Mudra has many meanings in yoga, but in this instance it means the seals, or physical locks, in the body that have curative and restorative powers, like the asanas themselves. This asana is considered to be part of the padamasana or lotus group of postures, which help to clear physical, emotional, and mental blocks, awaken the charkas, and bring calm. The ability to sit for extended periods of time advances meditation. Stay in padmasana, bending forward with the eyes closed, with the forehead as close as possible to the floor. Those with eye, heart, or back disorders shouldn’t practice for long, and those recently postoperative or postdelivery shouldn’t practice it at all.
Jackie’s Cap d’Antibes residence was on a modest lane, behind simple wooden gates that did not prepare the visitor for the forty immaculate acres that rolled down to the Mediterranean. Madame Vilpins, the housekeeper, was a sturdy woman dressed in a blue housecoat and flat black boots. There was steel in her handshake and her voice thought Grace. ‘Laissez vos bagages,’ she said, then led Grace to the first floor to inspect the weekend yoga studio.
‘Ca va?’ she asked, arms folded across her chest like an impatient matron.
The room was empty, apart from yoga mats set in a star formation. ‘It’s perfect,’ Grace said. Madame Vilpins grunted ‘bon,’ and turned down the corridor. Grace followed. ‘Votre chambre,’ the woman said, pushing the door open. Grace’s bedroom was painted a delicate pink. It had a modern four-poster bed, and a bay window with a view through eucalyptus trees to the sea. ‘This is beautiful. Thank you.’ Grace was so delighted to be there, she kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed. ‘Madame, this is divine,’ she said, but Madame Vilpins had thudded off without a word. Hearing a lighter tread approach her door, Grace jumped up as a young man wearing a black bow tie and a white shirt stepped inside.
‘I’m Jacob, the Larchmont’s butler.’ Jacob was a sprite of an Englishman, with gold-framed spectacles and tightly cropped, curly blond hair.
‘Hello. I’m Grace, the—’
‘—yoga teacher,’ he finished. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘This room, this whole house, is perfect. There’s nothing I need.’ Grace checked her watch: less than an hour before she had to teach. ‘Apart from a bath.’ She edged open the bathroom door in the hope that Jacob would take the hint and leave.
Jacob had no intention of going so soon. Grace watched as he lifted her case onto the Balinese chest at the end of the bed, mild gratitude turning to disbelief as she saw his pale, slender fingers flutter with the zip, and hurry inside. With infinite care Jacob picked out her crumpled clothes, including three white lace thongs. Oblivious, Jacob folded them neatly in a drawer. Clothes that would have been perfectly fine slung over a chair were, within seconds, hung on hangers in the wardrobe. Jacob then went through to the bathroom. While the water was running he turned his attention to Grace’s wash bag and, horror of horrors, arranged the contents on the glass shelf below the mirror.
Conversation opened with confession. Jacob, it transpired, fueled himself for duty with Twix and Procent. ‘It’s the only way I can cope with Madame Vilpins’ bossing and Lady Larchmont’s fits. Mind you, I try not to judge Lady L. Sir Leonard’s such an arse. I expect you’ve heard he’s got a three-year-old love child in the Ukraine, the old dog.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Grace.
‘His mistress is twenty-eight. No wonder Lady Larchmont does so much bloody yoga. You and the massage therapist are probably the only people who touch her these days, have you thought about that?’ Jacob sprinkled rosemary and lavender essence into the water. ‘Your bath is ready for you now, Madame,’ he said.
Alone, and grateful for it, Grace stripped and sank into the deep enamel tub. Facing the open window she propped her feet on the bath ledge to let the breeze tickle her toes. She rested back—but not for long. There was a soft tapping at the door.
‘Yes.’
‘C’est Brigitte.’
‘Come in.’
Grace had not expected to see Brigitte quite so clearly. In a pink cotton dress and white apron, she was a thick-lipped young maid with shiny chestnut hair that was cut in a bob. She stood at the open bathroom door holding a tray with a fruit plate and a jug of elderberry wine. ‘Pour vous, Madame. Miss Plum say if . . . si vous voulez un massage, elle will uh . . .’ The attempt at English expired.
‘I’d love one, thank you so much,’ Grace said, wanting most of all to be left in peace. But Brigitte was indifferent to Grace’s nudity, and privacy. Grace knew enough of Jackie’s world to know why: staff were constantly available and therefore invisible to employers and their guests. To acknowledge them would be too time consuming and defeat the point of having them.
