Playing Grace

by Osmond, Hazel

  ‘I see you’ve been unpacking,’ Grace had said, looking back through the kitchen door at the books and magazines that were now out of their boxes in the hall and arranged in piles that obviously meant something to her father but just screamed mess to her.

  Over supper, Grace had broached the subject of her mother’s visit to the office and, in response, got a grunt and a request to pass the salt. When she tiptoed up to and delicately mentioned Felicity’s plans to set up a business, her father began viciously to cut up his lasagne, but said nothing.

  ‘Is it the idea of starting a business that’s rattled you, Dad?’ She had used her kindest voice, her softest tone.

  He had said, ‘No, it might be a goer. God knows there are enough mugs about,’ and clammed up again.

  Feeling like a dentist trying not to touch a nerve, Grace probed further, suggesting it was perhaps, then, the person her mother intended as a business partner that was unsettling? Grace had been unable to say Jay Houghton’s name but her father had spat it out as soon as she’d stopped talking and vehemently used the word ‘waster’ to describe Jay, Jay’s father and possibly Jay’s father’s father. ‘He comes from a long line of wasters,’ he summed up, doing horrible things to his salad with his fork. ‘None of them has ever worked up a sweat at anything.’

  Grace did not point out that as a fitness trainer Jay probably worked up quite a lot of sweat.

  ‘He’s not just a waster, Grace; he’s a looker and a charmer too. And your mother, she gets passionate about things.’ He indicated his papers and files. ‘God knows I don’t mind that. How could I when she’s never complained about my hobby? And I’ve never minded when she latches on to someone and thinks the sun shines out of their backside for a while.’ He brought his hand down flat on the table. ‘But there are passions and there are passions.’

  There was no further opportunity for discussion as her father took himself off for a bath. He had seemed so folded in on himself, so hurt, that she didn’t broach the subject of tidying away his stuff in the kitchen.

  Grace gave the clam another look as if she could work out how to get it to spring open and so use that knowledge in any further conversations with her dad. Had Felicity actually done anything specific to make her father jealous? Or was it a general grouchy, jealous feeling he was nursing?

  None the wiser, she thought she’d better make an effort to rejoin Tate and Alistair. She began retracing the route she had taken, but there were no Bollywood posters in the room she entered, or the next one, and she was just turning around again when she stopped. The painting in front of her could have been a window, so clearly did it make her feel as if she were looking out on to the beach in San Sebastián. It was late; the families and the groups of girls flirting with the lads playing volleyball had gone home and, in the dipping sun, the beach was a red gash of paint and sand mixed and swirled and flung on to the canvas. The sky was blue-black as if a storm were coming; lines had been gouged in the paint by what Grace knew were fingernails. Two figures were running on the sand, their bodies twisted and stretched but still recognisably human. Grace could smell the sea, feel the sun on her skin. There was the sound of the waves, the seabirds getting noisier and noisier. She wiggled her toes – her shoes were gone and her toes were caked with sand. God, how she’d loved the fact that she could go days without having to wear any shoes, nothing between her and feeling life beneath her feet.

  The gallery was falling away around her, the people like shadows, less real than the ones in the painting. She needed to move, get to a bench or against a wall. Where was the air in this gallery? There was no air. What the hell was the painting doing here?

  ‘Yay, got you.’ It was Tate’s voice right next to her. ‘Nice try, Gracie … nearly escaped, nearly made it to the main exit, but I tracked you down. Guess Gilbert’s already gone over the wall, huh?’ There was a laugh. Was it from him or the painting? ‘Well, old Gilb’s out of luck: Al’s gone off to find him and drag him back …’ She sensed he was looking at her more intently now and she tried, really tried to breathe and be bland and hope he didn’t notice the sand on her feet and her wet hair and, God, why was it so suffocating in here?

