Authors: Gil McNeil
‘It worked out better not to confirm anything officially, for obvious reasons.’
I’m guessing she means her on/off relationship with Jimmy Madden, the bad boy rock star who most women under thirty would like to shag senseless, according to a recent poll for Channel Five. And who most men would like to actually be – or at least know, so they could go to his parties. But it’s all definitely over now, if the papers have got it right, and after a series of Graceless and Shameless headlines they’re all running pieces on Our Gracie, now putting her back up on the pedestal they spent so long knocking her off, while simultaneously monstering Jimmy.
‘Do you have kids?’
‘Yes, two boys.’
‘I keep having the weirdest dreams. Did you do that?’
‘Yes, especially with Archie.’
‘Really horrible dreams?’
‘Yes, flippers, Siamese twins, aliens, everything.’
She smiles. ‘And they’re fine?’
‘Yes. Noisy, and incredibly messy, but absolutely perfect.’
She smiles again. ‘And is their dad around?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve been wondering what the single-parent thing might be like. For obvious reasons.’
‘I think it’s pretty much the same as the two-parent thing, if you’re not desperate for money, and if you’ve got family to help you.’
We both smile this time, because if she started counting all her money right now I doubt she’d be finished until the middle of next month.
‘It’s bloody hard work, and they can be incredibly annoying sometimes, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.’
‘Did he bugger off?’
‘No. He was about to, but there was an accident. A car crash, actually.’
‘Serves the bastard right, then. Oh fuck, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so sorry. Fuck.’ She looks completely mortified.
‘You’re pregnant: blame it on your hormones. I was always blurting things out when I was pregnant. I still do, especially when I’ve got a major film star in my shop. You might have noticed?’
She laughs and unties her hair and brushes it with my manky old hairbrush which I keep by the sink. ‘How do I look?’
‘Absolutely beautiful. Stunning.’
‘I’m liking you more and more. Right, well, let’s get this over with. Oh, and give me a bag, will you? Actually, a couple would be great, then they can do Amazing Grace, out shopping for her baby.’
‘Right. Bags. With wool in?’
She looks at me like I’m slipping back into loon territory again.
‘Yes. I’ll pay for it later, or get someone to bring it back. Only no pink or blue.’
‘Okay.’
Somehow I don’t think this is an elaborate ruse for shoplifting. Blimey. Grace Harrison is going to be photographed coming out of my shop, carrying two of my new carrier bags with McKnits on them in pink lettering. Thank God I got the paper ones instead of the nasty cheap plastic, although I wish I’d gone for the thicker paper ones now.
We go downstairs and I put a selection of pretty cottons into two bags while she waits out of sight at the foot of the stairs.
‘Pale yellows and peppermint and lots of white?’
‘Great. And don’t stay by the door when I go out, go straight back in. They’ll come in as soon as I’ve gone, and ask you what I bought. Say baby wool, and I knit like the clappers, have done for years. Actually, do people knit like the clappers?’
‘Not unless they’ve got a machine, which rather defeats the point.’
‘Well I’ve been knitting for years and I haven’t just started since it got trendy, and you’ve known me for ages, and I’m very happy, and excited about the baby. But nothing else, okay?’ She gives me a rather fierce look.
‘Sure. Got it. Long-term advanced knitter, old friends, no idea about anything else.’
‘And when the shawls are done you can come to the house – I’ll get someone to call you. Thanks, you’ve been great.’
She kisses me, without actually touching my cheek, and she smells lovely, and then she’s gone, into a blur of flashing lights. I think I can see Mrs Davis out there, but there’s quite a crowd, and a massive black jeep with tinted windows. Elsie’s going to be furious when she finds out what she’s missed; I’ll never hear
the end of it. A young woman and an older man come in and ask me exactly the questions Grace said they’d ask, as soon as the car drives off. Bloody hell.
As soon as they’ve gone I ring Ellen. ‘You’ll never guess who’s just been in the shop?’
‘Captain Birds Eye?’
‘No. Even better.’
‘Dovetail Martin with a special plank to show you?’
‘No. Grace Harrison.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘I know.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Bugger. I hate it when they’re lovely. It’s so much better when they’re complete arses and then you can hate them. Is she stunning?’
