Unsticky

by Sarra Manning

  Her presents seemed a little shabby now: an Art Deco pair of cufflinks, a fancy pedometer, The Thin Man boxed set because Grace liked to think they had a Nick and Nora Charles vibe, a box of hand-made chocolates . . . but Vaughn tore into his presents, like he couldn’t wait to get to the toy surprise, scattering paper and ribbons on the floor.

  Grace could tell instantly that he was delighted with her gifts, turning each one over carefully, eyes soft with pleasure. He came to the last present and pulled out the scarf she’d knitted him with wool she’d found that was exactly the same shade of blue as his eyes. Even though things had been pretty awful between them since Miami, she’d still spent hours making the scarf on tiny delicate needles using tiny delicate stitches that would probably result in her being officially blind by the time she was thirty.

  Vaughn pored over the scarf without saying a thing, holding it up to his cheek to gauge the softness, running a finger over the edges. ‘You made it yourself,’ he announced. ‘Grace, it must have taken you ages.’

  ‘It was no big deal.’

  ‘It is a very big deal.’ Then Vaughn wrapped the scarf around his neck and smiled a big, dorky smile. It was the single, most adorable thing Grace had ever seen him do. ‘No one’s knitted me anything before.’

  Grace returned his smile and they were almost having a moment, which didn’t happen very often. ‘If I’d had enough wool, I could have made you a matching hat or maybe gloves.’

  ‘You’ve already given me quite enough,’ Vaughn said, piling up his presents so carefully that Grace wondered how often he was the giftee and not the gifter. Not very often, she decided, and made a little promise to herself that on the weeks when he wasn’t driving her to utter despair she’d get him a little present. Nothing fancy, but she was a firm believer in giving gifts, and not simply to celebrate special occasions, but just because.

  Vaughn was ripping the shrink-wrap off The Thin Man boxed set and Grace snuggled deeper into her corner of the couch as he got up and walked over to the TV. It hadn’t been her best Christmas ever, but it hadn’t been the worst either, so she was still ahead on points. She also had a feeling that Vaughn was still feeling guilty about the way he’d behaved on Christmas Eve, so he’d probably be on his best behaviour until 2 January at the earliest.

  chapter twenty-four

  Four days later, Grace sipped a mojito on the terrace of a penthouse apartment overlooking the Recoleta in Buenos Aires and watched the Eurotrash party hard around her.

  The people around her had an over-glossy, over-groomed, so-over-everything look and everyone danced as if everyone was watching - Grace always danced as if no one was watching. She saw a petulant girl snap her fingers in a waiter’s face because her champagne wasn’t chilled enough, while her friends had a competition to see who could hoover up the most lines of cocaine off a glass coffee-table, the way Grace downed shots of tequila when it was payday.

  Grace sighed as she saw the same oily guy who’d tried to chat her up twice already, heading in her direction. She put down her drink and went to find Vaughn.

  The penthouse belonged to a photographer who’d made his fortune from semi-pornographic, highly stylised ads for cigarette and car companies. Maybe that was why there were so many barely legal, barely dressed girls in attendance. Grace glanced through an open door to see a girl on her knees sucking off a man while people stood around and watched, their expressions bored rather than titillated. The whole scene made Grace feel contaminated, as if the skeeviness was an airborne toxin and she needed to hold her breath to stop inhaling great big whiffs.

  She finally saw Vaughn at the other end of the huge open-plan living space. He was talking to a large man who was red in the face and sweating profusely, bulbous belly straining against his white shirt. In fact, there wasn’t a lot of talking because the other man was too busy jabbing his finger into Vaughn’s chest.

  As she got closer, Grace saw Vaughn lean in to say something. She could tell from the set of his jaw and his humourless smile that it was something if not outright rude, then flippant, obnoxious and guaranteed to get a rise. She’d been on the receiving end of those barbed remarks enough times to recognise the signs.

  It wasn’t really a surprise when the man lunged at Vaughn, shoving him up against the wall as Grace broke into a teetering run.