  ‘OK, what’s got you so fascinated?’ Tate was saying, ‘Ah, nice one: a Bill Jackson. Well, look at that.’ She saw him lean in for a closer inspection. ‘Early one, I’d say.’ He was walking to the label on the wall. ‘Yup. Kindly loaned by the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. Painted during the summer of 2004 in Spain and conveys a particularly turbulent time in the artist’s life.’ She sensed he was back at her side. ‘Turbulent? No kidding. Looks like him and the paint had a fight. The energy in that sky! Seen some of his more recent ones in New York. Nothing like this. This is wild. Apocalyptic.’

  ‘It’s very rare.’ Had Grace said that? No, it was a woman, in black, with something written on her T-shirt. Grace registered that she was from the gallery and with that understanding the sand round her feet was disappearing, going back into the painting. She was standing by Tate, this woman, and he was no longer looking at Grace but at her. It was going to be all right; the window was closing, the noises fading. She chanced glancing down at her own feet again and saw the shine of her shoes. Her skin was cooling. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ the woman was saying, ‘I heard you talking about this painting. It’s from Jackson’s time in Spain, of course – San Sebastián. As you can see, we only have it on loan from the National Gallery in Edinburgh; they bought it a few years ago from a private collector. We’re thrilled to have it here … it’s possibly the only one remaining from that period of his artistic development. You probably know the story – destroyed the rest, burned them when he left Spain.’

  Tate was nodding and as neither he nor the woman was looking in her direction, Grace fought to put the new version of herself back in charge and push Spain and Bill back down the years, away from the present.

  She noticed for the first time that Tate no longer had his hat on. It was rolled up into itself like a soft grey ball and he was passing it from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth. His blond hair against the blue black of the sky made her want to turn away and run back through the rooms.

  ‘Jeez, imagine burning all your work,’ he said to Grace, still balling up his hat, and she realised it was because that thought really disturbed him.

  She wondered if it would look weird if she went to sit down. She decided it would.

  The woman was rattling on again, a smug look on her face. ‘Of course, those of us in the know feel that Jackson didn’t actually destroy his earlier paintings. We think he’s holding on to them until his star rises even further. He’s very collectable, you see, and the longer he keeps them off the market, the higher the prices will go.’

  The woman gave the impression that she would like to go on proving to them how knowledgeable she was, but a couple were approaching, obviously intent on talking to her.

  ‘You all right? Tate asked when the woman had left them. He was frowning. ‘Look a bit clammy there. Wanna

  sit?’

  ‘We should go and find Alistair.’

  ‘He can wait. You sure you’re OK?’

  She nodded and he gave her and the painting another quick check. ‘Think the woman was right, that he has kept them? I mean, everyone knows he’s a nut job, but burning your own paintings. What a fucking waste. Just think if they were all as stunning as this one. A crime.’ He shook his head as if it were unfathomable to him.

  ‘Where did you say we’re meant to meet Alistair?’ Grace asked, already starting to move. She did not want to look at his sad face one moment longer.

  ‘I didn’t, but I guess the lobby’s a good place. ’ He seemed loath to leave the painting, as if he feared someone would sneak up with a match the moment his back was turned. She was still walking, with no idea if it was the right direction, and suddenly she felt Tate next to her.

  ‘It’s this way,’ he said, indicating the route with a nod of his head, and they r
etraced their earlier steps, Grace feeling calmer the more distance she put between herself and the picture and thankful that Tate seemed more concerned about unballing his hat and pulling it back on his head than talking to her. He’d noticed she had been rattled by Bill’s painting, she was sure of that, but maybe his dismay at hearing about the burned paintings had wiped it from his mind. Now his hat was back on his head, he was giving every impression that there were no thoughts at all in his brain. Watching him bounding along, looking from left to right trying to spot Alistair and Gilbert, he was like an overenthusiastic golden retriever. In a suit. She wondered if he’d be as enthusiastic about everything when he was a bit older and wiser, when life had kicked him around a bit. He suddenly stopped and she had to halt and do a sidestep to avoid treading on the back of one of his boots.

  ‘So, out of everything you’ve seen today, Gracie, what did you like the best?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I’m guessing it’s not all new to you – must have seen a lot of good modern stuff when you were in Edinburgh – but you’re hard to read.’ He gave her one of his sidelong glances, that flash of green putting her back on her guard.

