The Jewel Box Page 16

  Wilkins.

  The word was there in her head, and her heart gave a thud, even as she tried to get a hold of herself.

  “There are two soldiers here,” said Mrs. McKellar. “Brothers. They look so much alike.”

  O’Connell gripped her arm, hard. She kept her eyes on Mrs. McKellar, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to look at anyone around her either—to see her own tension and excitement reflected in their faces. She was not one of them.

  “Is it a ‘W,’ Edwin?” The clairvoyant’s voice grew louder. “Edwin, I need names.”

  Grace closed her eyes, longing for this hideous, suspenseful moment to be over. Behind her eyelids, George and Steven were sitting at the Rutherfords’ kitchen table, playing cards.

  “Oh, so it’s an ‘M’ now?” Mrs. McKellar sounded irritated. “Edwin, you really need to learn your letters better.”

  No “W” then. No Wilkins.

  “Grace.” O’Connell’s hand was still on her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Pardon, Edwin? Did you say Michael? Matthew?”

  The woman beside Grace sniffed loudly and clawed at the jet beads.

  “Do you want to leave, darling?” His voice was full of concern. And perhaps something that was more than just concern. Grace allowed herself to turn and look at him.

  “She’s falling!” The psychic staggered and grabbed at her chair. “It’s such a long way down! Poor girl, lying there on the ground with her necklace broken and her neck, too. Pearls scattered all around her.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” O’Connell got to his feet, reaching for Grace’s hand. “I’ve had just about enough of this.”

  It was late—about 3.00 a.m. From outside the office window, the streetlights had joined forces with the moon to cast a silvery glow across the entirely empty surface of the long, oak desk. The floor was scattered with pencils, a pen, an ink blotter, a framed photograph of a woman with elaborate hair, two foolscap files, some loose sheets of paper and a telephone; the receiver of which lay as far distant as the cord would allow, in wild telephonic abandon.

  Grace and O’Connell were sitting side by side on the dusty carpet, their backs against the wall, sharing a cigarette, tapping their ash into a china teacup. Her hair was tousled and her legs were bare. Her clothes were strewn somewhere among the desk debris. His tie was undone and his shirt open. He’d already retrieved his trousers from the mess and put them on again. Grace rather liked the fact that the bold, blasé O’Connell was too nervous to be here without his pants for more than a few minutes.

  “What’s his name, the guy who sits in this office?” O’Connell tugged on the bottle of white wine he’d smuggled out from Ciro’s under his jacket, and passed it across to her.

  “Aubrey Pearson. He’s one of the two brothers who own the company. He’s repellent.”

  “What does he think of you?”

  “He thinks I’m a disruptive influence. He’d like to give me my marching orders.”

  O’Connell leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “I guess we’ve just given him good reason to do it. If he ever finds out.”

  Grace shivered and took a long swig from the wine. Sobriety and common sense were returning swiftly and she didn’t want them to. She wanted to stay in that deliciously perilous moment.

  “So, have you gained a better understanding of the meat and vegetables of my working life, then?”

  O’Connell took back the wine bottle. “No, but I do know how good it feels to have you on your boss’s desk. What’s next? I wonder.”

  What indeed? It was something that was starting to nag at her, just a little, at the back of it all. How long could this go on—this pushing at the limits, this breaking of boundaries? Every act seemed more sensational, more outrageous than the last. Surely the day would come soon when they’d run out of unfulfilled fantasies and unspoken desires. There’d be nothing left for them to discover but the sorts of utterly ludicrous or horrible acts that you simply wouldn’t want to engage in. What then?

  “Devil…” She still called him by that nickname sometimes—usually at times like this, these more intimate moments. “What happens when the party’s over? I wonder if we can ever just be our plain and simple selves with each other. I wonder if that would be enough.”

  O’Connell dragged on the cigarette. A long column of ash was balanced precariously on its end. “Why worry about it? The party’s still on, isn’t it? Stay in the present, Grace. Enjoy what we have now. That’s what I’m doing.”

  He passed the cigarette across and the ash dropped off onto the carpet. She found she was thinking of Eva. He’d once said Eva lived only in the present. She wasn’t destined to settle down, that’s what he’d said. It was impossible to imagine her growing old…

  They’d eaten, that evening, at a shoddy little restaurant around the corner from Marylebone Library. The tablecloths were stained and sticky. The rabbit stew was an awful mistake. The wine they’d washed it all down with was vinegary but they drank it anyway, and giggled together about the séance.

  “What on earth made that woman think she could wear yellow?”

  “The only spirit she communes with is straight out of a gin bottle. I swear I could smell her breath from the back of the room.”

  After dinner, it was on to Ciro’s for more drinks and dancing and yet more drinks—and now here they were. And here, in their aftermath, and in the quiet of Aubrey Pearson’s office, as Grace blew her perfect smoke rings and O’Connell tried to copy her (“No, not like that. You need to put your lips just like this—like this, Devil”), she thought of Mrs. McKellar, earlier that evening, shouting about a falling girl, and about the expression on O’Connell’s face as he got up to leave.

