A Night In With Grace Kelly

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘Right.’ He stares at his hands for a moment. ‘It’s going to be pretty embarrassing,’ he goes on, non-sequiturially, ‘to send everyone away without a wedding.’

  ‘Yes. Horribly. But that isn’t a good enough reason to do it.’

  ‘No, I guess not.’ He thinks about this. ‘I mean, we could just go ahead tomorrow, give them all what they came for, and then annul it as fast as possible?’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘No, I think it’s a terrible idea.’ He grins at me, ruefully. ‘Julia’s going to be devastated, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I think she’ll be OK.’ We sit in silence for another moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add, quietly.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m sorry, too. I mean, if I drove you to want to kill yourself …’

  ‘God, no, that wasn’t what … it was just a silly accident,’ I say, because there’s nothing to be gained from getting Julia into any trouble. ‘You haven’t driven me to anything of the sort. I just don’t think either of us is the right person for the other, do you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ He can’t actually continue this. ‘Well, all right,’ he concedes. ‘I suppose it’s possible that I might have gone with my heart on this thing between us, when I should have gone with my head. I mean, I always go with my head. My entire life. It’s just the way I am. And I’m pretty sure you always go with your heart.’

  ‘I do. For what good it does me. Yes, I do.’

  ‘And I have to ask, just because of what Bogdan just said … uh, about this Olly guy …’

  ‘Don’t worry about what Bogdan said. Olly’s … out of the equation.’

  ‘The equation being Libby plus Joel equals zero?’ But he smiles, again. ‘We’ll explain it somehow. I’ll get the assistants to tell them or something, right? That way we can hide ourselves away and not actually have to face anyone.’

  ‘Well, they are very good assistants,’ I say.

  ‘They are.’ Joel gets to his feet. ‘The dress is gorgeous, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I would have liked to have married you, in it.’

  ‘Me too. In another life.’

  ‘In another life.’ He leans down and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘You should come down and have a strong drink, or something. I can have it sent up to you in your room, if you’d rather not run the gauntlet of … well, of my mother? And yours, for that matter.’

  ‘Actually, could you get someone to send something up here, if that’s all right? I’d just like … to stay here in the quiet for a few more moments.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Can I bring you anything myself? Blankets?’

  ‘I’m OK, Joel. Thank you.’

  I watch him head out through the door, pulling it half closed behind him.

  I sit very, very still for a few moments.

  But there’s no sign – no sign whatsoever – of Grace Kelly, or Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn rematerializing on the Chesterfield beside me.

  There’s just Marilyn’s Martini, the smell of Audrey’s cigarette, and Grace’s white glove, clutched tightly in my right hand.

  So I’m on the early train back to London this morning. And when I say early, I mean early: it’s only eight fifteen, and we’re already pulling out of the station on our way.

  Joel offered – impeccably mannered as ever – to drive me back home himself, but I declined. Things might be OK between us, but that doesn’t mean a two-hour car journey would be advisable. Besides, he’s got his mum, grandmother and of course Julia to entertain, back at Aldingbourne: all of them (except perhaps Julia) fully expecting, until about eleven o’clock last night, a wedding to take place today.

  And I’ve left this early precisely to avoid the inevitable long, torturous conversations with Mum and Cass that I know for a fact would take place. Mum, as she did late last night, trying to convince me to go ahead with it all ‘even if you don’t really love him, darling! After all, marrying for love is a luxury, really, that I don’t think you can honestly afford!’ and Cass bending my ear about Nick who – I have to admit – does sound as if he’s pretty firmly lodged on her hook, after whatever it was she was doing with him in the garden before she saw me on the roof last night.

  In the end, I have to admit, I took refuge in Nora and Mark’s cottage for most of the night, because I knew that otherwise I’d be plagued by middle-of-the-night visits from Mum, accompanied by weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, in an attempt to wear me down and make me change my mind.