  ‘I liked the paper sculptures a great deal.’ She pretended she was also looking for Alistair and Gilbert. ‘And those Bollywood posters back there. Really clever.’

  ‘You sure? That’s all? Not that Bill Jackson? ‘Cos I thought if I hadn’t happened along, you might still be standing there gawping at it?’

  She frowned. ‘Well, I was … intrigued … by how he’d managed to make it so over the top; you know, dark sky, blood-red beach, all that angst. Oh look, there they are …’ Alistair and Gilbert came into view and she gave them a wave, even though she felt like running towards them and possibly hugging them. ‘To tell you the truth,’ she added, feeling bolder now escape was at hand, ‘it actually made me feel a bit queasy – too much going on in it.’

  She didn’t know whether she’d gone too far with her explanation and she didn’t wait around to find out if he believed it. She was advancing on Alistair and Gilbert.

  On the way out, the know-it-all attendant passed them and gave Grace a patronising smile, and Grace would very much like to have said to her, You really, really don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Bill Jackson’s early works did end up on the fire. All except the three sealed up in bubble wrap under my bed, the two I sold to a guy in Houston and that one on your shiny white gallery wall.

  She did not say any of that, just arranged her face into a mask of serenity and passed out into the rapidly cooling autumn afternoon.

  CHAPTER 17

  Violet watched Gilbert and his lamb chop. He was pushing it towards the mound of mashed potato at the edge of the plate. He swirled it around in the gravy. Now the chop was let alone for a while as he speared some peas with the prongs of his fork. She didn’t like the look he gave them before he brought his teeth together around the fork and scraped the peas into his mouth.

  The chop got another trip through the gravy.

  ‘You’re playing with your food,’ she said.

  He did not reply, although she was certain he had heard her. Or perhaps he hadn’t – those mice were particularly verbal this evening, taunting her that the traps were still primed, still empty.

  Gilbert put down his knife and fork on his plate and Violet said, ‘On the hour, Gilbert. Please!’

  He gave her one of his looks but reached out and repositioned the fork so that it was no longer lying at about ten to the knife’s twelve but right up hard against it. She didn’t care for the smile he gave her afterwards. It was the one he had given Mother when humouring her.

  ‘You didn’t like your chop?’ she asked.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘But we always have a lamb chop on Tuesday.’

  She thought that Gilbert was going to ignore her again. He was studying his plate.

  ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’ he said, eventually. ‘Every. Single. Tuesday.’

  Later he went out to the back garden to smoke and didn’t change out of his slippers. She watched him in the security light, making sure she stood back far enough so that he would not see her.

  ‘He’s in a funny mood,’ the mice said, and she had to agree with them. Restless. A bad evening. New people coming out of his mouth and into the house. Not just this Tate, but other names too.

  Corinne. Jo. Someone called Baby? Bebbie? An infantile name.

  Three women. Or was Joe a man? She couldn’t remember. Definitely two women. Young ones.

  And there was a woman called Shawna – she was an artist. Still a woman, though.

  She watched Gilbert smoking and even the way he was doing that seemed wrong, as if he couldn’t really be bothered.

  She had been looking forward to cutting a swathe through Shanghai this evening, making headway with the Bund and Yuyuan Gardens, but how could she settle down to it now?

  ‘You were going to talk to Grace,’ the mice said. ‘Better get a move on, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘not that it’s any of your business. Your business is to throw yourself on those traps.’

  She waited until Gilbert had finished his smoke before she went to the back door.

  ‘Grace,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long time since I saw her. Would you like to invite her to tea? One day after she finishes work, perhaps?’ She saw him trying to work out what this invitation meant. She was ready for him. ‘You’re very dull company at the moment.’ She returned to the kitchen, then turned round again. ‘You don’t have to be here … when she visits. You could go out. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Back inside the kitchen she watched Gilbert flick the end of his cigar thing over the back wall. She’d told him about that before.

