The Jewel Box Page 23

  “Is that your sister over there?” Dodo again. Did she have nothing better to do than continually claw open Grace’s life with her gold-painted talons? “So divine in that pink dress. Look how she’s threading back and forth through all those people over there. She’s looking for someone. Perhaps for you?”

  “I doubt it.” Grace didn’t bother looking.

  Dickie had finished and the stage was taken by a Chinese contortionist, who twisted her rubbery body into such peculiar knotted shapes that it made one quite queasy. Heading over to the bar for a glass of water, Grace looked up at the mirror that stretched along the back wall and saw, reflected in it, John Cramer. He was perched on a high stool down at the far end of the bar, gazing at nothing in particular and toying with a highball glass. The suddenness of this—his nearness—was too much. She wanted to turn and slip away, but he’d already seen her in the mirror. They’d seen each other.

  “Have a nice weekend with Nancy, did you?” She tried to keep her voice icy. Didn’t want the emotion showing through.

  He shook his head as if despairing of her. Swore under his breath. “Grace, you turned me down flat and went straight off on your little trip with O’Connell. Why the hell should I tell you anything about my weekend?”

  At the sound of that slurred voice, Grace realized the obvious. The sullen, oddly malleable look about his face, the glassiness in the eyes…The teetotaller was drunk! Probably too drunk to do anything but prop himself up on that bar.

  “What are you doing, John?”

  “I wish I knew.” He looked away, back down into his glass, and Grace felt herself sinking even further inside. Somewhere nearby, Nancy was searching for him, she was sure of it. Threading back and forth through the crowd looking for her lover.

  “Go home. Out of respect for my sister, if not for yourself.”

  “Grace…”

  She turned her back on him and was instantly enveloped in a crowd of celebratory colleagues. A big pack of news writers, feature writers, reviewers, copy editors…A herd of jolly, smiling faces full of mirth and gossip, wanting to show her that she was one of them. That she belonged. Usually she would have been gratified but tonight her mind was on other things. She was there, among them, bathed in their niceness, for what felt like forever. When they finally moved on and away, Cramer was gone from his seat at the bar. She couldn’t see him or O’Connell for that matter—and she found herself narrowly evading Sam Woolton and Verity, who were deliberating over a tray of vol-au-vents (that naked hairy body and that thing of his so vivid in her mind’s eye…those bulbous eyes and her own whirling Oriental wrap…), and then someone trod heavily on her foot and—

  “Sorry, Grace.” Margaret, pink-faced from the drink or the awkwardness. “Didn’t see you.”

  “I don’t suppose you can see much at all without your glasses. What are you doing here?”

  “Ah.” The face went from pink to magenta. “You don’t know. Thing is, they sent you an invitation at the office and—”

  “I see. You decided to be me.”

  “Please don’t be cross! I can’t go on as I am. As I have been. My life is like something hollowed out. Like a…Is it true that French people eat snails? I’m like the shell that’s left behind after the snail’s been eaten. That’s what it’s like, being me.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Margaret, I’m not bothered about your using my invitation. Not when there’s so much else to be bothered about.”

  “Oh. You know then?” A fierce intelligence was burning away in Margaret’s myopic eyes. And a hunger. An insatiable hunger. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Know what? What are you talking about?”

  “Ah.” A sheepish look. Slightly nervous. “I’m going to be Dexter O’Connell’s secretary. I’ll book his restaurant tables and take his suits to the cleaner’s and type his letters, but also I’m going to type up his novels! I’ll be the very first person to read the new book!”

  There was a stiffness in Grace’s face.

  “I’m sailing to New York with him. I’ll be going wherever he goes. Following him all over the world! Can you imagine it?”

  “He’s going back to New York?”

  “I wrote to him at the Savoy. I know I should have told you but…Well, it all seemed a little delicate, what with you and him and…I met him, remember? And he thought I was clever. So I sat down and wrote to him about his books and I mentioned that if there was ever a chance to meet him again, or if there was anything I could do for him…”

  “Unbelievable!”

