Gracie’s Secret_A heartbreaking page-turner that will stay with you forever

by Jill Childs

  You wriggled out of his arms.

  ‘Take them off, Daddy!’ You pointed at his shoes. ‘Take them off!’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Richard looked amused as he prised them off, brandished his feet. ‘Stinky smelly socks.’

  I knew what you were thinking. Shoes meant he was about to leave. You wanted him to stay.

  Richard read the bedtime story. The two of you cuddled up in the lumpy armchair, his broad, strong body curled round your smaller one. You rested your head against his arm, drowsy but safe. This was how it was meant to be, the three of us, cosy here in this home we bought together, made together. Richard looked happy as he held you, giving his all to the story. The strain eased from his face. He was never a handsome man. Not to other people. But he was kind and loving. And loyal, I’d thought.

  Afterwards, once we’d settled you with your bear and kitty cat and rabbit and the rest of the menagerie, his mood stayed thoughtful and a little sad. I watched as he kissed you goodnight, stroked your hair from your face. Maybe he did miss us. Maybe the accident had forced him to think how much he loved you and what he’d lost. Maybe visits like this reminded him of how happy we once were.

  He followed me through to the kitchen, chewing the corner of his lips. He pulled on his jacket and I reached out and put a hand on the top of his arm, smiled.

  ‘She’s thrilled to see you.’

  He turned away, embarrassed.

  ‘She loves you, Richard.’

  I had the sudden urge to say much more. To open up to him all over again. To say: when I see you with her, I feel as if I still love you too, you do know that? Maybe it’s not too late, after all. If you’ve realised what a mistake you’ve made. If you want to ask my forgiveness and ask if we can start again…

  He mumbled: ‘I love her too.’

  I turned to the bottle of red wine, open on the counter from the previous night, and poured two glasses, handed him one. He came through to the sitting room with me, his wine in one hand and his shoes bunched in the other, and perched on the edge of the settee.

  ‘So.’ His eyes strayed to the vase of roses on the mantelpiece. Matt had sent them, to say thank you for our date. I’d made sure they were prominently displayed; I couldn’t help it. ‘How are things?’

  I shrugged, settled into an armchair across from him. ‘OK. You know.’

  ‘Not missing work?’

  ‘Not really.’ I bent down to pick up a stray piece of Lego on the carpet. I wasn’t going to admit to him that I worried about money. I’d be earning again soon enough. ‘Gracie keeps me busy. She seemed to need me more now. Since the accident.’

  He bent over and started to loosen his shoelaces, push on his heavy shoes. ‘She’ll be off to school soon.’

  ‘She will.’ The house would be so quiet all day without her. So tidy. ‘I’ll miss her terribly.’

  He finished with his shoes and sat stiffly, sipping his wine. His awkwardness was all the sadder because he was once so at ease here.

  ‘Has she ever talked to you about Venice?’

  He didn’t look as if he were listening.

  ‘She says she wants to go. I just wondered where it came from.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘A story?’

  ‘We’ve never read a story about Venice. Don’t you think it’s odd?’ I went to the table at the far end of the room where clutter gathered and picked up one of your pictures to show him.

  ‘Look.’ I held it out. It was one of your yellow light drawings, small dark figures set in a landscape of brilliance. ‘She keeps drawing these. She says it’s where she went when she had the accident.’

  Richard glanced at it. ‘She’s always liked colouring.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’ I paused. ‘It’s weird. She seems to… know things. And she keeps talking about death and what happens when people die. Maybe she ought to see someone. Like a child psychologist.’

  He looked tired. His cheeks were soft pouches and the flesh below his chin was slack round the bone. When we first met, he was a lean young man, hungry in every sense, keen to make his mark on the world. That was a long time ago.

  I put the picture down. ‘I just thought you’d be interested.’

  Richard leaned forward, cradling his glass. ‘I think she’s fine, Jen. Really. Let her be.’

  ‘Let her be?’ I looked up, stung.

