a coherent enough thought to ask a question.

  ‘Sorry, Cass … what are you doing here? With all your bags?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious, Libby? I’m escaping! Fleeing while my sanity and self-respect are still intact! While there’s still just a little something left,’ she pauses, dramatically, ‘of me.’

  ‘Wait: you’ve left Zoltan?’

  ‘I have!’

  ‘In your flat?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her forehead creases, just for a moment, as she realizes the folly of what she’s just done. ‘But,’ she goes on, recovering fast, ‘that’s just the thing. After all that time feeling so beaten down about everything, I didn’t even know it was my flat any more. And they’ve taken over the place, Libby. It doesn’t feel like home any more.’

  ‘Right … er … and so you’ve turned up here with your luggage because …?’

  ‘Because I’m coming to stay with you!’

  I stare at her. ‘Cass, you have to be joking.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you know I have to move out, right? And that I currently don’t really have anywhere else lined up to move to? I mean, I’m just going to bunk down at Dillon’s for a couple of weeks, until—’

  ‘But what about Joel Perreira?’

  ‘What about Joel Perreira?’

  ‘Well, he won’t want you out on the street, will he? I mean, how would that look, if the Daily Mail got hold of it? A billionaire’s girlfriend, homeless?’

  ‘I’m not his girlfriend.’

  ‘All right, all right, maybe not yet, but if you go on another couple of dates … and I don’t know if you’ve had sex with him or not, Lib, but if you haven’t, that might be a good way to really seal the deal—’

  ‘Didn’t you listen to me the other day?’ I ask, pointlessly, because, let’s face it, when did Cass last listen to me about anything at all? ‘I’m not going out with him again. I’ve broken it off.’

  ‘Libby Rose Lomax!’

  ‘My middle name isn’t—’

  ‘Of all the stupid, selfish—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to know you were going to walk out on your boyfriend and need somewhere to live?’

  She glares at me. ‘I actually really need you to be supportive right now. I’ve just escaped a very abusive situation …’

  ‘Cass. Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t abusive.’

  ‘I was in fear for my shoe collection! How much more,’ she gasps, ‘do you think I should have been willing to take? I mean, shoes is where it starts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes! One day, they’re getting snot on your new strappy Kurt Geiger sandals, and the next thing you know, you’re scared to go to sleep every night in case they come into your room and attack you while you’re lying there … it’s called escalation, Libby. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.’

  We’re not getting anywhere.

  ‘OK,’ I say, ‘but Cass, honestly, you can’t stay with me. I’m looking for a place to live myself. Possibly even Stevenage.’

  ‘Where the fuck is Stevenage?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ I can hear myself snap, so I take a deep, calming breath. ‘Look, you can stay the night, obviously, seeing as I’m still here, but after that, you’re really going to have to find somewhere else to live. Or, alternatively, seeing as it’s your name on the lease at your flat, get Zoltan to move himself and his kids out so that you can go home!’

  ‘Yeah, like I say, I don’t really feel as if I want to do that …’ Cass parks herself on the Chesterfield, where Grace had just been sitting. ‘You know, if you were going out with Joel Perreira, Lib, and if he did decide to put you up in a really lovely flat, I could come and be your flatmate!’

  The real reason for her sudden walkout is becoming depressingly clear.

  ‘Think about it!’ she goes on, her eyes shining. ‘I mean, you and me have never shared a flat together. It could be a real bonding opportunity! Plus, obviously it would be somewhere really nice, so we’d be perfectly located for shopping trips, and girlie lunches, and spa days … ooooh, is that him now?’ she gasps, as my phone rings on the coffee table. She grabs it before I can. ‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘It’s just Mum. Hi, Mum,’ she answers, before I can stop her. ‘No, it’s me … no, I’m at Libby’s … oh, right, that sounds good … she’s at number thirty-two … yeah, see you in a minute.’

  ‘She’s on her way here?’ I ask, aghast, as Cass tosses the phone back on to the coffee table.

  ‘No, she’s not on her way. She’s right outside. Well, she didn’t know exactly which number you were … that’ll be her now,’ she adds, as there’s a knock at the door. ‘Better go and let her in, Lib. Oh, and I think she said she had wine, but if she hasn’t, it might be worth sending her back out to get some?’

