The Jewel Box (14 page)

“And? What did he do?”

“Well, he pretty much jumped out of his skin. Then he steered me to the side of the room and told me he’d sign if I kept quiet about who he was.”

“What was he doing, skulking about at his own reading in a stupid disguise?”

“He said he’d heard the rumor about the reading, and couldn’t quite resist coming along incognito for a look.”

Grace snorted. “What was he expecting? To sit in the audience and watch himself up onstage?”

Margaret shrugged. “I suppose he thought it was something of a novelty. I think he likes novelty.”

“Quite.”

“Anyway, you’re one to talk. You were hiding under a
ginger wig
earlier.”

A sniff. The girl was getting beyond herself again.

“Look at this.” Margaret pulled out her copy of
The Vision
and opened it at the flyleaf.

To Margaret,

The smartest cookie in the barrel.

With admiration,

Dexter O’Connell

“He admires me, do you see that?” She was preening now. “Out of all those people who’d come to hear him read,
I
was the only one to recognize him. So now there’s one person in this world who understands how smart I really am!”

“Well, that’s very nice for you, I’m sure.” Grace felt her face twitching.

“You’re jealous! Look, there’s no need for that. He gave me a message for you.” Now she fell irritatingly silent. Drawing out her moment of power, perhaps.

“Well? What did he say?”

My, how she loved being the holder of secret knowledge.

“He said, ‘Tell your friend it doesn’t suit her to play demure.’ And he handed me this.” She produced from her bag a sealed envelope, which she slid across the table.

Grace took up the envelope. It felt heavy and contained a familiar shape.

“It’s a key, isn’t it?” said Margaret. “Must be to his hotel room. What will you
do
?”

“He’s the most arrogant, presumptuous man I’ve ever met.” She still hadn’t opened the envelope. “And I’m tired of his games.”

“But what will you
do
?”

“I shall post this back to him.” And she put the envelope away in her bag. “Now, you’d better get going, hadn’t you? Work tomorrow and all that?”

“I suppose so.” She looked as though she was hankering to change her mind and have a drink after all. “Am I leaving you on your own though?”

“Not at all. She has company.” It was John Cramer, standing beside their table. Cramer, with a broad smile on his face, the expression in the brown eyes barely discernible in the dim light of the club.

“What are you doing here?” It came out almost panicky. She tried to calm herself. Margaret was glancing from one to the other, but then her gaze slowed and lingered on Cramer’s face.

She’s attracted to him, Grace realized. And then, looking about her at the women at nearby tables, most of whom were staring: They’re pretty much
all
attracted to him.

“Thought I’d better bring you these.” From behind his back he brought out her ginger wig and hat. “I believe you dropped them on your way here.”

“Were you
following
me?”

“Not really. Well—actually, I suppose I was.” Cramer was blushing a little. “I was intrigued by the disguise. And I thought, I bet she’s going somewhere worth going to. Let’s find out.”

Now it was Cramer who blushed and seemed lost for
words. Margaret waved awkwardly, mouthing something, and slipped off.

“Is this fellow bothewing you, Gwace?” Sheridan was back—and now the two men were all grins and handshakes and exclamations of, “Haven’t seen you in years, old chap.” Sheridan made a weak joke about the wig and hat and had them removed. Cramer started asking him about the Tutankhamun, and a waiter set down three more Luxor Lizards on the table.

“I met this old dog in Caiwo a few years back. What larks! I’d been on a dig. He was…What
were
you doing in Caiwo, John?”

Cramer shrugged. “Just taking a holiday.”

“Have you wead any of his witing, Gwace? He’s tewwibly good, you know, when he interviews people. Puts them wight at their ease and gets them to tell him all sorts of secwets.”

“Enough of that, Sheridan.” Cramer lit a cigarette.

“He made his big splash with an interview with Pwesident Harding a few years back. Did you know? The man was up to his neck in it—the mistwesses, the Teapot Dome scandal—you name it. You’d think the last thing he’d want to do would be to talk to someone like John. All so wevealing. What was that thing he said, John? ‘I can deal with my enemies. It’s my goddamn fwiends that have me walking the floor at night.’”

“Something like that.”

“Gwace is a bit of a journalist too, did you know that, John?”