  I still didn’t get much sleep, though – Nora and I stayed up half the night talking everything over – and the train left the station too early for there to have been any sort of coffee facilities available on a Saturday morning, so I’m feeling thoroughly wiped out. But even though I’d just like to close my eyes and sleep, I should give Nora a quick call now, to let her know I’ve made it to the train.

  I make it a FaceTime call, because I feel the need to actually see her in (sort of) person, to stop my resolve from wavering. And Nora answers, in typical fashion, after only a couple of rings.

  ‘Lib. You’re on the train.’

  ‘I’m on the train.’

  It’s weird, after all the drama of the last twenty-four hours, that here I am having one of those mundane I’m on the train conversations. But that feels like about all I’m capable of, as another wave of tiredness swashes over me.

  Nora, still in Mark’s pyjama top (and looking way better than you’d think possible for a newly pregnant mum of a one-year-old who was up talking to her best friend most of the night) gives me a thumbs up.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘So. You’re still in the same place you were last night. You’re still comfortable that you’re doing the right thing?’

  ‘Leaving Joel? Well, I don’t know if I’d go as far as comfortable, Nor. I mean, I can’t stop thinking about all the people I’ve let down, and the embarrassment of the last-minute cancellation … But yes. I do know I’m doing the right thing.’

  ‘Well, like I said last night, Lib, I know you’re doing the right thing too.’ Nora glances away for a second, checking on Clara sleeping somewhere out of sight, then says, ‘And then there’s the other thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My stupid brother.’

  ‘Your stupid brother.’

  ‘Look, I’ll say it again. You’re never going to be able to live with yourself if …’

  But I don’t hear the end of Nora’s sentence.

  Because Dillon has just sat down in the seat opposite me.

  Yes. Dillon has just sat down in the seat opposite me.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he says, in a soft voice. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Nora demands. ‘I can hear someone talking to you.’

  ‘Yes. It’s Dillon.’

  ‘Dillon? Libby Lomax, if you end up …’

  ‘I’ll call you back later, Nor, OK?’ I say. ‘I love you, but everything’s fine, and you should get some sleep.’ I just have time to see her wave a fist at me before I end the call, put my phone down on the table and look directly at Dillon.

  ‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’

  ‘Travelling back to London,’ he says, ‘same as you.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant! Did you get on the train at Barham?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve been on since Rye. A lovely couple of nights I’ve spent there, as a matter of fact. Taking in the sea air. Pottering around the antiques stores. Popping into the teashops for a nice scone and a proper cuppa …’

  ‘I’m lost. You spent a couple of nights in Rye … why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sweetheart, but there isn’t much in the way of luxury hotels in this part of the world. Boltholes suitable for a star of my magnitude. So it was either Rye or Brighton and – if I can be honest – Brighton has rather too many, shall we say, temptations for a man such as myself. Bars, nightclubs, scruffy-looking dudes openly dealing d
rugs on the seafront …’

  ‘Dillon.’ I lean across the table and fix him with a very firm look indeed. ‘I’m not interested in why you chose Rye over Brighton. I’m asking why you were staying down here at all.’

  He shrugs. ‘To be near the wedding, of course. So that when it all went tits-up at the last minute, I could be nearby to help you.’

  ‘What do you mean, when it all went tits-up?’ I croak.

  ‘Oh, Libby, love, it was a disaster waiting to happen, you and that … sorry, I’ve already forgotten his name.’

  ‘Joel.’

  ‘Yeah. Him. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Anyone could see you weren’t really in love with him, and that he wasn’t really in love with you. Now, obviously it would have been better for you to have properly recognized this before you tried to jump off a roof last night—’

  ‘Bogdan,’ I say. ‘Bogdan told you.’

  ‘He did. Oh, and he told me you’d be on this train this morning, by the way, in case you were starting to wonder if I was secretly psychic, or something. I mean, I know you realize I’m a pretty multi-talented guy, and you’re quite accustomed to me working my magic in the bedroom, but—’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I interrupt him, ‘trying to jump off a roof. Just FYI.’

  ‘Oh, well, I know that, Libby.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve never met anyone more committed to, well, life than you are.’