  ‘You undercut me like that again, I will fuck you up!’ the man spat in Vaughn’s face. ‘You’re an arrogant piece of shit.’

  ‘Vaughn? I want to go. Now!’ Grace planted herself firmly between Vaughn and his attacker without even thinking about it. If she had thought about it, she’d have kept her distance because, well, she’d never been made of brave. ‘Please. I’m getting a headache.’

  Vaughn made a great show of whipping out his pocket square and wiping his face, as if the other man had spittle issues. ‘Of course we’ll go,’ he said easily. ‘Carlos’s parties aren’t what they used to be. He invites the most appalling people.’

  Grace heard the other man snarl and she was sure he was going to lunge again and she’d be crushed to death between Vaughn and the other man’s beer gut. Trust Vaughn to goad him a little bit more, rather than making with a speedy getaway.

  But then the snarl turned to a laugh and the man took Grace’s hand, which she’d been holding up in a gesture that she’d totally stolen from Diana Ross. ‘The new girl,’ he drawled, planting a fleshy kiss on Grace’s knuckles, which made her want to squirm. She did squirm when his eyes moved to her breasts and stayed there.

  ‘That’s quite enough, Raoul,’ Vaughn clipped out, because the man would have to have a really tacky name.

  But Raoul wasn’t done yet. Still not taking his eyes off Grace in her shocking pink Preen mini-dress, which still showed approximately seventy-five per cent less skin than the other girls’ dresses, he sneered: ‘You always did go for the mundane, Vaughn. I’ve never been able to fathom your choices.’

  ‘And yet, two years down the line you’re happy to jump on the bandwagon and tell anyone who’ll listen that you got there first,’ Vaughn said smoothly. Grace let Vaughn take her hand and pull her away from Raoul and his really powerful body odour.

  Grace could feel Vaughn’s fingers trembling slightly and for the first time she felt sorry for him. Confrontations weren’t so much fun when you were the one who was being confronted.

  ‘Well, that was bracing,’ Vaughn said in her ear, and even above the music and the chatter, Grace could tell that he was striving for a lightness of tone and falling short.

  ‘This party is completely creeping me out,’ Grace said, shuddering. ‘I don’t want to see the New Year in here.’

  Vaughn wasn’t moving towards the door, but towards the bar, and short of digging in her very spindly heels, Grace had no choice but to follow as he still had her hand clutched tight. When he did let go, it was only to grab two bottles of champagne.

  ‘Glasses,’ he said to the barman, who didn’t miss a beat but handed Vaughn two flutes. ‘You should probably take a third bottle,’ he told Grace, who frowned but did as she was told because when Vaughn was being this bossy, it was easier to follow his commands and not talk back. ‘OK, now we can go.’

  The streets of Buenos Aires were dark and deserted. Restaurants were shuttered, bars were closed and apart from a few cars speeding past, intent on getting to their destination before midnight, there was an unnatural stillness to the night. Vaughn had told her that most places were closed because the Argentines preferred to celebrate at home.

  They couldn’t find a cab so they started walking. It was hard to balance with two fragile glasses in one hand, a chilled bottle of champagne in the other and her clutch bag tucked under her arm, and in four-hour heels that had passed their comfort threshold forty-five minutes ago.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to Raoul,’ Vaughn said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. ‘He’s a vulgar arriviste with more money than sense. There’s no need to look so upset.’

  ‘I’m n
ot upset,’ Grace told him, swaying slightly. ‘Not now, but I don’t like scenes and that party was one gigantic, horrible scene . . . and my feet are killing me.’

  Vaughn glanced down at Grace’s silver Roland Cartier sandals. ‘Are they what you call limo shoes?’

  ‘More like taxi shoes,’ Grace said with a wince because the balls of her feet were on fire and she had a blister blossoming on her littlest left toe that chafed painfully every time she took a step. ‘Is it nearly midnight?’

