Page 147 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘It looks amazing, Mum!’ Olivia had said when they had got the school prospectus. ‘I can’t believe you and Uncle Miles both went there.’ Grace suspected her daughter was secretly rather more impressed that Sasha Sinclair had gone to Danehurst. Since their meeting at Freya’s wedding, Olivia had taken out a subscription to Vogue and had declared her intention of becoming an ‘international brand’ like Sasha. Of course the children had not been told of Sasha’s involvement in their grandfather’s death, but Grace still found it galling that Olivia should regard her as such a role model.

She looked over at Joseph, dark-eyed and moody, the perfect image of his father. He was leaning over his trunk – the same one Miles had taken to Eton almost twenty years ago – rummaging inside with one hand while holding his neatly written checklist in the other. Joe was the one she worried about. He was much quieter than Liv, more serious and deep, but with a dry sense of humour. Olivia on the other hand, currently letting Connie take her bags to the car while she read a magazine, was very much her father’s daughter. Beautiful, charming, flamboyant, a littl

e egocentric. She would do fine.

Outside the farmhouse a horn pipped.

‘That must be Julian,’ Grace said, jumping up. ‘Now are you sure you don’t mind if he takes us all to the school?’

‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ said Olivia, still flicking through her magazine. ‘We like Julian and we’re glad you’ve finally found someone who can put up with you.’

‘I know, darling,’ said Grace, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘But it’s your first day at school and it should be your dad taking you . . .’

‘Mum, we’re eleven!’ said Olivia. ‘We understand what’s happened. Loads of parents get divorced, it’s no big deal.’ She got up and hugged Grace. ‘Julian’s nice and Dad lives on the other side of the world. What more do you need?’

Grace laughed. Getting relationship advice from her eleven-year-old daughter now!

‘Anyone want to go to school?’ shouted Julian from downstairs.

Grace and the children came downstairs into the farmhouse’s chalky pink living room.

‘I found a load of boxes outside, so I put them into the car,’ smiled Julian, ruffling Joe’s hair affectionately. ‘I hope they’re yours?’

‘Hey, not the hair!’ said Joe, dodging him and sloping outside.

‘Sorry, I forgot. You need to look gorgeous for all the girls. Talking of which . . .’ He grabbed Grace and drew her close, kissing her on the lips.

‘Eww,’ said Olivia, pushing past. ‘Get a room!’

Grace’s relationship with Julian Adler had started slowly in the weeks after Robert’s death. He had sent her a large bouquet of lilies with his condolences and a note reading: ‘The one time people leave you completely alone is when you’re standing in front of paintings. If you ever need peace and quiet, just call.’

The first time she called, he had given her a very personal tour of his exhibition. He had been funny and engaging, but he had also given her space. So she had called again, just for a coffee, which had led to dinner, which had led to . . . Well, eighteen months later, she found she couldn’t imagine a time when he hadn’t been there. He was part of her motivation for moving back to England full-time and his energy and joie de vivre were exactly what she needed to pull her out of her grief. She had lived with a creative man before, of course, but life with Julian was the direct opposite to the cloying, monitored, cosseted existence of Parador. Together they travelled to New York, Rome, Moscow, even the northern reaches of Finland, where they had swum in lakes under the midnight sun and camped in a teepee made of reindeer skin. He was a media darling – invited to everything – and he took her to showbiz parties: premieres, gallery openings and wild soirées in boho lofts belonging to artists. Having lived a very gentle existence in Ibiza for eight years, he made her feel bolder, stronger, which was precisely why she needed him at her side today.

They squeezed everything into Julian’s Jeep and Connie came to wave them off. Looking out of the back window, Joe nudged Grace.

‘I guess this is it, huh, Mum?’ He smiled.

‘I guess this is it,’ said Grace. It was time to go back to her past.

The drive from Oxfordshire to West Sussex took less than two hours. As their car pulled through Danehurst’s stone gates, two decades seemed to melt away. In many ways the pupils and parents gathered around the front doors counting suitcases and kissing goodbye didn’t look that much different from when she had first started at the school back in 1980. The clothes were a little different, but there was the same polish and confidence in both generations, although there were more obvious signs of money now: the black helicopter by the tennis courts and the stacks of matching Louis Vuitton luggage. There was even a gold Hummer belonging to an LA rapper who was sending his son for an English education. It had always been a creative, media school, smiled Grace, watching Joe’s awed expression as he saw the car.

Grace crunched across the gravel drive to embrace an old woman wearing a stiff tweed suit.‘Still here, I see, Miss Lemmon.’ She smiled.

‘Just about,’ said the head teacher. ‘I’m finally retiring next year.’

The formidable Miss Lemmon had been a source of considerable fear for the pupils of Danehurst, but holding her shoulders now, Grace couldn’t believe how small and fragile she was.

‘Is that Julian Adler?’ she whispered, looking behind Grace.

‘My boyfriend, I’m afraid,’ said Grace, a little embarrassed.

‘How exciting! Get him to doodle on a school programme before he leaves. We’ve got a charity auction coming up in a few weeks’ time; might raise enough for a new roof for the library.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we can do better than a few doodles,’ said Grace, suddenly remembering the hours she had spent in that self-same library looking at books on Greek sculpture and laughing at the willies.

‘You’re in the creative arts yourself, I believe?’ said Miss Lemmon. ‘I always thought you’d become a writer, but I saw your portraits of that Peruvian tribe in the Sunday Times the other week and thought they were quite wonderful.’

‘Yes, it’s all starting to work out,’ Grace replied modestly.