  ‘Really?’ I swallow, rather hard. ‘Even though I keep on screwing my life up?’

  ‘Sweetheart, precisely because you keep screwing your life up! I mean, look at you. You had the crappiest career in the world before you turned everything around and became this shit-hot jewellery designer. You set your head on fire with a cigarette and ended up being utterly adored by the guy who had to put you out … and I do adore you, by the way,’ he adds, in a nonchalant sort of way, ‘in case you ever had occasion to wonder. Oh, and then there’s your love life. Loads of girls would have just sunk into a pit of despair when they realized they’d have to watch their one true love waltz off into the sunset with someone else … but not my Fire Girl. You picked yourself up, dusted yourself down, and bagged yourself a billionaire!’

  ‘Don’t take the piss,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘I’m not. I admire you so much, Libby, for trying so damn hard to move on. And so what if it all went wrong? You tried, didn’t you? Isn’t that always the main thing?’

  ‘Theoretically, yes, but in this particular case, me trying so damn hard to move on has just led to major embarrassment and all the expense of a cancelled wedding. And it still hasn’t worked.’ I can feel a little sob rising in the back of my throat, the same sob I managed to swallow down a moment ago. ‘I still can’t shake off the feelings I have for Olly. I mean, I’m just about managing to keep at bay the feelings of bitterness and regret, because, well, that way madness lies. But, right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to get over him.’

  ‘Well. Do you have to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a napkin wrapped around something, opens up the napkin and puts its contents – a chocolate croissant and a Danish pastry – on the table between us.

  ‘Hotel breakfast,’ he says. ‘I took some with me.’

  He breaks off a piece of the Danish and hands it to me.

  ‘Look, Libby,’ he goes on. ‘I know you’re never going to be the type of girl to muscle in on somebody else’s boyfriend …’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say (or more accurately, spray, through a mouthful of Danish: I realize that I am – not surprisingly, I suppose – absolutely starving). ‘Honestly, Dillon, I’ve already had this from Nora last night. Please, don’t even go there.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’m not that person, Dillon. If things aren’t meant to be, with Olly, then I’m not going to scheme and plot to make them the way I’d like them to be.’

  Dillon makes a kind of pshaw noise with his teeth and his tongue. ‘Don’t give me any of this bollocks about Meant To Be. I’m Meant To Be dead as a doornail right at this very moment, you do realize? The amount of toxic crap I’ve shoved into my body over the past ten years, I’m cheating Fate just by sitting here! And what’s the better outcome, would you say? Me cold in a grave, just because I accepted my just deserts, or me sitting here right now, dazzling you with my charm and good looks, because I dared to say I’m not done yet?’

  I don’t say anything. I just gaze out of the window for a moment, watching the frosty Sussex countryside racing past.

  ‘So,’ I say, through sandpaper lips, ‘you’d tell him, then, would you? You’d tell Olly how you felt about him?’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’ll happily tell Olly how I feel about him. You’d never have to twist my arm to get me to do that! In fact, I’d relish the prospect. You’re an idiot, I’d tell him, you’re a wanker, you’re—’

  ‘Dillon.’

  ‘All right, all right, I know what you were asking. Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, is the answer to your question. If I were you, I’d tell Olly how I felt about him. No shadow of a doubt. I mean, come on, Libby. He loved you all those years. He put in the time. He paid his dues. So now, don’t you think it’s time to let him know that none of that time was wasted?’

  ‘But I’m letting him move on—’

  ‘Yeah, and what if he doesn’t want to move on? What if he’s only moving on as a last resort? Jesus, Libby, wouldn’t you want to know? I mean, you’ve only been helplessly in love with him for a year, right? And if your wedding was going ahead this morning, but he’d turned up at the altar, all dramatic and windswept and rain-drenched, and announced that he loved you still, you’d want to know that before you made your decision to marry Joel or not. I know you would. And if you’re about to tell me that you couldn’t do it to the poor, innocent girl Olly’s got himself involved with …’ He shrugs. ‘Bloody hell, Libby, I’d rather rip off somebody else’s Band Aid fast, rather than peel it off millimetre by painful millimetre. She doesn’t deserve to end up with someone who’d rather be with someone else.’

