by Gil McNeil
Connie’s been enjoying herself too, and we’ve developed a sort of double-act in the playground whereby she fills in any details I forget, like how pregnant Grace looked and what colour her top was. We’ve sold so much of the mohair I’ve had to re-order twice, even though Gran and Elsie promised me they’d keep quiet about the shawls until I’ve delivered them and made sure she’s not going to change her mind. So it’s all been a bit twilight zone, and I’m due round at Graceland tomorrow, so I’m finishing the last shawl before I pick the boys up from school. And I’m really hoping that Trevor the bloody Wonder Dog doesn’t come round to play while I’m trying to wrap things up in tissue paper, because I’m not very good at tasteful yet elegant gift wrapping at the best of times, and whenever he’s around the boys end up covered in mud, which I don’t think is really going to help.
I’m sitting by the counter knitting while Elsie’s upstairs having a break when Ellen calls.
‘All set then, darling, shawls at the ready?’
‘Pretty much. I got the tissue paper and ribbon like you said, but mine and Gran’s are slightly bigger than Elsie’s – she knits really tight.’
‘Why am I not surprised? How’s Dovetail doing?’
‘Fine. He’s got two shelves up and they look great, but he’s obsessing about knobs now.’
‘Do shelves have knobs on Planet Martin then?’
‘No, but he doesn’t like the wicker baskets I was going to put the oddments in. He says glass-fronted drawers would be better.’
‘Right; quite pushy, isn’t he?’
‘Very, when it’s about wood. Not at all on anything else; he’s almost completely silent most of the time. He gave me a hell of a shock the other day. I was in the kitchen humming a happy tune and doing a little dance routine, like you do, especially when you’ve just been out and got a doughnut for your lunch.’
‘What sort of routine? Tango, or foxtrot?’
‘More of a jive, really.’
‘Right. So you’re jiving in the kitchen with a doughnut …’
‘Yes. And I turned round and he was standing in the doorway, just watching me and smiling. I nearly dropped my cup.’
‘Bless. What did he say?’
‘Nothing, thank God. And then Elsie came up. She bosses him about terribly, she never stops. And she’s made him a bobble hat.’
‘Does he wear it?’
‘When she’s around, yes, but he takes it off pretty sharpish when the coast’s clear. Are you all right? You sound a bit tired.’
‘I’m fine, but I need a break. Can I come down to you for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. That would be lovely.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
Something’s happened, I know it has. Her mini-breaks usually involve facials and massages in sacred yurts, not small boys and shabby spare bedrooms.
‘Have you had any more emails?’
Ellen gets lots of fan mail, most of which is perfectly harmless – notes and homemade calendars with kittens on – but occasionally something more sinister turns up. Last year there were a series of weird cards with cryptic messages about how she’d be hearing the good news soon, and we were worried a religious cult was planning to kidnap her, but it turned out to be a poor woman who’d stopped taking her medication and thought Ellen was her secret twin sister. Last week she got one saying she wouldn’t have to wait much longer, from some anonymous address with no name, and then another one saying ‘I’m watching you’ and ‘he’s not good enough for you’, which pressed quite a few alarm bells, particularly with me. But Ellen has just joked about them, so far.
‘Yes, there was one yesterday.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I like your new boots.’
‘What?’
‘I was wearing them the night before, when I left work.’
‘Christ.’
‘Now don’t go into one. Brian Winters has already called in Special Branch.’
‘Good. What did they say?’
‘Take extra precautions while they make enquiries, which means they’ve got no fucking idea. But Brian’s sorted me out a security guard. He’s called Gary, and he bloody follows me everywhere. I can’t even go to the canteen without him trotting along behind me. And he’s got weird eyes, like he’s looking at you, but not.’
‘They’ve given you a security man with a squint?’
‘No, he’s ex-Flying Squad or something, so he does that scanning thing, looking behind you all the time like he’s about to shoot someone. Not that he’s actually got a gun, but you know what I mean.’
‘How’s Harry handling it?’