‘I close curtains Madame?’ Brigitte inquired.
‘Please no. I’ll do it.’ Grace wanted to watch the colours of the setting sun play across the bedroom walls.
‘Is there anything else?’ the girl asked, head bowed in submission. She was young, young enough to escape, thought Grace.
‘Brigitte, you know what I’d like? I’d like you to take the night off.’ She assumed that the girl wouldn’t fully understand either her English, or the concept of a night off while Jackie was in the house and Madame Vilpins was watching.
Brigitte understood. ‘Impossible Madame,’ she said, and fled.
Revived by the bath, and anarchy, Grace went to the yoga room, where a surprise guest—there would be one, of course—had arrived before her. India, a friend of Plum’s and on the podgy side, stated she had never done yoga and wanted to lose weight. Candid analysis of these ambitions was postponed when Plum came in. Forthright, with long blonde rasta hair and a tattoo on her shoulder, Plum had seemingly devised her look to affront her mother, although she seemed too self-assured for pointless rebellion. Her chipped front tooth had been left that way—an acceptance of imperfection, Grace supposed, that made her doubly attractive.
During the first class, the Knightsbridge three enjoyed parading their flexibility before the relatively younger two women. Spirits were high at the prospect of a weekend of health and the resulting natural beautification that would hopefully occur. A timetable for the retreat, in which every waking hour was allocated, had been typed up and placed on each guest’s pillow. There were walks and meditation, and yoga classes morning and evening, with massage once a day for everyone, including Grace. Lady Larchmont’s schedule had left nothing to chance, but what had not been anticipated was the profound stillness that descended at the end of class. An atmosphere of peace filled the room, and everyone in it.
A little later, lying on her bed listening to the sea, an unexpectedly languid sound, Grace was distracted by a repetitive scratch in the corridor. It sounded as if an animal was caught somewhere. Grace opened her door cautiously. At her feet a wrinkled old woman, gnarled as an olive tree, was on her knees with a dustpan and brush, sweeping the carpet, which, as far as Grace could see, was already spotlessly clean. What to do? She shut her door, now feeling guilty for lying on a bed. A firm knock got Grace back on her feet. It was exhausting to be in a house so fully staffed, Grace thought. Madame Vilpins stepped inside and stood by the dressing table chair, instinctively dusting the back of it with her palm. ‘Your supper will be served in the kitchen at a quarter past eight.’
Grace hadn’t expected to eat separately from her charges, but didn’t much mind. It would allow her time alone. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ Madame Vilpins left, but then Grace realized that, released from the obligation of dinner, she was free to explore Antibes. ‘Madame Vilpins,’ she called down the stairs. ‘I won’t eat here this evening. Do you have the number of a taxi?’
‘It’s too late to call a taxi. I am making the dinner. You can have the jeep, but not tonight. J’ai pas le temps pour l’arranger.’ The commander-in-chief had spoken.
Madame Vilpins was a year-round resident of the Larchmont house, and ran it as if it were her own. She negotiated with the staff and even smoothed tension among the guests—a far more frequent occurrence than reasonable people might expect—sparing Jackie from petty details, such as the dilemma as to where Grace should eat her meals. On the flight from London the Knightsbridge ladies had unanimously agreed that she should not join them, choosing not to communicate their decision to Plum, who had conveniently been excluded from the vote by two rows of first-class seats.
When Plum went to the dining room to pour herself an illegal absinthe before dinner, she noticed that only five places were laid. She drained her glass and ran up to Jackie’s bedroom.
‘How sweet,’ Jackie said, delighted Plum had come for a mother-daughter chat before dinner—an intimacy she missed but remembered from her daughter’s younger days. ‘Be a darling, would you?’ she said, indicating that she needed her daughter’s help to fasten her diamond-and-emerald pendant.
Plum closed the clasp. ‘Is India skipping dinner?’ she asked, standing behind her mother.
Jackie nestled the stone at her throat, then lifted her eyes to meet her daughters’ in the glass. ‘India not eat? From the size of her, darling, I doubt it. We’ve only had raw food all day and one can assume she’s not accustomed to that.’ Jackie was the kind of woman who found fat a personal affront.
‘So who isn’t eating?’ asked Plum, throwing herself onto her mother’s enormous bed.
‘Darling, the pillows.’
Plum fluffed them up and lay back, hands behind her head. ‘So?’