“Sheridan—”

“She wites that Diamond Sharp column in the
Hewald
. It’s tewwibly popular. She’s wather naughty, our Gwace.” And then—seeing her face—“Oh dear. I’ve committed a faux pas. See how she’s looking at me? As if she wants to thwottle me or
something. I sort of forgot it’s a secwet that Gwace wites that column.”

The dance orchestra were playing a good, fast Charleston. Grace fixed a smile on her face. “Care to dance, John?”

They whirled and kicked around the dance floor, she and Cramer, and she sensed people staring. Grace had always found it impossible not to feel attracted to men who danced this well, just as she’d never been able to sustain an attraction for hopeless dancers. They moved close together and her arms went around his neck, and she knew that they looked like lovers. There was only one other man in London who could dance her about this well.

She had to find a way to calm herself down.

“You seem to be spending a lot of time with my sister,” she said as they walked back to their empty table.

“Nancy’s a lovely woman. But you know that. We’ve become friends.”

Grace took out her cigarettes and passed one over. “She’s had a hard time. I know that you have, too.”

“She told you, then? About my wife?” She noticed, now, that he appeared still to be cold sober, while she was like something spilling over. Those damn cocktails! And he hadn’t even touched his. The glass was still full. She reached for it herself.

“It’s been five years since my wife died,” he said. “But it doesn’t make any difference. Time, I mean. That whole thing about time being a great healer—it’s just something people say. An easy line.”

“There are too many easy lines,” said Grace. “The war caused so much loss and grief that we gave up wearing mourning clothes. Otherwise we’d
all
have been in black all the time. London would have become a city of crows. But when we put away the clothes, we lost the knack of how to mourn. We
shoved it in a drawer, so to speak, and mislaid the key. It’s all stiff upper lip and soldiering on these days. We don’t understand how to talk about grief anymore.”

“You’re so right,” said Cramer. “I’ve been lost, really, in my own secret world of mourning. After the first few months it becomes something unspeakable. Untouchable. You’re supposed to get over it. Pick up the pieces and stick them back together in a new shape. But they don’t tell you
how
.” He shook his head. “God, it’s good to speak to you about this, Grace. You and Nancy—you don’t just turn away from it. You’re the first people I’ve been able to talk to properly in such a long time.”

“It’s been less than two years since Nancy lost George.”

“I know.”

“She might seem robust and content but it’s all on the surface. Underneath she’s still very frail.”

“I know that, too.” He was looking at her oddly.

“The Rutherfords are a tight-knit family. Since we lost George we’ve been closer than ever.”

“Grace, I have the utmost respect for your sister. I’m not playing any kind of game with her. We’re friends.”

Something twisted and tightened in Grace’s belly and she looked away, down into the golden cocktail in front of her. “Good. Because if you hurt her, I’d have to kill you. Another dance?”

It was an old-fashioned waltz this time. Couples drifted slowly about as though floating over the floor. Held close to Cramer, Grace breathed in the inky scent of his skin. She supposed her sister must have held him this way. She couldn’t imagine it somehow. He wasn’t Nancy’s type, not judging from the past. But then he wasn’t hers either.

“Nancy doesn’t like mustaches,” she whispered into his ear.

“How about you?”

“Can’t say I’m particularly fussed.”

“You like Americans, though. At least it seems that way in your writing. But perhaps I’m not ‘impossibly handsome’ enough?”

Silently she cursed Sheridan. “What is it between you and O’Connell? You say you can’t stand him but you seem to be following him around like a dog.”

She felt him tense up at that name. “What about you? Why were you wearing that ridiculous wig and hat tonight?”

“Clearly I didn’t want him to know I was there. Seems it was the other way around with you. You wanted him to see you.”

He let go of her now, while the band played on, and headed back to the table. After a moment she followed.

Seated again, he asked the waiter for a tonic water with lemon. She knew she shouldn’t drink any more but ordered a gin fizz anyway and placed a cigarette in her long ebony holder.

“So?” she said. “Are you going to tell me anything about you and O’Connell?”

A sigh. “We were friends at Yale, he and I. Roommates. Closer than close. Along came a girl—a very special girl—and that was the end of our friendship.”

Grace blew a smoke ring. “You’re seriously saying it’s all about a girl?”

