Playing Grace (17 page)

‘Not a whisper, although why you’re ashamed of all that, I don’t …’ Felicity obviously decided not to chance her luck and veered off to, ‘Honestly, Grace, all I said was that you’ve always been the brainy one of the family. I told him how well you did up in Edinburgh.’

Grace recognised attention-diverting flattery when she heard it, but Felicity seemed earnest enough and a touch scared. That realisation, now her initial panic was subsiding, made Grace feel slightly ashamed of herself. She regarded her mother in all her shabby glory – her hair in need of a bit less henna and a bit more styling – and wondered whether to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘You’re sure, Mum? Nothing about what I did before
university? You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?’

There was a hesitation before Felicity said, ‘I mentioned your sisters, just a bit. Now, don’t give me that look. What harm can that do?’

Grace wanted to say,
It’s another door you’ve opened which someone like Tate will lean against
, but she doubted Felicity, who was very much of the fling-every-door-open persuasion, would understand.

‘All right, Mum. All right.’ Grace let her escape out of the cubicle, despite knowing that a released Felicity would be free to feel aggrieved. Grace could see it, even in the way she was smoothing out her skirt, if it were possible to smooth out pre-wrinkled cheesecloth.

‘Not a very nice way to greet your Mum,’ Felicity said, ‘imprisoning her in a toilet. Not that there’s a lot more room out here in this corridor.’

‘I’m sorry … it was a surprise to find you here.’

‘Well, I’m allowed to visit, aren’t I? Or has your father poisoned your mind against me?’

‘Stop being overdramatic, Mum.’ Grace folded her arms, wondering if she looked like a teacher again. ‘And, as you’ve brought up the subject of Dad, perhaps now you’d like to tell me what’s going on between the two of you? I’m presuming that’s the purpose of the visit? To win me over with your side of the story?’

‘No. I told you on the phone, I’ve got nothing to say. He’s the one who should be talking.’ Maternal arms were also folded.

‘Well, someone needs to say something. This is ridiculous. You know this is ridiculous. At some point, one of you will have to come clean.’ Grace let her mind clear. ‘So, what exactly have you come here for then?’

‘Some help.’

‘With?’

Her mother was looking evasive again. ‘Can we go back to your office first?’

‘No. Tell me here, without the audience.’

Felicity suddenly placed her hand on one of the walls and closed her eyes. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’m feeling a bit faint. Yeah, a bit woozy.’

Grace bit back the urge to say, ‘Come off it, Mum.’

The pattern of communication between her and her mother was well established these days. Grace would make some kind of headway, gain the upper hand and then Felicity would slap down the playing-for-sympathy card. If Grace was feeling brave, she would call her bluff, but today, the prospect of having to haul her unconscious mother back along the corridor and into the office in front of Tate made her uncross her arms and say, ‘All right, come and sit down. Have a cup of tea. I suppose if I’m actually in the
room with you, you can’t say anything to embarrass me too much.’

‘Charming.’ Felicity’s wall-leaning and puffing subsided and Grace steeled herself to face Tate and that amused expression of his.

He was sitting in her seat, looking at the computer screen.

‘Just checking on how many more reservations I’ve got,’ he said cheerily. ‘Yup, two more victims. So, how did it go? Show your mother that rash?’

Grace’s laugh in response to that was a false one; her mother’s sounded genuine. If Grace hated an audience, Felicity revelled in one.

Tate was up and out of her chair. ‘Take a seat – warmed it up for you. Another tea, Fliss? Gracie? Should be plenty of water in the kettle.’

Felicity handed him her cup with a look from under her eyelashes. ‘Do all American men have nice manners like you, Tate?’

Her mother seemed to be playing the part of an English woman who had never met a real live American man before. Possibly she was in some time warp involving the Second World War, a brave nurse and some wounded American fly boy.

‘No, ma’am, we don’t. But us men from the eastern seaboard, well, we’re a breed apart.’

Great. Tate was joining in the fantasy. Any moment now they’d start singing a duet of that song that goes ‘You say tom-a-toes, I say tom-ar-toes …’

‘So, Mum, now you’re feeling better,’ Grace said, sitting down and giving her mother a look that brought her back to the twenty-first century, ‘what can I help you with?’