  ‘We’ve still got an hour,’ Vaughn replied, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s not exactly an auspicious start to the New Year.’

  Grace opened her mouth to agree with him, then paused and looked around at the wide avenue and the ornate edifice of the Alvear Palace Hotel looming behind them. But it was more than that. It was New Year’s Eve and a warm night in Buenos Aires with a man she’d only known for four months, but he bought her diamonds, treated her orgasms as a top priority and drove her absolutely, teeth-clenchingly mad at least once every day. ‘Could be worse. I spent one New Year’s Eve on a night bus, another one throwing up from a dodgy curry, and definitely one in A and E.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that, I suppose wandering the streets of Buenos Aires does have a certain exotic appeal,’ Vaughn said, like he wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

  ‘We have champagne,’ Grace reminded him, ‘and we’ll still be able to see the fireworks. If we could just find somewhere to sit and drink, we’re golden.’

  Vaughn gazed around the empty street. ‘You’re not particularly religious, are you?’

  ‘God, no! Why?’

  ‘Church steps.’ Vaughn tilted his head to the left and Grace didn’t need to ask directions, she was already hobbling over to the Nuestra Señora del Pilar. Vaughn got there first and was already laying down his jacket with a flourish for Grace to sit on, in one of those gallant gestures that seemed innate, no matter how annoyed he was with her at any one time.

  Grace wanted nothing more than to sink down but, ‘Vaughn, that’s your Dries Van Noten jacket.’

  Vaughn was already sitting and tearing the foil off one of the bottles. ‘It’s only clothes.’

  ‘Why would you say something like that when you know it upsets me?’ Grace pouted, as she sat down with a grateful little sigh. ‘Only clothes? It’s never only clothes.’

  ‘I think this is one argument that I’m not going to win.’ Vaughn eased the cork out of the bottle carefully but the champagne still spurted out frothily from being jostled. Grace squealed in genuine alarm as a few drops landed on her dress.

  She held out the glasses but Vaughn was already swigging straight out of the bottle. He grinned when he caught the scandalised expression on her face as he handed Grace the bottle. ‘I promise I didn’t backwash,’ he said solemnly, eyes twinkling. ‘Oh, stop being such a princess and have a drink. I think we should both get disgustingly drunk.’

  As a plan, it got Grace’s vote. She made a big show of wiping the neck and then took a generous gulp. They sat there for long moments, hardly talking until something occurred to Grace. ‘How come I’ve never seen you drunk? You must have a very strong tolerance to alcohol,’ she mused.

  Vaughn leaned back on his elbows. ‘I just don’t drink as much as you.’

  ‘Whatever! You always order wine with dinner and brandy afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, but I never refill my glass and you’re too busy refilling yours to notice,’ Vaughn explained without any note of censure. ‘But tonight I’m going to match you swig for swig and we’re not going back to the hotel until all the bottles are finished and one of us gets arrested. Probably you, as it will be a first offence and they’ll be lenient.’

  ‘Second offence, actually.’

  ‘Don’t even try that one, Grace. You’ve never been arrested - you have absolutely no follow-through,’ Vaughn stated with utter certainty.

  ‘Well, shows how little you know because I have. Fingerprinted and everything,’ Grace said smartly before she remembered that it wasn’t a charming, funny story to see them on their way to inebriation.

  ‘Admit it, you once got a stern look from a policeman and that was as far as it went,’ Vaughn drawled, when Grace refused to be drawn on the details. He was already a good halfway down the first bottle, his usually impeccable posture the first thing to go, as he lounged back on his elbows. Then he had the audacity to nudge Grace so she nearly spilled her own bottle, which he’d made her open after he’d decided she might still be contagious.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Grace snapped as she slopped champagne, at ten dollars a swallow, over her leg. And she must have been a little drunk by now because she instinctively raised her knee and licked it off. ‘It’s a really lame story . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’ Vaughn lifted his elbow again and Grace sighed in defeat.