  ‘You go and bloody answer it!’ I say, furiously.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Cass eyes me, narrowly. ‘Too much of a diva to answer your own door, now you’re all set with a billionaire?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, Cass. It’s that Mum hasn’t come to visit me one single time – not once – in any of the flats I’ve ever rented, and now, just because she thinks I’m going out with Joel Perreira, she suddenly turns up, out of the blue? With wine?’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yeah, that’s going to be a real pain for you now, Lib. People trying to leech off you because you’re a billionaire’s girlfriend. But you just relax,’ she adds, in a bizarre croon that sounds nothing like her usual voice, as she gets to her feet, guides me to the sofa and pushes me down to sit on it, ‘and I’ll deal with Mum. I’ve got your back, Libby. Don’t ever doubt that.’

  I actually cover my face with my hands for a moment, wallowing in the darkness and wondering if the best bet right now is just to feign a sudden attack of food poisoning, or suspected Ebola, perhaps, and get the pair of them off my back so I can think.

  ‘Libby,’ comes Mum’s voice, from somewhere on the other side of my cupped hands, as she sails into my living room. ‘Oh, darling, has it all just got too much for you? Packing up your flat, I mean. That’s why I came! Straight from hospital, in fact. Well, I got out this morning, but still—’

  ‘To help me pack?’ I take my hands off my eyes. ‘You didn’t even know I was moving.’

  ‘Well, all right, I just came round to offer general support. Because obviously you’re going through a hard time at the moment, darling. Uncertain about how you feel about this … sorry,’ she adds, unconvincingly casual, ‘is his name Joel?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Cass says, bossily, coming to sit beside me on the sofa, and putting an arm around my shoulders that I think is meant to feel supportive and sisterly but in fact feels more vice-like and proprietorial. ‘And we really don’t want any fuss made, do we, Lib, just because he’s massively loaded and all that?’

  ‘Fuss? I’m not making a fuss! I just know that when a girl is in the middle of relationship difficulties, the person that can really, truly help her is her mother. I mean, I still wish I’d had the benefit of a mother’s advice when I was marrying your father, darling. But my own mother, as you know, was always a very selfish, self-interested individual, so I could never rely on her to just listen. To just be a mum.’

  I get to my feet. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Ooooh, well, I’ve brought some wine, darling,’ Mum says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a Waitrose bottle-bag with some red inside. ‘What would a girls’ night in be without wine?’

  ‘I don’t mean wine. I mean something stronger.’ I grab my own bag from where it’s sitting, near the door. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’

  ‘Oh, if you’re getting vodka, Lib, better get some tonic, too. The low-calorie one. Oh, and maybe some cranberry juice. I quite fancy a vodka and cranberry tonight – don’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Actually, now you mention it, I quite fancy a screwdriver. So if you could get some orange juice, darling, that would be perfect. Oh! And while you’re
at it, I’m trying to drink a lot more pomegranate juice since leaving the hospital … it’s so healing and regenerative … even mixed with vodka,’ she adds, slightly defensively.

  ‘Fine. I’ll go and find a wide selection of juices to suit every palate.’ I stamp down the stairs. ‘This might take me quite a while.’

  Because I need some fresh air, away from all their stifling self-interest, and I’ll happily walk all over west London until there’s a chance they’ve exhausted all their Joel-related gossip on each other, and stuck the TV on instead.

  Or, better yet, until they’ve gone back to Mum’s and left me in peace.

  I head up towards Notting Hill, walking as fast as I can in the chilly evening air. I’ve gone out in nothing but my hoodie and my baggy-and-comfortable-for-packing denim shorts, and I’m already regretting it by the time I reach the main road.

  I’m just debating whether to turn back and run the gauntlet of Mum and Cass again, just so I can pull on a pair of jeans and a jacket and therefore stay out for longer without freezing half to death when, quite suddenly, a car pulls up alongside me.

  It’s Joel, in the driver’s seat of an open-top … well, I’m no expert, but I think this is a Bentley.

  ‘Libby!’ He looks thrilled to see me. ‘I was just driving round to your place!’

  ‘But … I said I didn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Yes. You did. But will you just get in and talk to me?’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Take pity on me,’ he adds, ‘please. I’m stopped on a red route.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure you can afford the fine.’

  ‘Ah, but can I afford the blot on my sense of civic responsibility? I mean, I’ll be holding up a bus any minute now, Libby. A bus with ordinary working folks on it, Libby. The kind of honest souls that capitalist bastards like me eat for breakfast. With a sprinkling of diamonds for added crunch.’