  A quick shake of the head. “It’s not like that. I’m not trying to compete with you. But it’s over between the two of you anyway, isn’t it? And in any case, you surely knew it wouldn’t last? He isn’t the type to belong to anyone but himself.”

  “And how do you know all this? How do you know him so much better than I do?”

  A shrug. “I’ve read all his books. Have you?”

  It was like the most dreadful dream—Margaret standing there all pretty and knowing and full of herself. You couldn’t wake out of this dream, no matter how hard you tried. And then things got even worse.

  “Grace!” It was Nancy, in pink with daisies in her hair. Tugging at Grace’s arm. Her eyes wild and panicky. “Come with me. Quickly. Please.”

  Even before Grace had grasped what was happening, there were sounds of shouting. You could hear it above the music. A doorman went running, cutting through the crowds, followed closely by Dickie. The sound of bone colliding with bone over by the staircase. A man’s yell. Women squealing.

  Nancy was shouting at people in an authoritative way as she pushed through. “Make way! Out of the way!” Grace, in her wake, was tongue-tied.

  Two doormen had hold of Cramer. He was struggling, yelling about how he was going to kill “that bastard.” His face was wild and full of hatred, his shirt ripped and bloody. It was only now—seeing Cramer so out of control, so not himself—that she realized just how gentle he normally was, how gentleness was one of his defining characteristics. His eyes were looking at her now, but without seeming to see her, seeing only his own rage. As Nancy hurried to his side, Grace felt the prickle of tears.

  Over on the staircase, seated on the top step, was O’Connell. There was a lot of blood on his white suit. He appeared to be quietly watching Cramer, as the blood flowed freely from his nose and lip. When he spotted Grace, he gave a grimace that might have been a smile. He spoke, and his words were blurred but discernible.

  “Some would say I had that coming. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nancy was speaking to Cramer. Grace couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was, it was working some kind of magic. He seemed to go limp, the rage ebbing away. Then she turned angrily to O’Connell. “What have you done?”

  “You must be the lovely Nancy.”

  Dickie was speaking to the two doormen, persuading them to let go of Cramer. Once they’d done so, Nancy took his arm, holding him up. Dickie, talking intently to Nancy, took the other arm. His hair was working free and was sticking up all over in greasy strands. Turning back to the room, he said loudly, “Righto. Sideshow’s over. You hear me? Excuse us, please.” And together, they half carried, half dragged Cramer past Grace and O’Connell, heading down the stairs and out of the club.

  “You know, Grace, I’ve been to many places, seen many things, but this is my first time inside a ladies’ bathroom. I only wish I had my notebook with me.” O’Connell was perched up on the edge of the marble-topped counter beside the sinks. Next to him was a pile of bloody, sodden tissue. Grace had a wad in her hand and was dabbing at his lip and nose. Mostly he was stoic, but every so often he winced and groaned.

  “I think this lip may need a stitch,” she said. “We should go to a hospital.”

  “No need for that. I’ll be fine.” The lip was sufficiently swollen that his words were blurred. “Hey, lady.” He was addressing the only other woman in the room, primping
and preening into the mirror at a neighboring sink. “That lipstick is too pink for you. You want a darker tone to set off that red hair.”

  “You shouldn’t even be in here,” snapped the woman. “He shouldn’t even be in here.”

  Grace silently mouthed the word “sorry” at the woman, who made her way past and back out to the party. “So you’re an expert on makeup now?”

  “Just trying to be helpful. It’s always been my downfall.”

  “Right. That should do it.” She gathered up the pile of tissue and threw it into the bin. Then she delved into a cupboard and produced a hand towel. “Hold this to your face.”

  “It’s just as well your dress is red.” He took the towel and did as he was told.