‘Breathtaking.’
‘Damn. They’ve just confirmed she’s five months pregnant, like we didn’t know already. Is she huge?’
‘No.’
‘This is just getting worse. No word on Daddy, I suppose? Still off availing himself of all the Class A’s he can get his hands on, by all accounts.’
‘I know. She said.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That she’s pregnant.’
‘Everybody knows that, darling. What did she say about Jimmy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, if she pops in again bloody ask her, would you?’
‘No.’
‘Charming. She didn’t happen to tell you if it’s a boy or a girl, did she?’
‘No.’
‘God, this could be fabulous for you, darling. A VIP customer, just what you need. And then you can pass me top snippets.’
‘I’ll have to knit the shawls first, and then I’ve got to take them to her house. Her people are going to call me, apparently. It’s so exciting. And I’m not in the snippet game any more, remember?’
‘Oh yes you bloody are, if they’re for me. Look, I’ve got to go, darling, I’m late for a meeting – some bollocks about maintaining standards in the modern news environment. Or why we shouldn’t run live links to lying-bastard junior reporters on destroyers in the middle of war zones before we’ve checked that they’re not actually still in dry dock. But get cracking on the knitting and call me the minute you’re done, so I can prep you for your next meeting. And when her people call you, ask them if you can release it, the shawl thing, I mean. It’ll be great; you’ll get features on it, for sure.’
‘I think I’d better wait until I’ve knitted them before I ask anyone about releasing anything. She might change her mind or something, and then I’d look like a complete idiot.’
‘That’s my girl, always look on the bright side. Bye, darling.’
As I’m putting the phone down Gran comes in, shaking with excitement.
‘Betty rang me. Is it true? Grace Harrison? What did she buy? Betty said she’d got bags. Was she nice? Oh, those pepperonis are awful.’
‘I think you mean paparazzi, Gran?’
‘Yes, horrible people, making people look silly. What a terrible way to make a living. And look what they did to Princess Diana. Mind you if she’d stayed at home it would never have happened – everybody knows they drive like maniacs in France. Mrs Marwell was over there last year with her son you know, and it took them four hours to get out of Calais and she said she’d never been so frightened in all her
life. She got some lovely biscuits, though, like little pancakes, in blue packets.’
By the time I’ve sorted her out Elsie arrives, furious at having missed out, but desperate for every last detail, so I have to go through it all again, and then the three of us sit knitting shawls while Gran and Elsie hold court in the shop, entertaining a stream of customers who pop in for a mini-purchase and a mega-debrief; Elsie even temporarily suspends hostilities with Mrs Davis, because she stood right by the car and can provide fascinating details like how long it took before she stopped having black spots in front of her eyes after all the camera flashes.
I escape for a quiet moment upstairs by the fire. I’m meant to be doing a supermarket shop, but I can’t quite face it, not after my Hollywood moment. It feels like someone else should be doing mundane things like buying sausages for tea, so I sit knitting and try to calm down. That’s one of the best things about knitting: once you get past the mystery dropping-stitches stage, it’s brilliant at helping you relax. Even your breathing starts to slow down, and I bet if you were hooked up to one of those inflatable armband things your blood pressure would be going down too. Whenever I feel out of control I find myself wanting to knit, and the rhythm of the rows and the feel of the wool through my fingers usually sorts me out; even when I’m knitting a shawl for a major movie star, and I’ve got to finish it as quickly as I can, so I can pop round to her country mansion and collect useful snippets for Ellen. Actually, maybe I should just try to forget about that for a while. But still. Bloody hell. Grace Harrison, in my little shop. Bloody hell.
I’ve spent the past few days frantically knitting shawls, and being glared at by Annabel Morgan in the playground while assorted parents come over to ask me what Grace Harrison was really like, and did I get her autograph, and is it true that she’s got eight bathrooms inside her house, like I’m her new best friend and have all sorts of secret information to share: although if I was, the last thing I’d be doing would be blabbing about it to all and sundry, unless I wanted to set a new world record for being a former new best friend. It’s amazing what one minimoment with someone famous can do for you; the shop gets a mention in most of the papers, with pictures of Grace holding her carrier bags, and Elsie and Gran are both keeping copies in their handbags, ready to show people. But since there isn’t anyone within a five-mile radius who hasn’t already seen them, they’re having to make do with knitting leaves and making pom-poms for the new autumn window display, because Gran says we’ve got to keep our standards up now we’re famous.
