Chapter 22

22

Eris, summer 2002

There was a man in Vanessa's kitchen. His blond hair was receding a little, his torso was deeply tanned. He was wearing shorts, the baggy sort favoured by younger people, and nothing else. When he turned to face her, Grace saw that the shorts sat so low they revealed a deep iliac crest and a tuft of pubic hair.

‘You must be Grace,' the man said, holding out a hand for her to shake. ‘I'm Julian. What are you cooking for us tonight?'

Grace ignored his hand, hoisting the shopping bags on to the kitchen table. ‘I'm not cooking. I picked up a few things for Vanessa,' she said. ‘If she were left to her own devices, she'd starve.'

‘Good of you,' Julian said. Peering into one of the bags, he drew out a packet of butcher's minced beef, raised an eyebrow and replaced it. ‘Did you get fags?' he asked, looking up at her with a smile.

Grace turned her back on him. ‘She'll starve, but she won't forget those,' she said, and left the room. She walked into the hallway and out of the front door; she marched across the courtyard, and straight up the hill.

Vanessa was throwing, her foot on the flywheel, her attention wholly focused on the task at hand, and yet before Grace could speak, she said, ‘I'm working.' A warning tone.

‘I brought some shopping,' Grace said.

‘Thanks.' Vanessa did not look up; instead, she turned her shoulders very slightly, angling herself away from the door. Away from Grace.

Grace didn't move. She stood in the doorway for a minute, two, in complete silence, waiting for Vanessa to look at her, to explain – to explain herself, to explain why he was here – to say something .

But Vanessa did not yield. Frustrated, Grace turned away and saw that he had followed her from the house. He was standing on the path, halfway up the hill, cigarette in hand, watching. Smiling his dumb smile.

She was going to have to walk past him. She was going to have to endure his gaze all the way down to the car, feel his eyes on her pale, fleshy limbs, on the sweat patches blooming under her arms, on her face, puffy with summer allergy. As she walked down the path, he didn't move, only stood and smoked and as she went past said quietly, ‘ à bient?t. '

In those days, Grace still had her cottage in the village, so she could have avoided seeing Julian again. Only she couldn't bear to stay away. It needled her so, his presence on their island, she had to know why , she had to know for how long .

The day after that first encounter, she drove back over, hoping against hope that he'd be gone. But the little red sports car was still parked in the courtyard.

Grace parked next to it and went once more up the hill. The studio door stood open.

‘Vee?' Grace called out. The studio was empty.

Empty! Vanessa had barely left it for weeks, she had been working obsessively, preparing for the Glasgow show. Grace had not been exaggerating when she told Julian that if she didn't bring food, Vanessa simply wouldn't eat. Sometimes she begged Vanessa to take a break, to walk a little, to swim like she used to; It's not good for you , she said, cooped up like that all the time, breathing in all the dust and the paint, you need to take breaks. Vanessa bridled, refused, worked even harder.

And now, as soon as he turned up, the wheel stopped spinning and the studio stood empty ?

All the things Vanessa had said about him – that he was unfaithful, profligate, shallow, self-centred, prone to outbursts of temper – had she simply forgotten? Did it all fly out of her mind when he showed up in his flashy car with his tan and his smile? Anger began to build in Grace like a storm front, clouds of rage gathering behind her eyes.

She stomped back down the hill to the house. The front door was closed. She hesitated, listening, she even considered knocking. But this was her house, too, wasn't it? Hadn't it become hers, over the weeks and months they had lived together? She pushed the door open, calling Vanessa's name.

The house was warm and silent. She walked through the living room to Vanessa's bedroom, its bed unmade, the air thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sex. The kitchen was a mess, dishes in the sink, coffee grounds spilled on the counter and on the floor. A bottle of cognac stood open on the kitchen table next to an overflowing ashtray. The food Grace had brought the day before, the items she had carefully selected from the supermarket shelves, bearing in mind Vanessa's needs and wants, sat sweating in shopping bags next to the Aga.

Grace was on the point of leaving when she heard a scream. She rushed to the open window and looked out. Vanessa was on the beach with him; he was chasing her, grabbing at her, she was shrieking. They were playing, like children.