  He shook his head. ‘I just mean—’ He looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘Maybe she needs her own space. Don’t overanalyse everything.’

  We sat awkwardly for a few moments, Richard staring into his wine.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He sighed. ‘Forget it, Jen. Really.’

  He got to his feet, set down the glass. For a moment, he looked about to leave, then he crossed to stand at the window, looking out into the darkness. His reflection in the glass was ghostly.

  ‘I want to see Gracie more often.’

  His tone was suddenly formal. I steadied myself.

  ‘Not just here. Not just a story at bedtime and the odd day out.’ He paused. ‘I want to take her properly again. For weekends. Maybe on holiday.’

  He turned to face me. He spoke quickly but gently, as if he’d already practised the words, as if he was relieved to get them out.

  ‘I know you’ve been through a lot. We all have. You’ve wanted to cling to Gracie since, you know, the accident. But she’s my daughter too. You need to let go a bit, Jen.’

  My pulse quickened. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? Ella.’

  ‘What is?’ He sounded cross. ‘Why I want access to my own daughter? It’s nothing to do with her.’

  It was everything to do with her. I didn’t trust her. I took a deep breath.

  ‘The accident was partly her fault too, you know. Ella was on the phone when the car swerved. Did you know that? Shouting. She was distracted.’

  He made a guttural sound. ‘God help me.’

  ‘It’s true. Gracie told me.’

  ‘You should hear yourself.’

  He moved away from me, towards the door.

  ‘Gracie’s your daughter. You can see her.’ I got to my feet, grabbed at his arm. ‘But not her.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ He shook his head. ‘She adores Gracie. And Gracie loves her. You should see them together. Honestly—’

  ‘Oh please.’ I bit my lip, steadied myself. ‘I don’t want her anywhere near Gracie. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her.’

  ‘She told me not to come.’ He prised my fingers off his jacket. Our faces were close and for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Then he pulled away.

  ‘I’m filing for divorce, Jen. I’m sorry. Ella and I want to get married. You understand?’ He paused, reading my face. ‘She’s going to be part of Gracie’s life from now on. Whether you like it or not.’

  He disappeared into the hall. I wanted to follow him but I couldn’t move. The sitting room seemed suddenly very cold. I found the edge of the armchair and sat on the arm with a bump.

  Richard strode back in, buttoning his coat. His face was tight.

  ‘I’m trying to do this the nice way, Jen. But if you make this difficult, I’ll go to court. I’ll have no choice. Don’t make me.’

  I couldn’t answer.

  A moment later, the front door banged as he let himself out. I sat quietly, perched there on the edge of the chair, my feet juddering on the carpet, listening to his footsteps fade in the street. I reached for my glass, drank off a gulp of wine.

  It was over. He was going to marry her. She was taking Richard from me and she wanted you too. My stomach tightened. I bent over, one arm clutching my front. A dribble of wine slipped out from the bowl of the tilted glass and ran down my leg. The smell rose at once, rich and lush. I shook my head, thinking of you asleep upstairs. I’d nearly lost you once, my love. I wasn’t going to lose you again.

  Twenty-Four

  Ella

  There’s something about me that Richard struggles to un
derstand. I’m not even sure I understand it myself.

  He’s kind, you see. And fundamentally, he’s happy. And I’m not sure that I ever can be.

  I’m in love with him. That’s not an issue. Before I met him, I didn’t think this battered old heart of mine was capable of it, but it’s proved me wrong. But it’s precisely because I love him so much that I’m afraid of being with him. That’s the part he can’t grasp. I’m afraid of corrupting him, you see. Like a virus.

  My mother used to say that some people were born to be happy and some weren’t and if you were one of the unlucky ones, there wasn’t a whole lot you could do about it. It went through me like a knife when she said that.

  I was eight years old and we had just walked past our local crazy man in the street. I don’t know what his name was, but everyone knew him by sight. He stamped along the pavements and waved his arms about and muttered expletives to himself and shouted in shops for no reason. We all knew to steer clear. And here was my mother saying that a life of happiness or unhappiness was determined at birth. That frightened me to death. I knew which she was and I didn’t want to be the same.