‘So what, darling?’ said Jackie, distracted by a strand of blow-dried blonde hair that refused to lie flat. ‘What am I going to do without my hairdresser for another three days?’
‘Mum, why only five places for dinner?’
‘We are five.’
‘Not if you count Grace.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Why not? I’m going to set her a place.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ Plum got off the bed and was at the door by the time the command was given.
‘Grace is going to eat with us tonight, or I won’t.’
‘Darling, Madame Vilpins has already told the yoga teacher she’s eating in the kitchen.’
‘You’re a coward, Mum, getting old Vile Pins to do it.’
‘Darling, don’t be childish.’
‘Fine, I’ll eat with Grace.’
‘Don’t you dare. One is not friends with the staff.’
‘Grace isn’t staff. She could be a friend of mine.’
‘I pay her to do a job, which makes her staff.’
‘Mummy, she went to Cambridge and St.M—’ Plum stopped. She was using her mother’s criteria to justify her argument. ‘You can’t stick Grace in the kitchen. It’s not evolved.’
‘Evolved.’ Jackie laughed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the kitchen. One of Daddy’s friends actually prefers it.’
‘It’s his novelty night and you know it. Mum, you’ve got to invite Grace to join us.’
‘Shall I invite the gardener and Madame Vilpins while I’m at it?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Invite Grace. It’s right.’
‘Darling you sound like David Cameron.’
‘At least he’s shaking things up.’
‘He talks poetic nonsense neither you nor he has thought through.’
‘I’ll be eating in the kitchen, then, just so you know,’ Plum said, heading for the door.
‘Darling. Be reasonable. If I befriend the yoga teacher it’s the thin end of the wedge.’
‘Not inviting her to eat with us creates a divide.’
‘A divide is what I want. There should be one. Imperium in imperio.’
‘Oh, get a life.’ Plum hated her mother’s motto and walked out, but in an effort to be evolved, was careful not to slam the door.
Jackie, Rosie, and Elizabeth were in the dining room when an irritated Madame Vilpins appeared. ‘Where do you want me to serve dinner, Madame?’
‘In here, and tell my daughter to hurry up.’
‘Lady Larchmont, Miss Plum est dans la cuisine. Elle bouge pas.’
The boycott confirmed, Jackie marched into the kitchen, one of the prettiest of all the pretty rooms in her house. Candles, flowers, and a linen covered the table laid simply for six: it was an inviting scene. ‘Mummy, we were waiting for you,’ said Plum.
Jackie’s performance matched her daughter’s. ‘What a treat, supper in the kitchen. How intime.’
Rosie, entering behind her, pulled out a chair. ‘If we’re not allowed a glass of wine, at least let’s have a giggle, which is always easier in the kitchen, n’est-ce pas?’
Plum had won round one. There was a long way to go, though, and Jackie was quick to reestablish authority. ‘Sorry, everyone, my French confused Madame Vilpins,’ she said, her smile fixed on her daughter. Without modifying her Queen’s English accent—that even the Queen had learned to soften—Jackie fired French words at the timid Brigitte. ‘Dites à Madame Vilpins, des maintenant nous allons manger ensemble.’
Dinner was delicious. Jackie employed a French woman from St. Lucia, who she’d poached from a neighbour two winters before. Members of their London society were still traumatized by this audacious move, but, under Jackie’s supervision, the chef was now considered to be among the best on the Côte d’Azur. She had skillfully prepared six vegetarian dishes using produce from the Larchmont’s garden and, to the delight of the sweet-toothed Jackie, a pudding had been created for the healthy diners: pineapple and blueberries with chickpea pancakes.
Wary of abusing her employer’s reluctant shift toward enlightened times, Grace retired early to bed but before the kitchen door swung shut she heard Plum say, ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult.’
Grace stood completely still.
‘Nobody said the yoga teacher wasn’t intelligent,’ Jackie acknowledged begrudgingly.
‘And rather good company. Grace would be welcome to eat with me anytime,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Thank God she’s not a dolt like that Brigitte. There’s no law against staff having wit and charm, though that doesn’t make them one of us.’
‘To be honest, Mum,’ Plum said, ‘I’m rather tired of people like us.’
The rest of the Cap d’Antibes weekend passed peacefully enough, with yoga classes interspersed with long walks, short meditations, light suppers, and lighter conversation. Grace knew better than to be offended by Jackie’s posturing, but she was human: when it came to downward facing dog, she let her mistress hold the pose until she panted from the strain, and Grace felt cruel for keeping her there.