  “I can’t live only in the present,” said Grace. “I’m not like Eva. I want a long, happy life and I care about the future. Meat and vegetables and all. I don’t see that there’s anything wrong in that. If you do, then I don’t think we have one. A future, that is.”

  “Wow.” O’Connell dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “I don’t know about the future, but right now I love you, Grace.”

  “Do you?” She was so surprised that it came out as a sort of squeak.

  “Why else would I want to see you night after night? I don’t know how it’s going to end up between us, but I can say this much for certain: You make me thirsty.”

  “I make you thirsty?”

  “You quench my thirst but it comes back stronger and I need you to quench it all over again.”

  This, of course, was her worry. That what they had was a kind of compulsion. Driven by restless energy which would surely exhaust itself sooner or later. She blew another smoke ring to give herself a chance to work out what to say.

  “You once said to me that you thought what I want is to be known. Really known. Remember?”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “Well, you were right. That’s what I want. That’s what love is, to me. A deep-down understanding between two people.”

  “Do you think we have that? You and me?”

  “I know that I want us to have it. I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone about. Something you need to know about if you’re ever going to really know me. And then I want you to tell me something back.”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

  “I don’t want us to have secrets from each other.”

  He nodded and took a gulp of wine.

  “I had an affair with my sister’s husband. It was more than an affair, actually. It went on for years. I ended it when she fell pregnant with her first child. I suppose the pregnancy brought home to me the seriousness of the situation; of what I was interfering with; of the fact that he was hers, not mine. And that unless I wanted to risk losing her forever, he always would be.”

  She turned to look at him. The playfulness was gone from his face. He was listening seriously to her.

  “Nancy has no idea,” she continued. “And
now I can’t tell her, even if I wanted to. He’s dead and I’m responsible for her and the children. I can’t do or say anything that might damage the family. It’s in the past, and there’s nothing to do but put it all behind me. But it’s hard not to let the past blight the present.”

  Nothing but the ticktock of Mr. Aubrey’s wall clock. The zheeesh of a passing motorcar and the office lit up momentarily by its headlights.

  “That explains a lot,” O’Connell said.

  “Like what?”

  But he didn’t comment further. Just sat gazing at the wooden legs of Aubrey Pearson’s “visitor’s chair.” Legs carved into strange spindly spirals that looked as though they wouldn’t support anyone’s weight.

  “So now you know the darkest part of me. I’ve laid myself open to you and I want you to do the same.”

  She’d sparked his desire. That sly smile of his was creeping across his face and he was setting the bottle down. Reaching out for her.

  “No,” she said. “Tell me something. Tell me what happened in the past with you and Cramer and Eva. Tell me what was going on when you wrote The Vision.”

  Dawn found Grace sitting in Felix’s room, watching him sleep. He was lying on his back with his arms flung above his head. She’d disturbed him when she came in. His eyes had opened wide and frightened, and he’d begun to whimper. But she had only to lay her hand on his chest and tell him to go back to sleep, and those delicate eyelids had slid gently closed again; his breathing had deepened.

  How marvelous to be able to trust in that way; to feel entirely safe and secure in the presence of another.

  Grace’s mind was racing and she knew it would be hopeless to go to bed. It was selfish to risk disturbing Felix, but she didn’t want to be alone. Perhaps, after all, she was also at her most safe and secure in the presence of this particular little person.

  What had she said to O’Connell after he’d told her his story? She couldn’t remember anymore. Had she said anything at all?

  “You want to know why I’m still here in England?” He’d said this just before they left the office. “It’s for you, Grace. Just to be near you. There’s nothing else for me here.”

  He’d reached out for her hand but she’d moved away from him, started searching about in the debris for her jewelry, her stockings.

  “I didn’t have to tell you,” he’d said. “You asked. You said we shouldn’t have secrets.”

  “I know.” She buttoned her dress at the back of the neck. He’d undone that button, earlier, so he could kiss her—right there, in the place where the button sat. “It’s just that I’m tired.”

  “So let’s go get some sleep.”

  “I want to go home to sleep.”

  “I love you, Grace.”

  The “L” word again. How he flung it about. Did he really think the word itself was enough to make everything all right?

  Felix sighed in his sleep. A sigh that was endearing in its world-weariness. She wanted to reach out and stroke the lovely downy skin at the side of his face, just below his ear, but resisted the impulse, nervous of waking him again. What did he have to sigh about?

  There was a clatter in the corridor as they came out of Pearson’s office, fully dressed but disheveled. The sound of broom bashing against bucket.

  “Shhh,” she’d hissed at him, seeing that he was about to speak, and dragged him through the fire exit into the stairwell.

  Out on the street he put his hand against her face. “I know what you’re thinking, Grace. But try to understand. For us. Because you don’t want it to be over between us any more than I do. Try just the tiniest bit.”

  The early-morning sun was pushing through the curtains, making the room glow orange.

  All right then, Devil, Grace thought, as Felix began to snore. I will think my way through it all, and I will try to understand what you did. Just the tiniest bit.

  Two charismatic young men. One fair, one dark. The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. College students. Roommates. The best of buddies but with a rivalry that intensifies their friendship. They’re closer than close. They sit side by side on that thin line which separates love and hate.

