The Make

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 27

22 December

Sandy and Gracie sat on either side of George’s bed in intensive care. George’s nurse had taken the pyjamas and dressing gown from Gracie, said thanks, and was now scooting around them, smiling briskly, checking monitors, reattaching tubes. To Gracie, George looked just the same as he had last night – seriously ill. Maybe terminally. But Sandy was nattering on to him, spouting any old crap, telling him about the weather, how much she was looking forward to having him back with her for Christmas, her day at work.

‘You’re in admin? What line of business?’ asked Gracie, butting in because now she wished she hadn’t come, she hated this place, the stink of the antiseptic, the sheer heat and confinement of it, seeing George laid out there like a living corpse. She was desperate for distraction.

‘Dental supplies,’ said Sandy brightly. ‘Anything you want to know about amalgam, drill bits or sterilizing units, I’m your girl. I know all the terminology. Medial, occlusal, distal. All that stuff.’

Gracie nodded. She thought that Sandy seemed very ‘up’ tonight, which she supposed was fair enough. These places took different people in all sorts of different ways: who was she to judge? If it helped Sandy to witter on while clutching George’s hand like a lifeline, what could it hurt?

‘I’m going to nip outside, get some coffee. You want some?’ asked Gracie.

‘No thanks.’ Sandy barely took her eyes off George’s face. Gracie turned away gratefully and was out of the door with indecent haste. She went out into the corridor and walked smack into Lorcan Connolly.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked as he grabbed her arms to prevent a violent mid-corridor collision.

Gracie irritably shrugged herself free. Looked at him. God, still so good-looking, so imposing, so . . . stop it, Gracie. Forget it. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.

‘I came to see George,’ said Lorcan.

‘He’s just the same,’ said Gracie, fumbling in her bag for change. ‘Jesus, it’s red-hot in here.’

She went over to the vending machine and got a coffee, then came back to where he was now sitting. She sat down as well, not too close, sipping at the coffee, which was vile.

‘They probably won’t let you in anyway,’ said Gracie. ‘Near-relatives only.’

‘I am a near-relative,’ said Lorcan calmly. ‘I’m his brother-in-law.’

Gracie gave him a scathing look. ‘For now,’ she said.

Lorcan sat back and folded his arms, his eyes on her face. ‘Yeah, when are you going to get those papers signed and back to the courts?’

‘As soon as I can,’ said Gracie coldly. ‘But they’re in Manchester, and I’m in London, so no can do. Not yet, anyway. As you can see, I have slightly more important things on my mind. Why, you got some other poor cow lined up?’

Now he was smiling. ‘Charming as ever,’ he said.

‘Hey – you sent the divorce papers.’

‘So you think I must have someone standing in the wings, ready to hop into the marital bed the minute you vacate it?’

Gracie blew on the coffee and sipped it. It was displacement activity, but she needed it right at that moment, because what had just sprung into her mind was a vision of her and Lorcan in bed together. And why had she said the papers were in Manchester? She had them right here, in her bag. She’d stuffed them in there with the Jiffy bag of hair and the rest of the post, meaning to sort it all out later.

‘Actually,’ said Gracie. ‘Just a small point, but an important one I think you’ll agree – I vacated that damned bed five years ago. You could have filed after two, you know. Irreconcilable differences. Which pretty much fits the bill, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yeah, I would. So why didn’t you file?’ returned Lorcan sweetly.

It was a good question. And Gracie knew the answer; she hadn’t filed because the whole thing had been too painful even to think about. She’d loved him so much; but life – well, work – had intruded, pulled them apart. They’d been unable to find a compromise, and it had destroyed their marriage.

She shrugged. Kept her face blank. ‘Too busy, I suppose.’

‘Oh yeah. Gracie the dedicated career woman.’

‘That’s what I am,’ said Gracie.

‘Yeah,’ said Lorcan. ‘Hope it keeps you warm at night.’

‘Listen, I am plenty warm at night,’ said Gracie.

‘Gracie, you love your casino, that’s just bricks and mortar. And you were nearly in tears yesterday over a fucking car. That’s not natural.’

The git. It hadn’t just been the car. It had been everything. The threat on the windscreen. George and Harry. Her mother. The fire. The scare over Brynn’s safety. The notes. Those bags of hair. Everything. Oh yeah – and seeing Lorcan again. That had upset her too. It was still upsetting her, even now.

But his words had hit home like a hammer-blow. Maybe she did love her job and all the sweeteners that went with it too much. For a year now she’d had no close family, no friends except work colleagues, not even a lover. She had no time for any of that. Work claimed every waking minute of her day, and by the time she got home she was too bloody tired to even notice the gaps in her life, far less actually care about them.

‘Don’t you think this is a bit harsh?’ she demanded, going instantly on the defensive. ‘Pitching up at George’s hospital bed to tell him he’s fired?’

Lorcan stared at her. ‘I was going to fire him, but now I’m just hoping he’ll recover. What sort of a shit do you think I am?’

She gave a cynical half-smile. ‘Oh, you don’t want an answer to that.’

‘Yeah, I do. Come on. Let’s have it.’

Gracie stood up abruptly. She dumped the plastic cup and most of its contents in the rubbish bin and glared down at him. ‘You know what? I can’t be arsed with all this. Tell Sandy I’ve gone home, will you? And in future, let’s just do this through the courts, okay? I have nothing left to say to you, Lorcan. Nothing at all.’

When she got home, Suze was sitting at the kitchen table having a smoke, and from behind the closed lounge door came the sounds of gunfire. Claude was clearly in there, watching Bruce Willis – or someone like him – wreaking havoc.

Suze looked up as Gracie came in, and her face hardened into grimmer than usual lines.

Gracie took one look at her mother’s face and thought: No. I’ve had enough. She turned in the kitchen doorway and made as if to go on up the stairs.

‘How’s George?’ asked Suze quickly.

Gracie paused. ‘The same,’ she said.

Suze nodded, her face tight with dislike as she stared at her daughter. ‘I know what you did,’ she said.

Gracie looked at her mother’s face. Suze’s eyes were hostile. ‘What?’ asked Gracie, bewildered. ‘You heard me. I know what you did. Claude explained everything to me.’

Gracie opened her mouth to speak, to ask what the . . .?

‘No, you listen to me,’ snapped Suze, stubbing out her cigarette with vicious movements. ‘Claude told me exactly what went on with you last night.’

Gracie leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. ‘Oh really? This I’ve got to hear,’ she said.

‘Now don’t come that acid tone with me,’ said Suze, coming in close to her daughter. ‘It all happened just as Claude said. He came up to your room and knocked on the door to ask if you wanted anything to eat. He was being polite. And you opened the door in your underwear and gave him the come-on; you invited him in.’