  Grace caught her reflection in the mirror. There was a tired and vaguely distressed look about her. O’Connell, on the other hand, somewhere behind all that blood and swelling, was positively chipper.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Well, it is a party. Isn’t one supposed to enjoy parties?”

  “What did you say to John?”

  “Oh, it’s ‘John’ now? The man’s a drunk. A one-man justification for Prohibition.”

  “So you’re saying it was unprovoked? He hit you for no reason at all?”

  A sigh. Beneath the swelling his face became serious. “It’s between me and him and our shared past. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him what happened on the day that Eva died? For five years that man has been torturing himself over not knowing and thinking the worst possible thoughts about it all. Tell him the truth, whatever it is. Yes, she chose you over him, but hasn’t he suffered enough for it?”

  O’Connell lowered the bloody towel and gingerly put his hand to his face, touching his lip and nose lightly. Exploring. “My dear girl, do I have to remind you that you left me, the other day? That you hotfooted it back to London while I slept? Without even paying me the simple courtesy of leaving a good-bye note? I’m…‘touched,’ shall we say, by your interest in my private life, but frankly this was never any of your concern, and it’s even less of your concern now.”

  Grace swallowed hard. “Did you wonder why I left? Did it remotely bother you to wake up and find me gone?”

  A sound that might have been a laugh but which turned into a yelp of pain. “Say, want to know what’s always fascinated me? On one day you can feel something really strong for a person—I mean, those big intense emotions that dominate your whole world and simply dwarf everything else—and then the next day you wake up and that incredible love you felt for a day or a year or whatever—it’s vanished. Pff, like smoke. There’s nothing you can do to bring it back.” He set down the towel and began washing his hands.

  “I know you said that to hurt me,” said Grace. “But it actually makes me feel sorry for you. It must be awful to be so alone and empty as you are. Playing your stupid pointless games with people’s heads and hearts.”

  O’Connell was still rubbing his hands together under a stream of water from which steam was now rising. “Are you in love with John Cramer, Grace?”

  She sighed. “I hope you have a good journey back to New York. Be nice to Margaret. She’ll do a good job for you and she deserves the best.”

  “Of course I’ll be nice to her. Why would I be anything other than nice to my new secretary? You’re getting carried away with your little theories about me.” He was still washing his hands, though the steam was rising thickly and his skin was turning red. As the water reached what must have been a scaldingly hot temperature, he finally turned off the tap. “Say, it was so delightful to finally glimpse your sister this evening. I hadn’t expected her to be so utterly beguiling. I should have guessed after everything you’d told me about the two of you with George and Steven. And now poor old Cramer. You’re like a couple of gems in a jewel box, you two.” He shook the water off his hands. Examined his swollen face in the mirror. “Nancy has a rare and beautiful dignity. You might even call it nobility. She’s…fascinating.”

  “Shame on you, O’Connell.” The room was too small or else he was too big. She had to get out.

  “Running away again, are we?”

  “Walking away. There’s a difference. And you’d do well to learn that for yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at you and Cramer. By refusing to talk to him about Eva’s death, you’ve made damn sure that he’ll never leave you alone. Cut him loose, for goodness’ sakes.” She made herself look at him one last time. “Good-bye, Devil. Good luck with the new novel.”

  Seven

  Grace was woken by building noise. Hammering, drilling and great metallic clangs that reverberated through her head and in the roots of her teeth. The air smelled faintly of dust and cat. When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t work out where she was. She was lying on her own in a narrow brass bed, wearing only her underwear. Nothing was familiar: the cluttered dressing table draped all about with silk scarves, the oversized and vaguely ominous wardrobe, the walls papered in what might once have been cream but was now beige. It took her a moment to remember. Having done so, she got up and wrapped herself in the unbecoming yellow dressing gown that lay on the bed.

  Beyond the bedroom was a tiny lounge-kitchenette, where Margaret, smartly dressed and wearing her glasses, was filling a battered kettle and setting it on one of the two gas rings. Spooning tea leaves into a pot. “Morning, Grace. Headache?”