  These boys know each other’s moods, the punchlines to each other’s jokes, the insides of each other’s heads. Each fears that he would be only half a man without the other. But each is also desperate to be free of the other, and longs secretly for the day when he will watch his rival sink.

  The rivalry runs all through their college lives. They compete over sports and examination results. Most of all they vie with each other over the girl they’re both in love with. Of course they love the same girl—each has long since assimilated the other’s values and tastes—artistic, personal, aesthetic. And of course this girl is the one whom everyone wants. She’s beautiful and clever and warm and icy and trouble, and she dances like a dream and she kisses like no other girl. They’ve both kissed her so they both know.

  Often they take the girl out together. They go to the movies and sit in the back row with the girl in between them. They go to dances and are so busy cutting in on each other that nobody else can get anywhere near her or them. Much of the time they revel in their exclusivity—the tight-knit trio that nobody else can penetrate. Sometimes they walk down the street together, the three of them, hand in hand, enjoying the stares. If they have one another, they don’t need anybody else.

  The girl enjoys the attentions of the two men but doesn’t want the threesome to get too cozy and comfy. She likes a bit of edge in her life. Likes the idea of men fighting over her. Likes it when things hurt a bit—her own hurt as well as that of others. Out one day on a summer picnic with the two boys, she takes the Devil by the hand, leads him off to a spot where the trees grow thick and close together and the ground between is filled with shadows, and lets him get a lot further with her than ever before—holding back just a little. He’s half crazy with lust when she gets up and dusts herself down. When they arrive back, Deep Blue Sea is a seething ball of jealousy and resentment, sitting alone with the half-eaten picnic. Cheer up, the girl tells him brightly. It’s your turn now. Devil’s expression, as she leads Deep Blue Sea off into the trees, is incredulous. She loves it more than she’s ever loved anything. Perhaps she understands that their powerful emotions are as much about each other as they are about her. In any case, she wants to do it again.

  The girl cares nothing for conventionality. She is driven by forces that other girls would shun and shy away from. Maybe she’s already halfway down the path that leads to madness (a path she will explore more fully as the years go on). Soon the boys are smuggling her up to their room on a regular basis. Each takes a turn at waiting outside while the other is in the room with her. But this still isn’t enough for the girl, who wants to push the boundaries further—taking bigger risks, seeking greater thrills. One day she keeps them both in the room with her. One boy watches, then they swap over…

  Rumors have been circulating, and the boys’ former friends are starting to avoid them. The same is true of the girl’s friends; but while she doesn’t much care, the boys are not happy. They’re both in love with the girl, but they’re starting to hate her, too. Ironically, it is at this moment, when one might expect them to bust up their friendship forever, that they begin to overcome their rivalries and draw closer to each other. They are both her victims. If they stick together and support each other, then maybe they can survive this.

  The boys have literary aspirations. They decide to write a novel about the girl (what a great character she’d make) and start scribbling notes for a book. Their collaboration is absorbing and fulfilling; they’re spending so much time on the book that they’re not seeing much of the girl anymore. Their fictional heroine is the only female around who can compete with her.

  The girl doesn’t know what they’re up to but she knows they’re slipping away from her and doesn’t like it. She hasn’t given herself to them so that they might use her up and tire of her. That wasn’t the way it was supposed t
o be. She has to take control again—to set them against each other once more.

  One day she summons both the boys and tells them they can’t go on being a threesome. Real life is about coupling up and it’s time for all three of them to join reality. She announces that she is going to choose between them, and that her decision will be final and lasting. She will take a week or so to think it over and will then summon them again to let them know her decision. The boys are far from happy about this. If she chooses between them now, it’s inevitably going to tear their friendship apart and ruin the novel, too.

  The boys vent their spleen together over a bottle of bourbon in their room. How can they let this witch be the one to decide their destiny? If she thinks she’s in charge, she couldn’t be more wrong. Their first impulse is that they should both give her up. But this is quickly squashed—they’re still in love with her, the pair of them, and they couldn’t stand to see her floating about the place with some undeserving schmuck. The way forward is to make the decision themselves and to impose it on her. Only one of them can have the girl. The other will get to write the novel in his sole name, spurred on by his broken heart and his jealousy. But how to make the decision?

  In the end, they toss a coin. It’s the fairest way, after all. Devil is to flip and Deep Blue Sea to call. If he guesses right, he gets the girl.

  The nickel is flipped, spinning, into the air, and caught deftly on the back of Devil’s hand. Deep Blue Sea calls heads. The coin shows tails.

  Best of three? Deep Blue Sea requests.

  All right, then.

  This time Deep Blue Sea calls tails. The coin lands heads-up. Devil has won the girl.

  In awkward, heavy silence, the boys return to the bourbon. Each tells himself he should be happy. All is now decided. It’s over. They simply have to apply themselves to their newfound roles: Devil is the lover, Deep Blue Sea the writer. Why can’t they be a bit more cheerful about it? For a while, they keep drinking the bourbon, barely speaking, barely looking at each other. Then, eventually they do look up. Each sees what’s happening behind the eyes of the other. And finally they begin to smile.