  My mother didn’t have a bad life, but something deep inside her was broken and whatever I did, however hard I tried, I couldn’t fix her.

  One of my clearest memories of childhood, perhaps my first, is of my mother sitting at the bottom of the stairs and crying, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Silent, like an old film. I must have been three or four. I was terrified and the worst of all was that there was absolutely nothing I could do.

  I sat beside her and wrapped my arms round her leg and tried to give her a cuddle but she didn’t seem to notice me. After a while, she pulled away and disappeared into the kitchen and I sat there a few moments longer, miserable, listening to her blow her nose, then light the gas and fill a pan with water, carrying on like the martyr she always was.

  The hall was poky and there was no fitted carpet, just a shabby rug. Cold air came up from the cellar between the floorboards and made me shiver. But I stuck it out for a while. It was an instinctive offering, a bargain with God. I made a lot of deals with God as a child. I’ll suffer this cold if you sort out my mum. He couldn’t. She was born to be unhappy. What if I’m the same?

  It took a while for me to feel strong again, after the car accident. The physical aches, of course, but also the shock. I love little Gracie, how could anyone not? If she hadn’t come through… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I don’t know how I’d have lived with myself. I’m tough, but I am human, whatever her crazy mother thinks.

  Then, one Saturday morning, I was leaving my yoga class when Richard called me on my new phone. It was a relief to have a new number, believe me. Well worth the hassle. Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, the only calls I was getting were from Richard or close friends. Calls I actually wanted.

  ‘Where are you?’ Richard sounded stressed. ‘Fancy a drink in the park?’

  A bit odd, but why not?

  We sat huddled together on a bench and he produced sangria in a screw-top bottle. He’d mixed it himself at home and brought proper glasses and everything. I should have realised something was up. One of my favourite love songs is about a couple drinking sangria in the park, just hanging out, happy together. Richard is so thoughtful, it’s overwhelming.

  So we drank the sangria and watched the ducks on the pond. And the kids. A small girl with wild eyes wobbled as she struggled to ride her bike. Her father ran along behind, steadying the frame, cheering when she finally pedalled off on her own. A toddler, still unsteady on her feet, tried to throw bread to the ducks but dropped most of it. I looked away.

  Richard’s cheeks were flushed. The sangria had gone to his head. He got to his feet, packed away the bottle and wrapped the glasses carefully in kitchen towel. That care, that attention to detail, made me smile.

  ‘Right,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Lunch. Shall we try the Chinese over there?’

  I smiled. ‘You hate Chinese food. You always say it’s greasy.’

  ‘You like it.’ He shrugged. ‘They do dim sum. Come on. I’ll be fine.’

  He’d planned the whole thing. I only found that out afterwards when, halfway through the meal, the waiter brought a single spring roll on a plate and Richard started fussing, pushed it towards me.

  ‘That’s yours.’

  ‘I didn’t order spring rolls.’ I stared at it. One spring roll? What kind of order was that? I picked up the plate and handed it back to the waiter. ‘Sorry. Wrong table.’

  The guy shrugged, looked across at Richard.

  ‘Leave it. Thanks.’

  I pulled a face. ‘Richard, it’s not mine. I didn’t—’

  ‘Please. Ella. I ordered it. For you.’

  I stared at him as he reached forward, picked up the spring roll with his chopsticks and held the end to my mouth.

  ‘Try it.’

  I steadied his hand – he was never very good with chopsticks – and bit into the end, humouring him. My teeth touched metal and I sprang back.

  ‘What the – Richard, there’s something in it.’

  I was thinking: a bolt or a screw or who knew what. Then I saw his face. Excited, anxious, beseeching. I felt sudden panic as light dawned.

  ‘It isn’t…?’