‘I haven’t told him. He’ll only go all Die Hard on me and I hate bloody Bruce Willis – he always looks so pleased with himself. Anyway, it’s bound to be some sad nutter in a bedsit who just wants a bit of attention.’
‘Well he’ll certainly get some when Special Branch smash his door down.’
She laughs. ‘Look, I’m sure it’ll be fine, so don’t go on about it, all right? But tomorrow’s okay with you?’
‘Yes, of course, I’d love it. But I still think you should tell Harry.’
‘Yes, but I’m not going to, so shut up. He’s off to Germany for some environment thing. Christ, he’s never does anything useful like specials on luxury spas. Who’d want to watch a documentary on a load of recyclers anyway?’
‘Friends of the Earth?’
‘Oh, please, enough already with the green guilt-tripping. He’s been banging on about global dimming for bloody weeks.’
‘What’s that, then? How we’re all getting stupider and stupider?’
‘It’s the new Armageddon scenario; something about all the pollution getting trapped so it blocks out the sun. It’s so depressing it just makes you want to jump off a cliff.’
‘Well, I’d get a move on, because it’ll probably only be a two-foot drop from Beachy Head soon, what with the seas rising.’
‘You could always learn to knit underwater.’
‘I think that might be least of my worries actually, I’ll have to bulk-buy snorkels.’
‘I still don’t get how global warming means we’re all going to wake up surrounded by bloody permafrost like in The Day after Tomorrow. Although Dennis Quaid’s fucking gorgeous, and I love skiing, so it might not be all bad.’
‘I don’t think there’ll be lots of après-ski in the Second Ice Age, Ellen.’
‘I bet there will, there’ll be fuck-all else to do. And knitting will be a vital survival skill, so you’ll be able to do everyone a jumper. It’ll be great, so stop worrying. What time are you due round at Gracie Mansions tomorrow?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Well, make sure you remember to say the local paper wants to do a piece.’
‘But they don’t.’
‘No, but they will once we’ve made a few calls. And not just Tragic Seaside Weekly, either. And I want every detail, especially anything about Mad Jimmy.’
‘So I should read any letters that I find lying around? Dear Grace, let’s keep our marriage secret until the triplets are born. That kind of thing?’
She laughs. ‘That would do very nicely, thank you. What are you wearing?’
‘I haven’t decided, but don’t start with the fashion tips – you know they only confuse me.’
‘Jeans and your black cashmere jumper.’
‘Which isn’t actually cashmere.’
‘Yes, and one of your chunky scarves, the grey one with the bobbles, and your black boots.’
‘Not very glamorous, is it?’
‘No, but you can’t out-glam a Diva. You’re going for handmade and authentic, relaxed and discreet; someone she can confide in about her recent relationship issues.’
‘So I can get straight on the phone and blurt to you?’
‘Precisely. So I’ll see you around four?’
‘Great. Shall I make fish pie for supper?’
Fish pie is one of Ell
en’s favourites, and I’ve got one in the freezer. I’ll get some carrots on my way home from school with the boys, because they’re her favourites, too.
‘And carrots?’
‘Of course.’
‘Perfect, and then I’ll come Bitching and Stitching with you on Thursday, Harry’s still loving his scarf – he wears it all the time – so I was thinking I might have a go at a jumper for him. I’ve really been missing the boys. I can’t wait to see them.’
‘You fibber.’
‘I have. I’ve already got them a present.’
‘I hope it’s not more of those bloody micro-robots, because they nearly drove me mad shooting out from under the fridge. I can’t tell you how much food I dropped on the floor until I worked out how to get the batteries out.’
‘No, it’s a bow and arrow, a proper one, with feathers and everything, and a big target thing you can put up. It’s great. I got it for Jack’s birthday, but I’ll get him something else now, and they can share.’
‘Share? You’ll be lucky.’
She laughs. ‘They’ll be fine.’
‘Well, don’t blame me if you end up with an arrow stuck in the back of your head.’