  “I should say.” Grace sank into the single tatty brown armchair, and then sank a little farther with the broken springs. “Thank you for letting me stay. It was very kind of you. I couldn’t have faced my sister—not last night, not after all that drink. Not sure I want to face her today either, come to that.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you can’t stay a second night. I’m not sleeping in that armchair again.”

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” Grace covered her face with her hands. “I never intended to put you out of your bed.”

  “And yet last night you went striding straight into the only bedroom and lay down on the only bed without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  Grace winced. But actually Margaret sounded cheerful enough. She was humming brightly as she fetched two cups and saucers from a little cupboard.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said eventually. “Gave me the chance to even things up a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well.” Margaret shrugged. “On one side of the equation I took advantage of your relationship with Dexter O’Connell to get myself out of a rut. And then, on the other side, you took advantage of my hospitality. So now we’re equal.”

  Grace wasn’t so sure about this particular piece of algebra but decided not to say so. “You’re really going away with him, then?”

  “Of course! You surely don’t think I’m going to turn down the job of my dreams just because my future employer behaves badly to his lovers? He’s a famous cad. I’ve always known that.” She smiled. “I’m not trying to get him to fall in love with me. That’s not what this is about.”

  “I suppose, when you put it like that…” The unspoken truth sat plainly between them. It was she who’d been naïve; she who’d chosen to ignore what everybody knew about O’Connell. You had only to have read the newspapers now and then to know he was a cad. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter, the reason she’d overlooked the obvious. She knew too much about newspapers to think you could believe what they said about anyone.

  “I’m meant for bigger things,” Margaret said. “It’s not just about loving his books. I’m going to travel the world, meet extraordinary people. At the moment my world extends no farther than the bus ride from Battersea to work and back.”

  “Is that where we are, then? Battersea?”

  In answer, Margaret crossed to the grimy window and yanked open the curtains that were still half closed. “It’s not a bad bit of London. Except for all the building noise. So much n
oise! And that’s only going to get worse. They’re planning to build an enormous power station here—big enough to generate as much electricity as all the others in London put together. Can you imagine the fumes and the filth? It’s a shame, really.”

  Grace peered out at squat terraced housing in yellow brick—and at the end of the road, a building site. Men in overalls, steel girders, ropes and pulleys and rubble.

  “There are people in Battersea from all corners of the Empire. So many fascinating lives and experiences and religions. Lots of Communists, too. Our MP’s a Communist, though he’s sort of masquerading as a member of the Independent Labour Party. You might have heard of him—Shapurji Saklatvala? He’s from India. Well, I say he’s ‘our’ MP, but of course I haven’t actually had the opportunity to vote for him or anyone else, being twenty-seven.” The kettle began to whistle. “I’m a Communist, too, actually.” This was said sheepishly—something she was proud of but didn’t want to brag about.

  “Are you?”

  “Have been for years.” She poured hot water into the teapot and gave it a stir. “This country’s held back by its class system—by the fact that upper-class twits like Oscar Cato-Ferguson go sailing their way into the best jobs while people like me are left to type their inarticulate letters. As for the monarchy—well it’s simply absurd. How can we allow it to continue if we’re to be a truly modern society?”

  This was a whole new Margaret. Put Grace in mind of her mother. “Well, you’re certainly fully of surprises.”

  A smile. “So. Bathroom’s out on the landing. Should be free by now. There’s a towel over there by the door, and my soap and my loo roll. Have you a spare outfit at the office? I can lend you a long coat to cover your party dress till you get changed.”

  “What? I wasn’t planning on going in to the office today.”

  “Oh?” Margaret raised an eyebrow. “So when, precisely, were you thinking of going back? I’ve already told a pack of lies about visiting you with flasks of soup, how hideous your flu is and how deathly gray you’re looking. I’m running out of things to say.”