  ‘But, Dillon, that’s all assuming Olly does still have feelings for me!’

  ‘So? If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. Then you can let him marry this other girl with a clear conscience. And – I don’t know – head off to the desert yourself and join the Foreign Legion, or whatever bonkers thing you want to do to get over living the rest of your life without him.’ Dillon bangs the palm of his hand on the table, making the pastries jump. ‘Challenge Fate at its own game, Libby. Take your own destiny into your own hands. Didn’t you ever think that might be the thing to do?’

  ‘Yes. Someone else told me that, too.’

  ‘A person with a history of making good decisions?’

  ‘A person with a history of making … the right decisions for herself. And never regretting. And never looking back.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of gal.’

  ‘Oh, Dillon. You have no idea.’

  ‘Then listen to them, whoever they are! Nobody’s suggesting you have to forge your own happiness out of the ashes of someone else’s misery. You just need to tell Olly the truth. Let him know your feelings. Then, if things don’t shake themselves down to where they’re meant to be … well, then Fate really has won. Until then – and as I like to say to myself every single morning, incidentally, when I open my eyes sober as a nun and ready to start a brand-new day – it ain’t over until the fat lady sings.’

  I take a deep breath. Inhaling, as I do so, some Danish pastry crumbs, and starting to cough and splutter until my eyes water. Dillon produces a bottle of spring water from another pocket of his coat and passes it to me, watching me rather fondly as I glug most of the contents to wash the crumbs away.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Better,’ I say, putting the bottle down. ‘And,’ I add, ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s time, probab
ly, to put my big-girl pants on and think about coming clean to Olly.’

  ‘It is. I mean, obviously I’d far rather you were thinking about taking your big-girl pants off …’

  ‘Bad choice of phrase.’

  ‘No, no, it was an excellent choice of phrase.’ He settles back in his seat and half closes his eyes. ‘Gives me plenty of food for thought, my gorgeous girl, for the rest of this endless fucking journey back to civilization. I mean, you’ve no idea how tedious it was in Rye, or wherever the fuck it is I’ve been hanging about for the last two days. I’ve even ended up spending three grand on antiques that are being shipped to my flat any day now, just to get through the days. And if I ever have to see another scone again …’

  ‘At least you stayed sober.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins at me. ‘At least I stayed sober.’ He closes his eyes again, then opens them for a moment to add, ‘Oh, and for what it’s worth, if you’re worrying that it might turn out that Olly isn’t still head over heels in love with you, I wouldn’t. When someone falls in love with you, Libby, those feelings never go away. Trust me, darling, I know.’

  This time, when he shuts his eyes, he keeps them closed.

  *

  I part ways with Dillon at Victoria, a few minutes after our train gets in. He gives me a huge hug, extends an invitation to come and join him at his parents’ house in Ireland for Christmas next week (‘Let’s face it, Libby, you’ve just dumped a billionaire. Your mum and your sister aren’t going to want to sit across a turkey opposite you without wanting to rip the legs off and beat you to death with them’) and tells me to call him after I’ve had the chance to talk to Olly.

  Which, I guess, is what I know now that I have to do.

  When he gets back from Durham, that is. I’m queasy enough about the prospect of possibly throwing a hand grenade into Tash’s life to begin with; I’m certainly not going to do anything of the sort until after her dad’s emergency hernia operation.

  Anyway, right now, what’s far more important is to think about practicalities. I’ve got to move my stuff out of Joel’s Holland Park house and into … where? Dillon – of course – has offered me his place for as long as I need it, and I’ve already had a few garbled texts this morning from Bogdan telling me that he’ll ask his father if my old Colliers Wood flat is tenant-free at the moment … I can’t tell, with my head so muddled, whether going back there would be a backwards step or whether it might feel like home. And maybe none of that matters, and maybe I just need four walls (actually three, if I move back to Colliers Wood) and a roof over my head, and then I can take bigger decisions about—