‘Bye, darling. See you tomorrow.’
God, I hope she’s right and the emails turn out to be nothing. I suppose if Special Branch are on the case, and Gary’s watching her, then it’ll be fine. Although I’d still like to ring Harry so he can be on the look out for nutters, and I bloody would if it didn’t mean breaking one of the cardinal rules of sisterhood. But if it’s not sorted out soon I’m going to call him, and she knows it, which is probably why she’s told me.
I drive up to the gates of Graceland at five to eleven the next morning and get out of the car to press the silver entry-phone button on the brick pillar, congratulating myself on being on time. But as I reach forwards there’s a buzzing noise and the gates slowly start to open, so I have to leap back into the car, banging my shoulder in the process, which isn’t very elegant, and then I stall the car. Christ, I hope nobody’s watching; there’s a camera mounted on top of the wall, so I surreptitiously rub my shoulder, and try to calm down before I get my first proper glimpse of the house. Bloody hell. It’s like something from Jane Austen, not quite Pemberley, but pretty close, with landscaped lawns as far as you can see, and a tree-lined avenue up the house. Someone must spend hours on one of those drive-along lawnmowers keeping the grass looking this good, and I’m guessing it’s not Grace.
There’s a lake in the distance, and a vast circular drive in front of the house. I’m half expecting to see Darcy emerging from the lake and people drifting about in muslin dresses. It’s the kind of place that usually has car parks and green National Trust signs, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find a hut selling lavender drawer sachets and guidebooks as I’m parking next to a selection of posh-looking cars to one side of the house. I wish I’d remembered to wash the car, which looks even more sordid than usual next to all this gleaming splendour. I think expensive cars must have some special kind of dirt-repelling paint, although I bet I get lots more miles to the gallon than any of these gorgeous objects do. I probably get more miles to the gallon than the bloody lawnmower.
As I’m walking round to the front of the house I’m bracing myself for a butler, but the door’s opened by Grace, in bare feet.
‘Hi. Fuck, this stone’s freezing. Come in.’ She turns and shouts over her shoulder, ‘Maxine!’
I recognise the skinny woman in jeans and a grey cardigan who darts out of a doorway; she brought the carrier bags back the day after Grace had been in the shop, and told me to put any media calls straight through to her, in a rather firm manner. She’s looking harried.
‘Get me some shoes, would you, Max?’
I follow Grace into a huge room off the hall, with old leather armchairs and two enormous emerald-green velvet sofas, and a fabulous Persian carpet in shades of blue and green. The wallpaper is a deep blue-turquoise peacock-feather pattern, and it’s absolutely beautiful; I wonder how much it costs for a roll? Probably more than my budget for the whole living room.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No. It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank God for that. We had someone round yesterday, the woman who used to own it, and she kept going on about how much better everything was in the good old days. She nearly drove Maxine demented. Do you know her?’
‘Lady Denby?’
‘Yes. Is she a nutter?’
‘Slightly eccentric possibly.’
She laughs. ‘We couldn’t get rid of her, and she’d got two mad dogs with her who kept licking everyone’s feet. Amazing. Oh, great.’
Maxine has appeared, clutching a selection of shoes, and Grace takes a pair of green suede ballet shoes that match the green of her wrap dress. She’s looking very beautiful, even though she doesn’t appear to be wearing any make-up at all, unless it’s that tricky no-make-up look which takes hours to get right.
‘Would you like a drink, coffee or tea or a juice?’
‘Tea would be lovely.’
‘Pomegranate for me, Max, and tea.’
Maxine turns to me, with a rather superior look on her face. ‘We have Earl Grey, jasmine, broken orange pekoe, mint, herbal or fruit.’
I hesitate. Oh God, now I don’t know what kind of tea I want.
‘Or we have English breakfast, if you prefer?’
‘That would be lovely.’
She smiles, and I can’t help thinking I’ve just failed some special kind of tea test.
