door for her and the only acknowledgement she got from Vaughn was a brief and dismissive glance as he looked up from his BlackBerry.
There was no need for him to be so huffy. After all, she was the injured party. ‘Look, maybe we could . . . ?’
But the door had closed and the driver was already behind the wheel and pulling away from the kerb. Grace was left standing on the sidewalk outside the Soho Grand on West Broadway with even the doorman giving her a disparaging look as he took in her dishevelled hair, crumpled dress and the way she was scrunching up her face to stop the tears from falling.
chapter seven
Grace did a lot of knitting during the next two weeks. It was now late August and London was still in the thrall of a relentless heatwave. The sun beat down on her bent head as she purled and plained and moss-stitched on buses and in cafés and, on one occasion, in Waterlow Park in Highgate until she got harassed by a gang of hoodies. Knitting was good for soothing her soul, and as Grace had sworn that she was never going to use a sewing machine ever again after jacking in her fashion degree, knitting would have to do.
She liked the rhythmic click of the needles, the feeling of the wool wrapped tight around her fingers, and the satisfaction as row upon row of perfect stitches emerged. Technically she was lapsed C of E, but Grace liked to think that knitting was her version of the Rosary - but without all the Hail Marys and vows of chastity. Besides, she’d been in a state of extreme agitation for a fortnight and it was either knitting or Prozac. As she’d never get time off for a doctor’s appointment, Grace knitted a pair of gloves with love and hate stitched across the knuckles, a peaked cap for her grandfather because his ears got cold when he golfed in winter, and a stripy jumper to use up all her odd ends of wool. Now she was sketching out patterns for a range of knitted accessories including an iPod holder and a make-up case with a vague plan that she could make enough money to pay off a fraction of one of her credit-card bills.
She’d come back from New York to find that the pile of brown envelopes that Anita and Ilonka from upstairs had thoughtfully left on her doormat, stamped with friendly warnings like Final Reminder! and Immediate Action Needed! had reached critical mass. Grace had an inkling that things might get ugly again, like they had last year when she’d been tailed by a private detective from a debt collection agency who’d wanted to repossess her credit cards. Fun times.
It wasn’t as if work could distract her either. Even though it was August, they were already working on the November and December issues, which were always light on both editorial and ad pages so it wasn’t as if Grace was busy calling in clothes for shoots and assembling the fashion credits. Instead she was busy listening to a newly single Posy regaling her with tales of horrific blind dates with old Etonians and getting quotes for granite worktops for Lucie’s new kitchen.
Worst of all, Lily was spending her annual fortnight at the family villa in the non-chav part of Majorca and Dan had sent Grace a pointed text message before they left, instructing her not to contact Lily. And Grace needed to contact Lily so they could have a long, drunken night out and Grace could tell Lily about the art exhibition and the Waverly Inn and dinner with Vaughn. But mostly she’d spend hours reliving and dissecting those ten minutes in the limo afterwards. Then Lily would say that he sounded like a total bastard and that Grace was well shot of him and all the bad thoughts would stop tormenting Grace. Or they’d lessen at least.
Because the bad thought that made all her other bad thoughts seem like the most microscopic of potatoes, all centred on the moment when she’d got out of that car and watched the tail-lights fade into the distance as he’d driven away from her. If she didn’t
There was no need for him to be so huffy. After all, she was the injured party. ‘Look, maybe we could . . . ?’
But the door had closed and the driver was already behind the wheel and pulling away from the kerb. Grace was left standing on the sidewalk outside the Soho Grand on West Broadway with even the doorman giving her a disparaging look as he took in her dishevelled hair, crumpled dress and the way she was scrunching up her face to stop the tears from falling.
chapter seven
Grace did a lot of knitting during the next two weeks. It was now late August and London was still in the thrall of a relentless heatwave. The sun beat down on her bent head as she purled and plained and moss-stitched on buses and in cafés and, on one occasion, in Waterlow Park in Highgate until she got harassed by a gang of hoodies. Knitting was good for soothing her soul, and as Grace had sworn that she was never going to use a sewing machine ever again after jacking in her fashion degree, knitting would have to do.
She liked the rhythmic click of the needles, the feeling of the wool wrapped tight around her fingers, and the satisfaction as row upon row of perfect stitches emerged. Technically she was lapsed C of E, but Grace liked to think that knitting was her version of the Rosary - but without all the Hail Marys and vows of chastity. Besides, she’d been in a state of extreme agitation for a fortnight and it was either knitting or Prozac. As she’d never get time off for a doctor’s appointment, Grace knitted a pair of gloves with love and hate stitched across the knuckles, a peaked cap for her grandfather because his ears got cold when he golfed in winter, and a stripy jumper to use up all her odd ends of wool. Now she was sketching out patterns for a range of knitted accessories including an iPod holder and a make-up case with a vague plan that she could make enough money to pay off a fraction of one of her credit-card bills.
She’d come back from New York to find that the pile of brown envelopes that Anita and Ilonka from upstairs had thoughtfully left on her doormat, stamped with friendly warnings like Final Reminder! and Immediate Action Needed! had reached critical mass. Grace had an inkling that things might get ugly again, like they had last year when she’d been tailed by a private detective from a debt collection agency who’d wanted to repossess her credit cards. Fun times.
It wasn’t as if work could distract her either. Even though it was August, they were already working on the November and December issues, which were always light on both editorial and ad pages so it wasn’t as if Grace was busy calling in clothes for shoots and assembling the fashion credits. Instead she was busy listening to a newly single Posy regaling her with tales of horrific blind dates with old Etonians and getting quotes for granite worktops for Lucie’s new kitchen.
Worst of all, Lily was spending her annual fortnight at the family villa in the non-chav part of Majorca and Dan had sent Grace a pointed text message before they left, instructing her not to contact Lily. And Grace needed to contact Lily so they could have a long, drunken night out and Grace could tell Lily about the art exhibition and the Waverly Inn and dinner with Vaughn. But mostly she’d spend hours reliving and dissecting those ten minutes in the limo afterwards. Then Lily would say that he sounded like a total bastard and that Grace was well shot of him and all the bad thoughts would stop tormenting Grace. Or they’d lessen at least.
Because the bad thought that made all her other bad thoughts seem like the most microscopic of potatoes, all centred on the moment when she’d got out of that car and watched the tail-lights fade into the distance as he’d driven away from her. If she didn’t
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