‘That’s it, that’s my Grace,’ Felicity said, chuckling coquettishly. ‘No small talk, no messing about, just straight to business. Oh, she keeps us all right, does Grace.’

Tate nodded. ‘I’m getting that idea.’ He bent down to switch on the kettle, which, now that the table had been moved, was sitting on the floor.

Grace saw her mother give his backside an appraising look and she was still looking as he straightened up and waited for the kettle to boil.

‘Mum!’

‘What?’

‘You were about to tell me how I can help you?’

Felicity tore her gaze from Tate’s backside. ‘I was? Yes, I was. Yes. Well, I need to know the ins and outs of starting a business from home. What do I need to do?’

‘A business? What kind of business?’

There was a hint of defiance in the tilt of her mother’s chin, but her fingers were once again straying towards the ties on her blouse. Her bangles slid, rattling, towards the
crook of her arm. ‘Readings,’ she said. ‘You know, palms, auras. The cards. And classes, small ones, for yoga, meditation … and other stuff.’

Grace checked on Tate. He was still watching the kettle.

‘Other stuff?’ she mouthed at her mother. The stuff she had mentioned was bad enough – the constant companions of her childhood and teenage years; the things that had helped make her who she used to be.

The defiance in her mother’s chin had obviously spread to her mouth. ‘Grace doesn’t believe in mysticism, Tate. In harnessing the power of the universe, anything like that. Not like her sisters.’

‘Yeah? Well ain’t that a surprise?’ Tate said to the kettle and Grace tried to fire another warning shot across her mother’s bows with a particularly ferocious glare. She got a look back that made her wonder who was the child and who the mother.

‘What other stuff?’ Grace repeated, out loud this time, and had to wait for a reply while her mother watched Tate bend down again, switch off the kettle and carry it over to the table. He was standing putting the teabags in the teapot, half obscuring her mother, when Grace heard her say, ‘Massage and reflexology.’

Tate did a good job of not missing a beat but she saw his shoulders give one hike up and then down as if he
were laughing. Grace was glad he found it funny. She concentrated on watching the steam rise from the water being poured from kettle to pot before choosing her words very carefully.

‘Massage and reflexology? You’re practising those? Is this something new?’

‘No and yes.’ Tate was returning the kettle to the floor and it was only when Felicity had got watching that out of her system that she elaborated: ‘No, I don’t do it, and yes, it is new. My partner’s going to do it. Oh, thank you, love.’ She simpered up at Tate as he handed her a cup of tea.

Partner
? Not in a million years could that mean her father. The only way he would lay his hands on anyone he didn’t know was to frisk them.
Partner
? Ah, she had it. ‘Is this Maureen, the one with the mobile nail service? She does a bit of massage, doesn’t she?’

‘No. Not Maureen. It’s a man called Jay. Jay Houghton.’

The name arrived at the same time as the cup of tea which Tate was holding out towards her, and despite having her fingers round the handle, she seemed unable to grip. Obviously aware of this, he continued to stand there looking down at her as she let that name wander round her brain, zap across a few synapses and come up with a face. A face attached to a guy who was all pecs and flash. Didn’t he
work in that gym by the station? There was a Nikki Houghton too, from school. His sister. Grace thought she remembered something about shoplifting. Or was Nikki the mother?

‘Jay Houghton,’ she said, and found herself looking into green cat-like eyes, uncomprehending but amused nonetheless. A cat picking up a scent of something.

‘You gonna take this tea?’ he said. ‘Or shall I just keep holding it and you can bend forward and slurp? See you got your mouth open ready.’

She closed her mouth, took the tea and opened her mouth again. ‘I think there’s something else I need to show you in the toilet, Mum,’ she said, putting down her cup without spilling anything and getting up without appearing to rush.

But her mother was shaking her head, feet in her pointy boots still resolutely planted on the floor. One hand plonked her cup on the small table. Grace saw tea lap over the side of it and splash on to the wood.

‘Not going,’ she said, her telephone voice replaced by that of a truculent toddler.

‘I see. Well then, Tate, would you mind giving my mother and me a few minutes alone?’