Grace is sitting on one of the velvet sofas by the fire, which is very grand, with huge logs burning in the hearth and making the whole room feel warm, in a non-inglenook kind of way, and without the faintest hint of a coal scuttle.
‘So show me, I’m dying to see.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
I pass her the bags with the shawls in.
‘Pretty paper.’ She rips open the first one, and holds up the chocolate shawl to the light. ‘Perfect.’
She’s still ripping paper and holding up shawls when the door opens and a man walks in, carrying a tray.
‘Room service, madam. And I want a tip.’
‘I’ll give you a tip, Ed. Bugger off. I’m busy.’
‘Charming. I only need a quick word.’
‘Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t think you were coming down until tomorrow?’
‘And miss watching Mr Fitzgerald doing his meet-and-greet later on? Not on your life.’
He gives me a cursory look.
‘This is Jo. She runs the local wool shop.’
There’s a hint of a smirk as he turns to me, but he hides it very quickly. ‘Lovely to meet you, Jo. Sorry to interrupt, but I need a quick word with Grace about our plans for tomorrow.’
‘I’ve already told Maxine.’
‘Oh, have you?’
‘Yes. And I think I’m going to be knitting.’
She smiles at me, one of her mega-smiles, and Ed looks at me and then back at Grace.
‘I’m sorry? I don’t think Divas knit, darling.’
‘Oh yes they bloody do, they’re all at it. Julia Roberts, Uma Thurman, Kate Moss, Sarah Jessica Parker. Ring any bells?’
‘Never heard of them.’
She smiles.
‘I can be knitting things for the baby, in my lovely new home.’
‘Oh, right. Yes. I can see how that might work actually.’
‘I’m so glad you agree.’
Ed laughs.
Grace takes a sip of her juice, and then turns to me and smiles again.
‘We’ve got Daniel Fitzgerald coming to do some photographs tomorrow and everyone’s rather jumpy about it. Except me, of course, because I love him.’
Christ. Even I’ve heard of Daniel Fitzgerald. He does fashion photographs but he also does brilliant portraits, and there was a piece in one of the papers about him a few weeks ago, where they called him Fitzcarraldo, because he’s so relentless when he�
�s working. I think I may have worked out why Grace is looking so fabulous this morning.
Ed snorts. ‘If you love him so much, why did you say he was a total nightmare last time?’
Grace gives him a rather cool look. ‘I was joking.’
‘And can you do the knitting thing, then?’
‘Of course I can. Jo can help me.’
Ed’s shaking his head when Maxine comes back in, looking agitated.
‘He’s here.’
‘Who?’
‘Daniel Fitzgerald. He just buzzed at the gate and said he got here quicker than expected and could he come in to say hello.’
‘I hope you told him to bugger off.’
There’s a silence.
‘Bloody hell.’
Ed looks quite pleased. ‘See, this is exactly what happens if you don’t let me organise things.’
Maxine glares at him. ‘It’s hardly my fault if he turns up early. He’s not due until two, I only spoke to his stupid assistant yesterday, and we confirmed times and everything.’
Ed smiles at her.
‘Well, maybe you should have told Fitzcarraldo.’
The doorbell rings, in a very aristocratic servants-bells-ringing kind of way; no novelty door chimes here, which is a shame because I was rather hoping for Hooray for Hollywood.
‘Well, go and let him in, unless you’re planning on leaving him standing outside.’
Maxine and Ed go out.
‘Damn. I was going to change.’
Grace looks down at her dress, as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing, then picks up the marmalade shawl, drapes it round her shoulders and knots it slightly to one side, and pins on one of the matching flower brooches.
‘I’m serious, about the knitting, if you’ll help me?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘You’ll have to be on call, for emergencies.’
‘There aren’t really emergencies in knitting.’
‘There will be with me, trust me.’
‘Right, well, yes, I’m sure I could do that.’
‘And I need it to look right, if I’m knitting in photographs. I don’t want some old bag writing saying I’m doing it upside down or something. Are you free tomorrow for a couple of hours, because it would be great if you could be around?’