Connie’s been enjoying herself too, and we’ve developed a sort of double-act in the playground whereby she fills in any details I forget, like how pregnant Grace looked and what colour her top was. We’ve sold so much of the mohair I’ve had to re-order twice, even though Gran and Elsie promised me they’d keep quiet about the shawls until I’ve delivered them
and made sure she’s not going to change her mind. So it’s all been a bit twilight zone, and I’m due round at Graceland tomorrow, so I’m finishing the last shawl before I pick the boys up from school. And I’m really hoping that Trevor the bloody Wonder Dog doesn’t come round to play while I’m trying to wrap things up in tissue paper, because I’m not very good at tasteful yet elegant gift wrapping at the best of times, and whenever he’s around the boys end up covered in mud, which I don’t think is really going to help.
I’m sitting by the counter knitting while Elsie’s upstairs having a break when Ellen calls.
‘All set then, darling, shawls at the ready?’
‘Pretty much. I got the tissue paper and ribbon like you said, but mine and Gran’s are slightly bigger than Elsie’s – she knits really tight.’
‘Why am I not surprised? How’s Dovetail doing?’
‘Fine. He’s got two shelves up and they look great, but he’s obsessing about knobs now.’
‘Do shelves have knobs on Planet Martin then?’
‘No, but he doesn’t like the wicker baskets I was going to put the oddments in. He says glass-fronted drawers would be better.’
‘Right; quite pushy, isn’t he?’
‘Very, when it’s about wood. Not at all on anything else; he’s almost completely silent most of the time. He gave me a hell of a shock the other day. I was in the kitchen humming a happy tune and doing a little dance routine, like you do, especially when you’ve just been out and got a doughnut for your lunch.’
‘What sort of routine? Tango, or foxtrot?’
‘More of a jive, really.’
‘Right. So you’re jiving in the kitchen with a doughnut …’
‘Yes. And I turned round and he was standing in the doorway, just watching me and smiling. I nearly dropped my cup.’
‘Bless. What did he say?’
‘Nothing, thank God. And then Elsie came up. She bosses him about terribly, she never stops. And she’s made him a bobble hat.’
‘Does he wear it?’
‘When she’s around, yes, but he takes it off pretty sharpish when the coast’s clear. Are you all right? You sound a bit tired.’
‘I’m fine, but I need a break. Can I come down to you for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. That would be lovely.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
Something’s happened, I know it has. Her mini-breaks usually involve facials and massages in sacred yurts, not small boys and shabby spare bedrooms.
‘Have you had any more emails?’
Ellen gets lots of fan mail, most of which is perfectly harmless – notes and homemade calendars with kittens on – but occasionally something more sinister turns up. Last year there were a series of weird cards with cryptic messages about how she’d be hearing the good news soon, and we were worried a religious cult was planning to kidnap her, but it turned out to be a poor woman who’d stopped taking her medication and thought Ellen was her secret twin sister. Last week she got one saying she wouldn’t have to wait much longer, from some anonymous address with no name, and then another one saying ‘I’m watching you’ and ‘he’s not good enough for you’, which pressed quite a few alarm bells, particularly with me. But Ellen has just joked about them, so far.
‘Yes, there was one yesterday.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I like your new boots.’
‘What?’
‘I was wearing them the night before, when I left work.’
‘Christ.’
‘Now don’t go into one. Brian Winters has already called in Special Branch.’
‘Good. What did they say?’
‘Take extra precautions while they make enquiries, which means they’ve got no fucking idea. But Brian’s sorted me out a security guard. He’s called Gary, and he bloody follows me everywhere. I can’t even go to the canteen without him trotting along behind me. And he’s got weird eyes, like he’s looking at you, but not.’
‘They’ve given you a security man with a squint?’
‘No, he’s ex-Flying Squad or something, so he does that scanning thing, looking behind you all the time like he’s about to shoot someone. Not that he’s actually got a gun, but you know what I mean.’