Tate shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘No you don’t, Grace Surtees,’ her mother said, struggling to her feet now, bangles rattling. ‘You stay right here, Tate.
Go on, Grace, say what’s on your mind. Attack me, even though you know how sensitive I am. Even though I’ve brought you up not to be small-minded. Narrow. God knows I tried hard enough to make you a free spirit like your sisters. But if all you can say is, “Isn’t Jay young?” Or, “Aren’t you old enough to be his mother?” Or even, “Who’s he been practising his massage on then, Felicity?” Well, don’t bother. It’s a business arrangement. That’s all.’

Tate had seemed unsure at the start of that speech whether to stay or go, but now he was sitting on his chair and, as her mother stopped speaking, he swivelled his seat to face Grace, looking as if he were in ringside position for whatever she had to say next. He had his eyebrows raised expectantly.

All the things that Grace had been going to lob at her mother died in her mouth. She was not going to provide Tate with any more entertainment today. ‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ she said reasonably. ‘I just thought you’d like to discuss business in private, but if you’re happy to do it here … Let’s see … So first, I’d advise you to go and see a small business adviser – they’ll be more up to speed with everything than me. If you want a bank loan, say for equipment such as massage couches or to cover your increased fuel bills, you’ll need a business plan – projected costs, earnings, that kind of thing.’ She sensed Tate was watching
her closely. ‘It might also be an idea to consult a solicitor about getting your partnership set up legally, sorting out how capital investments, expenses, profits and so on are divided. Then, of course, you’ll need to ask the council whether you have to have any kind of permission to operate a business from a domestic dwelling. Oh, and think about your tax position; I’m sure the accountants near the library would be happy to help. Plus there’s stuff like insurance, safety regulations, etc. etc.’

She finished with a beatific smile, fuelled entirely by willpower.

Her mother’s expression had become more and more disappointed as Grace had been talking and now she had the appearance of a knight who had strapped on armour and girded his loins for a fight, only to be told that the dragon had turned out to be a pacifist.

‘So, was there anything else?’ Grace asked, chancing lifting her cup of tea to her mouth. Her hand was as steady as Tate’s gaze.

‘No,’ Felicity said, looking confused now as well as thwarted. ‘No, that’s … that’s helpful Grace. I knew you’d understand where to start. Uh, I’ll have a look into that adviser bloke. Yes. So …’ Felicity was gathering up her bag as if she had no game plan left and the only thing to do now was bail out. She looked theatrically at her watch.
‘I … I’d better be off. I said I’d meet Jay later to … discuss plans.’

‘I’ll see you to the door.’ Grace put her cup down and helped her mother retrieve her cape from the coat hook, a cape which had been in and out of fashion at least twice since Felicity had first bought it. Grace even held her mother’s bag while she struggled into the orange and green tartan wigwam.

‘Goodbye, Tate,’ her mother said, and he gave her a thumbs-up and a wink, which she took with a slightly martyred air, as if it were her due.

They were only just outside the black door, still on the landing, when Grace let her have it: ‘Mum, you should be very careful with Jay Houghton. Going into business with him.’

Her mother turned on her, immediately powered back up into righteous indignation mode. ‘Oh, I see. Got me outside to say that, did you?’ And why should I be careful, Grace? Huh? Huh? He’s a fully qualified fitness instructor. And he’s got certificates for massage courses. Reflexology courses. So spit it out, girl, what are you getting at?’

Felicity’s hands were on her hips, which made it look as if someone had pitched the wigwam and balanced her head on top of it.

‘I’m not getting at anything,’ Grace said, trying to soothe
her mother by dropping her own voice. ‘It’s simply that you can be impetuous and Jay can be charming. It’s not a good combination for making objective business decisions. I think you need to take a step back.’

Felicity took a step forward. ‘You know what, Grace? I could have guessed what your attitude would be. And know what else? I can guess what your sisters will say.
They
will wish me well.’ She turned and started walking down the next set of stairs, a constant stream of talk coming back at Grace, most of it to do with her negative energies. Grace was rounded on again as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

‘Your aura. It’s stinking black – you know that, don’t you?’

Grace didn’t answer and did her best to look bored, but her mother’s finger was jabbing at a place where Felicity believed her aura should be. ‘You can’t go against your true self. You’re a child of nature, not commerce. You’ve never let your heart open up again after Bill, that’s the trouble. You’ve just bound it up tight. You’ll do yourself damage. It’ll burst out one day, your heart.’