  CHAPTER 18

  Grace knew that Tate’s first tour had been a success because he’d brought a large part of his group back with him and they were now out in reception talking about it. This was a slight improvement on the situation an hour earlier when they had been milling around her computer while Tate showed them some ‘really cool things happening in digital art’.

  And a huge, huge improvement on when she’d come in that morning to a strong smell of paint, the source of which was her office, where the Chinese lady had been relegated to one corner and the wall with the windows in it painted scarlet. Various sized rocks and bits of wood were leaning against the wall, some of which were painted gold and formed small cairns. A large question mark, also in gold, was painted on the wall and Grace felt that it mirrored the one filling her own head … well, the space that wasn’t filled with the words What a pile of rubbish. As she was thinking that, one of the cairns collapsed, and as she picked up the loose bits of rock and piled them back up, she got gold paint on her fingers.

  When she went to the toilet to try to wash off the paint there was a rubber glove over the handle with chopsticks skewered through it. She wondered, if she took it off the handle and blew it up, would it stay inflated long enough to hit Tate around the head with it? She tried to go through Alistair’s office to retrieve her grout-cleaning toothbrush so she could scrub at the gold paint on her hands, but his office was locked.

  ‘Of course it sodding well is. Bastardy, bastard, bastard,’ she shouted, before remembering that she didn’t swear and she didn’t shout and she had a nailbrush in her own desk.

  Tate seemed to think no explanation was needed for the artwork when he arrived, and since then Grace had been on barista duty again, her pleasant demeanour never wavering, even when a Goth girl and an austere Belgian couple requested decaf. Alistair had appeared and seemed delighted with the fact that the office had been invaded, presumably because it made him feel ‘hip with the happening’ or whatever mangled reading he was putting on it. Although Grace could see he wasn’t so overwhelmed with the wall and the rocks. He spent a few minutes weaving among the group to shake hands and ask them where they had come from as if he were suddenly a member of the royal family. Everything was again �
��Marvellous, marvellous,’ and while not exactly slapping Tate on the back, Alistair touched his arm in a gesture that suggested he was congratulating him. It was at that point that Grace discovered how hard it was to smile when your lips wanted to curl downwards. She found it even harder when soon afterwards Alistair disappeared into his office, only to emerge again clutching his briefcase and saying he was off to a meeting. He gabbled something about a London tourism committee, which was news to Grace. When she passed through his office to fill the kettle, she saw he had cleared a space for the secure cabinet.

  With the sound of more people arriving, Grace returned to reception to see Corinne, Joe and Bebbie. They laid claim to the sofa and the pastry and croissant eating session was repeated. Joe, still largely monosyllabic, went out for extra supplies for the people from the art tour. Music was put on again. Someone had a guitar, not electric thankfully, and started to play, trying to keep time with the music playing on the laptop.

  Grace made more coffee and returned to Alistair’s office, trying to block out the discussions about the ‘death of figurative art’ and who in the art world had or had not ‘sold out’. Unwilling to overhear which artists they might mention, she went to the kitchen and cleaned the grout between the tiles with her nailbrush and the toothbrush. In a small act of rebellion she also turned the cut-out of the Chinese lady upside down so she stood on her head, or where it would have been had she had one, and wrote on a Post-it note, Some people have no idea which way is up.

  Part of her bad mood, she knew, was down to jealousy. Her tour of ‘The Nation’s Best-Loved Paintings’ in the National Gallery that morning had not been as successful as Tate’s. Even before it started she had felt uneasy: Mr and Mrs Baldridge would again be part of her group and, so it appeared, would Monsieur Laurent. Tate must have booked him in. Memories of the currents of tension that had run between the Americans and the laconic Monsieur the first time had resurfaced as Grace walked along St Martin’s Lane towards her 10 a.m. start, but for the first hour and a half of the tour, history had not repeated itself. The other members of the group were a very quiet couple from Scotland and a Russian man who spoke excellent English. Mr Laurent was listening in his usual laid-back way and the Baldridges weren’t complaining about anything. There was even a bit of bonding between the two men over the shared reminiscence of that ‘goddam awful blond kook from the last tour’.