“Isn’t it always? She was a very special girl.”

“There has to be more to it than a squabble over a girl, no matter how special she was. This was years ago. Life has moved on for both of you. Or it should have.”

A shrug. An expression of wry helplessness that infuriated her.

“So what happened?”

“I married her. He wrote a book and put her in it. She died.”

“You were married to
Veronique
?”

“My wife’s name was Eva.”

The band struck up a new number. A jazz piece that seemed to turn in faster and faster circles. Over on the floor, the dancers were spinning and capering. Grace struggled for clarity as her thoughts went spiraling.

“Look, I could tell you that O’Connell’s a bad lot, that he feeds off people, that he did it to Eva and that he’ll do it to you if you give him the chance. But there’s no point saying it, is there? You simply will not be warned because you’re the kind of girl who’s obsessed with intrigue. The more bad stuff I’d tell you about him, the more fascinated you’d become.”

She tried to force a laugh. “Don’t fraternize with my feminine mystique. I need it intact.”

He shook his head. “Mystique? You’re certainly trying very hard with your anonymity and your silly disguises. But Grace, anyone would have seen it was you under that wig and hat tonight. You’re transparent. Now, let me be frank: You won’t be able to resist getting his side of the story. And when he tells you a load of lies about me, it’ll make you even more fascinated and you’ll be back to me for the next installment. Before we know it you’ll be all over us both like a rash.”

The smoke came hissing out of her nostrils in an angry stream. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“Dwinks, darlings?” Sheridan was back, laying one hand on Cramer’s shoulder and one on Grace’s.

“No, thank you, Sheridan.” Grace got to her feet. “I should be getting along, actually.”

“Aw, don’t leave yet. I promise I’ll shut up and behave myself.” But there was still mischief in Cramer’s eyes.

Sheridan wagged a finger at Cramer. “You’re a wogue and a scoundwel. Gwacie, dear, don’t go home. This man is a wepwobate and I shall have him fed to the pythons as soon as I take delivewwy of them. Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about, just you and me. Something important. Cover your ears, Cwamer, this is none of your business.”

“Sorry, Sheridan. Must dash. Another time?” She shot a smile at one man and then at the other. “I’m on my way to see someone.”

The
moon was disdainfully slender in a violet, pinpricked sky. The West End was falling quiet, and Grace’s heels were loud on the pavement as she walked along the Strand. Held tightly in her left hand was a hotel key.

She wasn’t going because she was in love, she told herself. She didn’t want to please O’Connell or to spite Cramer. And she certainly wasn’t “fascinated” by either of those arrogant, slippery, self-obsessed so-and-sos.

What she wanted was to look into that impossibly handsome face, watch its expression become knowing and self-satisfied and then fling the key at it, hard enough to bruise. She would announce that she was certainly not the demure type of girl, and she would turn and walk calmly away, accompanied by her intact dignity and feminine mystique.

In spite of her resolve, the set of her jaw, the jut of her
chin, she wobbled a little as she passed the Hotel Cecil, once considered Europe’s finest hotel, but now utterly outshone by its grander, glitzier next-door neighbor. The Savoy was even more imposing by night than by day. All lit up and full of promise. Even at this unsociable hour there were still a couple of Daimlers and a Bentley outside the entrance, a taxi was making a tight turn in Savoy Court, and a few well-dressed but tipsy stragglers were still trickling out through the revolving doors, chattering loudly.

She did her best to assume the air of confidence of one who belongs, dangling the key conspicuously so that the blue-and gold-clad doormen would see it and assume she was a guest. She avoided the eyes of the woman polishing the brass and the clerk at the desk as she strolled fake nonchalantly past Reception. The grand front hall was suitably mellow—not too much lighting for this late hour, with most of the revelers long gone and the morning papers not yet arrived. And yet a light still glowed from the Grill Room. She asked the lift boy for the fourth floor and pressed a coin into his hand. It would be a commonplace occurrence, of course—a well-dressed, purposeful young woman wandering into the hotel by night, knowing precisely where she was headed. Discreetly conspicuous. Respectably unrespectable. She hated it though—the very thought of what might be going through the mind of the lift boy. Her hand, the one that held the key, was coldly sweaty.