  ‘OK, then.’ She kicked off her shoes, even though she was pretty sure she’d never be able to get them on again. ‘I was in town one day, Worthing, because this was, like, six years ago . . .’

  ‘So, you were seventeen?’

  ‘If you’re going to interrupt then I’m stopping right now.’

  Vaughn mimed zipping his lips shut because he was a surprisingly amiable drunk and she continued. ‘So, it was a Saturday afternoon and I was in town and I saw my dad coming towards me.’ She grimaced at the memory of her father with his two little boys, one on his shoulders, one swinging on his arm. ‘And I hadn’t seen him for ages because there was this whole thing with the custody and child support, so I’m getting ready to smile and he just walks right past me, like I wasn’t even there. I knew he’d seen me because he’d been looking right at me . . .’ Grace tailed off and took a huge medicinal gulp of champagne.

  ‘What happened next?’ Vaughn gave her an expectant sideways look.

  ‘Nothing much. I went home but I was really mad about it and that night I was out with my friends and I got really pissed and went round to his house to break his windows.’ None of Grace’s friends had thought it was a good idea, apart from Angie whose own home was equally broken and was the bad seed best friend you always had when you were seventeen. Grace’s grandparents had hated her, which had just made Angie even more alluring.

  ‘You should so do that,’ she’d enthused as they’d sat on a park bench drinking cider.

  Grace had tried to chicken out until they got to the house and she’d seen the windchimes hanging up in the porch and the two cars parked on the drive and a swing-set in the back garden - all proof that her father didn’t want reminding of what a cock-up Happy Families v.01 had been. That was when she’d taken the brick Angie had found in a skip and lobbed it through the front window.

  Her aim had been straight and true. The window had shattered inwards with a deafening crash.

  ‘Angie ran off as soon as the window broke but my big mistake was waiting for him to come out so I could call him a wanker,’ Grace said with a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. ‘And he shouted at me, and his wife, who’s a fucking heinous bitch, called the police.’ Grace paused for more champagne. ‘The cops didn’t even want to press charges but he insisted. Said I needed to be taught a lesson.’

  They hadn’t put her in a cell because it was obvious, despite the caked-on make-up and the perilously short skirt, that Grace was a nice girl from a nice part of town who had Daddy issues. Mainly that her daddy was standing outside the interview room, where Grace had been put by an understanding WPC, and demanding that she was charged with aggravated assault and criminal damages.

  It had ended two hours later when her grandfather turned up wearing a raincoat over his pyjamas to persuade all parties concerned that Grace should be let off with a caution. ‘Then I was grounded for six months,’ Grace told Vaughn, who was now sprawled on the steps, his head in her lap. ‘The only reason I did so well in my A-levels was because I wasn’t allowed to watch TV and they took the plug off my stereo.’

  ‘Poor Grace,’ Vaughn murmured. ‘If it’s any consolation, your
father sounds like an utter bastard.’

  ‘Yup, he really is. My mum’s even worse.’ Christ, the champagne was like truth serum. ‘Y’know she was there when I went back to

  Worthing the day we flew to Whistler? I have this cute little half-sister who my mum’s going to fuck up because that’s what she does. But sometimes I wonder if she did fuck me up or if I just use it as an excuse.’

  ‘Grace, don’t,’ Vaughn said, reaching round with an unsteady hand to pat her back, which seemed to unlock something inside her so the words were spilling out unchecked.

  ‘You know, I didn’t graduate from St Martin’s, right?’ Grace tugged a lock of Vaughn’s hair to make sure he was giving her his undivided attention. ‘I walked out just before my final show because that was the week she had Kirsty and she decided to get in touch for the first time in years. I remembered that she wanted to be a fashion designer too but she got pregnant with me and didn’t take up her place at art school. She taught me to sew. I had this little dress form and she’d help me cut out patterns and sew them up. I’ve always told myself I walked out because I was scared I was going to turn into her, but maybe, secretly, deep down, I knew I wasn’t good enough and it was easier to jack it in than fail horribly.’