  He gave a sheepish smile, pulled open the doughy wrapper and lifted out a ring. A damn great solitaire, sticky with sauce. Before I could stop him, he’d scraped back his chair and was down on one knee, right there in the middle of the restaurant.

  ‘Ella. I love you so much. Please. Will you do me the honour of marrying me?’

  The whole restaurant was looking. I couldn’t speak. His eyes were so full of love, of hope, I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘Ella?’ He looked uncertain. ‘You haven’t given me an answer.’

  ‘Of course I will!’ My heart thudded, blood surged in my ears. I don’t know what I felt. Overwhelmed, for sure. Embarrassed. And panicked. ‘Now get up.’

  He beamed, shuffled forward and pressed the warm, wet ring onto my finger, then kissed me lightly on the lips, a discreet, public kiss. When he sat back on his chair, the waiters, watching in a huddle from the service area, gave a ragged round of applause.

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe you just did that.’

  Richard reached for my shaking hand. The ring slid, unfamiliar, down my finger.

  ‘It’s an auspicious date today.’ The tension which had hung about him all morning was gone. He looked happy. ‘They helped me choose it. The eighth, super-lucky, apparently.’

  ‘Really?’ I didn’t know what more to say. I thought of Richard in a jeweller’s shop, picking out the ring. Coming to the restaurant and planning the spring roll surprise. I thought I knew everything about him but I didn’t. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  Later, as we lay together in bed, the ring, washed now, sparkled on my bedside table.

  ‘Richard, are you sure about this?’ I asked him. ‘I mean, really?’

  ‘Totally, absolutely, one hundred per cent.’ He tightened his arms round me. ‘I love you, Ella. I want to make you happy,’

  That’s what chilled me. It brought back that memory of my mother, crying at the bottom of the stairs, and my three- or four-year-old self, chilled to the bone, striking a bargain with God that He never kept and the terror, which had never left me since, that maybe I was the same as her and the same as the crazy man who yelled in shops, and that maybe there were people like Richard who were born to be happy in this world and I was simply not one of them.

  Twenty-Five

  Jennifer

  As well as sending flowers, Matt phoned every night that week. Sometimes he was at work and we only managed a quick chat. Other nights, we talked for an hour or more. He discussed articles he’d read in the paper and the new film he wanted to see and told me about the homeless man, Barney, who sat on the pavement near the hospital holding a cardboard sign re
ading ‘Smile!’. Matt picked up a cappuccino for him on his way in, when he bought his own coffee. Barney was very exact: skinny cappuccino, two sugars.

  And when Matt wasn’t talking, he listened. I wasn’t used to anyone showing interest in me, in my day, in my opinions. It took me a while to get used to it. He teased me when I hesitated before answering or asked him: ‘Really? Do you really want to know?’

  We arranged to go out again that weekend, for a quick dinner and then a film. I was still nervous but excited too. I counted down to it. Planning what to say, what to wear. And then, that afternoon, Dianne called – my one and only decent babysitter – and said she was so sorry, she had flu.

  I texted Matt to cancel. V sorry. Another night?

  He texted straight back. Tonite! Can I cook at yrs?

  I stared at the screen. I was flattered, I admit it. He seemed determined to see me. But I couldn’t imagine him cooking in my kitchen.

  Another text appeared. I’ll bring it all. OK?

  He arrived just after seven, earlier than I expected. The spillage from your egg on toast was congealing on the front of my blouse, my hair was in clumps and I was only halfway through reading you a bedtime story.

  He carried a bulging gym bag into the kitchen and swung it onto a chair. The zip was open at one end, showing groceries.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave him alone in the kitchen, in our home.

  ‘I’m not quite ready.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s OK. There’s just a few things I need.’

  He ran through a list: weighing scales, cheese grater, knives, saucepan, wooden spoon. He looked over each item as I rooted it out of a cupboard or drawer, then lined them up in a neat row along the back of the kitchen worktop. He bent over to peer at the cooker, trying the ignition button to check that the hobs lit.