Grace knew she should leave but she could not, just could not walk away without looking Vanessa in the eye. She put the kettle on and made a cup of tea; she tried to drink it but her throat felt painfully constricted. She gave up, stood at the window and waited, watching the top of the stairs. Eventually, they appeared, stopping breathless on the top step to kiss, Julian sliding his hand roughly between Vanessa's legs. Her face burning with shame and anger roiling like acid in her gut, Grace forced herself back to the table. To be caught watching would be unbearable.

‘Gracious!' Julian laughed when he saw her there. ‘You're here. And what have you brought us today? Champagne? Oysters? Mince? ' He laughed again. ‘We were thinking of building a fire on the beach, what do you think? Have you brought us anything to barbecue?'

‘It'll be damp,' Grace replied sourly. ‘The tide is coming in.'

‘Oh, Grace, ma petite boule , such a killjoy. Isn't she a killjoy, Nessa?'

Vanessa sat down at the table and reached for Grace's hand, squeezing the tips of her fingers. Her face was deeply flushed, with excitement or exertion or, who knew, embarrassment?

‘You should go,' Vanessa said, smiling at Grace without meeting her eye. She squeezed Grace's hand again. ‘Go on, I'll come and see you soon.'

Grace left. As she passed beneath the open kitchen window on her way back to the car, she could hear, above the music of Vanessa's laugh, Julian's voice. ‘Why is she here all the time? What does she want, la petite boule de suif ? Is it a piece of you, Ness? Is that what she wants?'

Earlier that year, Grace had been promoted, moving from Carrachan to run the new village surgery in Eris. At lunchtime, in good weather, she could usually be found on one of the benches along the harbour wall eating her sandwiches, and it was there that Vanessa found her the next day.

‘You're upset,' Vanessa said as she sat down at Grace's side.

She was; she'd had a wretched morning, half an hour before lunch spent with the mother of a child who'd fallen into the quarry pool a few miles north of the village. The child drowned. The mother was half-mad with grief, sleepless, desperate. Please, Doctor, give me something . But Grace had already prescribed all the pills it was safe to give, so she had to send her away. She wasn't going to tell Vanessa about that, Vanessa wouldn't be interested. Vanessa was too selfish to understand.

Doggedly chewing her tuna sweetcorn, Grace didn't look at her. ‘He spoke to me as though I were the help.'

Vanessa laughed. ‘Julian speaks to everyone like that, I wouldn't take it personally.'

‘Does he speak to you like that?'

‘Well, no, not me,' Vanessa said. ‘I'm his wife.'

Grace looked at her then. ‘Are you? Is that how you see yourself? As his wife ?' She spat the word at Vanessa, who recoiled.

‘Well … I'm not saying it's a vocation ,' Vanessa said, her cheeks reddening. ‘It's just a fact. We're not divorced.' She got to her feet. ‘We're not divorced yet.' She looked away from Grace, out across the water. ‘Look, just … don't come to the house for a day or two. He'll only annoy you. OK? I'm going to Glasgow on Thursday to see Douglas about the show, I'll be back Saturday, or Sunday at the latest. He'll be gone by then.'

Grace raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the glare off the sea. ‘He'll be out of our lives?'

Vanessa turned to face her, expression quizzical. ‘He's not in your life, Grace,' she said. ‘He's in mine.'

As she walked away, Grace called after her. ‘I heard you talking about me, you and him. I heard what he called me, I looked it up. Ball of fat, it means. He called me a ball of fat, and you laughed.'

Vanessa slowed her pace momentarily, but did not turn around.

The following afternoon, when Grace came home from work, Vanessa was sitting on her front step in the sun, an almost-empty bottle of wine at her side. She swayed as she stood up.

‘Did you drive here?' Grace demanded, storming up to her. ‘You're drunk, Vanessa. You drove through the village. Past the school! I ought to …' She grabbed the collar of Vanessa's shirt, scrunching it up in her fist. ‘I ought to call the police!'

‘Grace!' Vanessa clutched at Grace's forearm with both hands. ‘Please …'

Grace relinquished her grasp. She snatched the car key from Vanessa's hand and marched past her into the house, slamming the front door behind her.

Vanessa found her in the kitchen, drinking water directly from the tap.

‘Butterball,' Vanessa said. ‘That's what it means. It's … it wasn't meant cruelly.'