The afternoon Grace returned from Nice, her father called. The habit of a lifetime had been broken that last Christmas, and father and daughter now spoke to each other almost every week.
‘We want to see you,’ he said now. ‘We’re coming over.’
‘When?’
‘This evening. We won’t stay long, don’t worry. We just want to say good-bye before you leave for the States.’ We. Grace had never heard her father use the term. This was seismic. She guessed the shift was down to Ginny—and the program, his triple A, as he called it: the Addictive Alcoholics Anonymous.
Grace rushed to unpack her South of France bag. New York with Jessica would require a different kind of wardrobe, one that Grace realized she no longer owned. Disappointment in her limited choice of clothes was forgotten when Ginny and her father arrived. Grace welcomed them in. As she did so, her father thrust a wrapped package at her with an awkwardness born of unfamiliarity. ‘Ginny and I talked about your studio. It’s too plain.’
Grace could feel the frame through the wrapping paper. She waited until they were all downstairs around the kitchen table, having a cup of tea, before she opened it. Cutting the string and lifting the brown paper away, Grace recognized the abstract shape of the beautiful woman—the painting she had meant to ask her father for when she was at the Bodhi Tree.
Father watched daughter hold the painting at arm’s length. ‘That’s the first painting I did of your mother,’ he said.
Grace drove to Cadogan Square on a rescue mission to release Stephanie from her uncle and Noel Coward. Grace was glad for her own sake as much as Stephanie’s. It was a relief to be with the young American, who was untainted by the ways of the old country, although seemingly at home in London, SW1. She wouldn’t need long to acclimatize to the life she was inheriting. Grace had intended to warn her about the tactics the Knightsbridge ladies might use to keep her in her place, but thought better of it; Stephanie would instinctively know how to finesse her way through trouble. After introducing her to the doctors, Mr. Kramer, and the heart lifters, their day ended at Swami D’s, where they taught a class together and had the vegetarian supper. As they said good night, Swami D suggested that Stephanie teach Grace’s classes. Things were going according to plan.
Later, at Grace’s kitchen table, Stephanie laid out the weekly timetable of where and when she’d be expected, alongside a large-scale map of west London, each location highlighted in fluorescent green. ‘Anything else I should know?’ she asked.
‘Be yourself,’ said Grace, ‘and enjoy it.’
The following morning, just before Grace left for New York, a letter arrived from Vietnam. She waited to open it until she was sitting calmly in a black cab on the way to the airport.
Dear Grace,
It’s 1:30 p.m. Everyone is resting in their rooms before our 2 p.m. clinicals. I’ve just had a bath and I’m sitting at my favourite spot in the covered part of the garden. It’s raining again, gently; fine drops elicit small circular ripples on the pond and there is the slow, heavier sound of rain falling from the huge leaves. All the plants are clean of the Saigon dust, everything is fresh.
Saigon after rainfall in the night is colourful. Everyone rides their bikes with plastic ponchos draped over the headlights so the traffic is multicoloured as it streams along. But the noise! Puddles splashing, half-flooded roads, the smell of humidity, the dampness of your clothes sticking to your skin, and the never-ending din of horns. The senses are assaulted, but if I don’t get caught up in it all—and don’t mind being wet and a little shocked at the madness—I can accept the noise at such levels of discord that all the sounds merge into a sort of harmony.
My plans are to go to Chinatown again before I leave. I hope to get to the Gulf of Siam for sun without rain, to watch the world go by before returning to London. I have written to a few treatment centres: two have replied, sounding keen, so I’m hopeful. A far cry from Harley Street, which is what I used to want.
Your text just landed! How lovely that you’re thinking of me while I’m thinking of you. So, you’re off to New York with Jessica, who sounds adorable, but spending so much time with one client could get intense. Do you consider yours to be a therapeutic relationship, as the saying goes, or are you beyond that? I suppose there could be hazards however you choose to define it.
You’ll probably still be in New York when I get back to London. There have been so many changes in both our lives; I can’t wait to hear all your stories, and see you. It keeps occurring to me how wonderful it is that you’re now working closely with patients: such a change from the pharmaceutical rep I met—who, as you must know by now, got to me. Sometimes I picture us working together! In these peaceful surroundings I often find myself thinking of you.
Safe travels.
Much love,
David
Grace folded the letter carefully back into the envelope, her feelings for Dr. James temporarily suspended. She was filled with dread. His declaration of affection was very much what she’d hoped he’d write—but now that he had, she was terrified.