CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
12 p.m.
It’s all over. The past fourteen months are about to become a strange footnote in my life story. Kelly wished me luck before I left for the decision.
‘I’ll miss you, Gracie, come visit me sometime. I’ll make you a spoon in the next class, haha.’ She hugged me tightly, digging her nails into my back. I allowed her to stay like this for five seconds, before striding through the door without looking back. George Thorpe came through, his face ruddy with pride as he met me in a visitors’ room at Limehouse after he’d been to court and seen my case successfully overturned. I’d watched via video-link, which deprived me of the chance to have a dramatic moment in front of the judge and meant I missed out on the inevitable media scrum outside the court. Better this way, despite the slight anticlimax, I can work at my own pace now. Instead, I received an awkward embrace from my lawyer, a pledge to catch up in a few weeks to go over everything and an invitation to dinner, which I will certainly not take up. I even got a congratulations from the officer supervising our meeting. Not exactly a cinematic climax, but momentous nonetheless. I did what I set out to do for Marie. Now I am free.
4 p.m.
I am home! I was released at great speed, which took me by surprise since I’d become used to a system that took months to make even the smallest decisions. I guess they were desperate for my cell. Even now I imagine Kelly will be telling her new roomie all about the last occupant, sitting an inch too close on the thin bunk. I had to scramble to get my stuff together and get out by midday, which meant Jimmy wasn’t there to meet me. I didn’t mind though, not when I realised it was to avoid any hopeful photographers. I was grateful for it, since fourteen months in prison doesn’t exactly help you look camera ready. I took a cab home, weaving through London streets bathed in rare bright sunshine, staring out of the window and smiling the whole way. The flat was quiet and warm when I opened the door, everything in its rightful place. Sophie had even sent her cleaner over, and there was a bottle of Brunello and some tiramisu from the local deli waiting for me on the table. I took both into the bath, and soaked in Le Labo oil for two hours. A glorious experience, I was half hysterical with glee. I’m going to go through all my mail and then meet Jimmy for what I hope will be a suitably indulgent dinner at Brasserie du Balon. Life feels like it’s finally unfurling and showing itself to me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
God what a mess, Grace. What a godawful mess. It all turned into a sort of hideous farce, except nobody remembered to laugh. On our first day in France, Simon crashed out on a sofa in the games room and I escaped to the veranda and asked a timid member of staff to get me a coffee. I stretched out in the sun and tried to shake off the dreaded chance that he’d wake up and find me. For a couple of minutes I stared out towards the sea, marvelling at how little I could enjoy this beautiful place. This sunny place for shady people, as someone once said. Then, out of habit, I picked up my phone and scrolled through the BBC news site. Flicking past war and news about some minor Tory MP shagging his PA, my eye was drawn to a photo of a beautiful woman, ‘tributes were still pouring in for’。 She’d been pushed off a balcony and you’d been the one to push her. My face went cold, despite the humming heat, and a roaring sound rushed through my ears and into my head. I felt like I didn’t understand you at all, despite all the time I’d spent trying. You were a cold-blooded revenge-seeker, not an impulsive crime-of-passion killer. Why would you waste all your hard work to throw a love rival off a balcony? What a moment of stupidity. I don’t want to risk being called sexist, but this emotional reaction was hard to see through any other lens. How would you get to Simon now?
After a few hours spent trying to find out more about your arrest, I heard Simon yelling at me from the sitting room and had to give up the quest. I wasn’t too worried about him seeing your news, since he was by now practically living on another planet of paranoia and rage. In his state, he was more likely to be found watching YouTube videos about aliens than checking the headlines. I spent two hideous days with our father in his villa, where he shoved a frankly astonishing amount of cocaine up his nose and refused to open the curtains in case someone was watching the house. His security detail stayed outside, wary of his outbursts, and the poor housekeeper, who hadn’t been told we were coming, fled to her room after he threw a vase at her head when he discovered the beds weren’t made. It was just me and him. Every time I tried to retreat to another part of the house he would follow me, ranting about how there was a conspiracy and insisting that ‘we have to stop the bastards’。 I kept telling myself, ‘Come on, Harry, a few more days and there’s half a million quid for the family,’ but it felt pretty far away, I can tell you. On the third morning, I awoke to find Simon standing over my bed, eyes bloodshot and shirt ripped. He’d clearly been up all night, and he stank of whisky.