Grace stood up and turned off the tap. ‘Yes, it was.' She looked at Vanessa, at her glassy eyes and her petulant expression; Grace wanted to slap her. ‘Men like him … they have a special kind of contempt for women like me – ugly women. I've felt it all my life. An ugly woman is barely human to a man like your husband. It's sickening, but not all that shocking. What's worse, what is utterly abject , is the way that women like you – the pretty, the chosen – the way you collude in that contempt. Simpering like a schoolgirl, because a man has paid you some attention. Laughing cravenly at his cruelties. It's pathetic.'

‘It's not like that,' Vanessa said. She bit her lip and began to cry; Grace turned away in disgust. Vanessa grabbed hold of her wrist. ‘ I'm not like that.'

Grace placed her hand over Vanessa's, trying to pry her fingers open, but Vanessa wouldn't let her go; she put her arms around her, encircling her waist, crying into the fabric of her shirt. Grace stood stiffly, hands at her side, taking long, deep breaths.

‘I don't know why I let him do it,' Vanessa said. ‘I don't know why I let him back in.'

‘He flatters you,' Grace said. ‘He exploits your vanity.'

‘Yes.' She spoke into the nape of Grace's neck. ‘Yes, he does. When he touches me I feel as though my bones will melt, I feel – for a few moments, a few hours – so wanted . There's such power in it, the feeling of being desired.' Grace tried again to disentangle herself, but Vanessa held on. ‘He flatters me, charms me, seduces me, and it's so good.' She lifted her head, looked into Grace's eyes. ‘The sex is so good. It's so self-affirming, isn't it, to be made to feel that way in bed?'

Grace wrenched herself free of Vanessa's stifling embrace. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, to sing like a child to block out the sound of Vanessa's voice, but Vanessa, following her across the room, kept talking. ‘Then of course he's barely come and he starts talking about money, the things he needs, how much he owes, the places he wants to go … He calls me selfish!' She shook her head. ‘He wants to know why, when I have all I need – the house and the studio and the island – why can't I just share ?'

Grace scoffed, incredulous. ‘He surely can't think you have anything to give him? For Christ's sake, you can barely keep the lights on.'

Vanessa sniffed, wiping her eyes. She went over to the sink and turned on the tap, taking a glass from the cupboard. ‘He's desperate,' she said, in between gulps. ‘He hasn't said so, but reading between the lines I think he's borrowed money from people he oughtn't to have borrowed money from.'

‘And he expects you to bail him out? If he's been stupid, he needs to take responsibility for that …'

Vanessa turned back to face her, her eyes filled with sorrow. ‘It was the thing with Celia Gray, you see, he thought he'd bought the winning ticket. He thought he didn't have to worry any longer. But then she died, and they hadn't married yet because we were still married, so he got nothing—'

‘He blames you!' Grace was astonished. ‘He blames you, and worse, you feel sorry for him!'

Vanessa drained the last of the water and placed the glass on the counter. ‘I do,' she said. ‘Isn't that stupid? I feel sorry for him, and I let him turn my head, I let him talk me into things, I lose the thread … of where I am. Who I am. I neglect the things that really matter to me, my work …' She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. ‘And you.' Grace lowered her head. ‘God, I never should have let him cross the threshold, the fucking vampire .' Vanessa approached Grace once more and reached out, placing the crook of her forefinger gently beneath Grace's chin. Grace closed her eyes. ‘He was being cruel to you, Gracie. He was, and I don't know why I laughed, because it wasn't funny. I didn't find it funny then and I don't now. It's unforgivable.'

Grace sighed. ‘But I forgive you,' she said softly. She did not open her eyes.

Vanessa stayed the night. Before the sun was up, she rose to beat the tide and drove back across to Eris Island. The next day, on the Thursday, she left early again, this time driving to Glasgow to finalize plans for the show with Douglas.

That lunchtime, while Grace sat eating a sandwich on her bench overlooking the harbour, she saw Julian's little red sports car come racing across the causeway, haring up the hill and into the village at twice the speed limit.

On Sunday, the shops in the village were closed, so Grace drove to the market in Carrachan to buy food and flowers to welcome Vanessa home, but when she got over to the island that afternoon, Vanessa's car was already parked in the courtyard. The front door was open, but when Grace called for her, no answer came. Grace found her in the studio. She was kneeling on the floor.

She had blood in her hair, and on her clothes and hands.