The Jewel Box Page 8

  As I chisel my way into my Pavlova (for those of you not in the know, this is a new antipodean dessert which resembles a snow-capped mountain. Named after the prima ballerina, it’s made from whipped-up egg whites and lots of sugar), it begins to dawn on me that without Dexter O’Connell, there might be no Diamond Sharp. What a strange thought that is. Perhaps it’s the reason why he specifically requested Little Me to do this interview.

  When we take our leave of each other outside the restaurant, he shakes my hand in a businesslike manner. His handshake at least is dependable and solid.

  Trust him? Not a bit of it. But that’s not the point with men like Dexter O’Connell. It’s not what we want from him nor what he offers. He is the embodiment of the kind of sumptuous, glamorous decadence which resonates from all his stories. Some of us might dream of living that way, if only we had the chance—but perhaps we shouldn’t forget that O’Connell’s stories rarely have happy endings. The legend of O’Connell’s “lost” five years, and the hint of sadness behind his eyes, tells us that the dream is just that. A vision.

  He kissed her in the street. In the rain and the dark. It was after 3:00 a.m. and they’d gone roaming about looking for a taxi. They were somewhere in Bloomsbury, sheltering under a shop awning from the rain—suddenly heavier—when he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him.

  She’d wanted this all evening—this closeness. His body against hers. She’d wanted it long before this evening. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, needing it to become everything; to make the rest of her world fade away, even if just for now. His hands were strong and real on her back. His mouth…but he’d broken away.

  “You know, I shall never know what it feels like to kiss a girl without having to bend down to do it. That’s the trouble with being so tall.”

  “I’d stand on a step if we could only find one.”

  He laughed. “Never mind steps. Let’s go to my hotel room. You can stand on the bed.”

  He moved to kiss her again, and this time it was she who broke away.

  “I can’t, Dexter.”

  “Why not?” He looked annoyed. Or perhaps disappointed. It was hard to make out what was happening in those eyes.

  “I have to get home.”

  He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Somebody waiting for you there?”

  “Yes…no. Not in the way you mean. I live with my sister and her two children. And my mother.”

  “You mean to say, they can’t manage without you for one night? Half a night, really?”

  “I have work in the morning. I have the interview to write by the end of the day. I’m just…”

  “Not that kind of girl?” His voice was mocking. “Well, you sure had me fooled, Diamond Sharp.”

  “My name is Grace. Grace Rutherford. In the daytime I’m an advertising copywriter. And I’m in charge of a noisy family.”

  “Well, well. I do believe we have a moment of truth. I guess we’d better find you a cab, Grace. We’ll step out again just as soon as this rain eases off.”

  She was already regretting it—her disclosure. It had broken the spell. He wouldn’t be interested now, without that element of mystery to draw him on. Ducking out from under the awning, she walked quickly down the street, oily rain pelting down on her hair, splashing up her legs.

  Footsteps behind her. “Grace, wait! What’s wrong?”

  “You know what’s wrong.” She wheeled around. “You’re…you’re you.”

  “And you wonder why I disappeared for five years? You’re not the only one who was hiding their name. Come on. At least let me help you find a taxi.”

  He took her hand, muttering something about the weather in this goddamn country, and they walked together toward Tottenham Court Road.

  “There’s something I have to ask you,” she said, as the rain began to slacken off.

  “That darned interview!”

  “No. It’s not for the interview. Dexter…”

  “Now you have me really worried.”

  “What is John Cramer to you?”

  He stopped dead and pulled away from her. “Did you just speak that man’s name? Did I hear you right?”

  “He was the man at the Savoy, wasn’t he? The one who broke up our little date.”

  “Jesus! Will I never be free of that bastard?” He rubbed at his head, and his shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted.

  “He’s a neighbor of ours. He’s pretty friendly with my sister. I think he might be in love with her.”

  “Jesus!”

  “He warned me to steer clear of you. Why did he do that?”

  “Look…We go way back, Cramer and I. It’s a messy business. I’d thought it was all over, but here he is again—right here in London when we should have the Atlantic Ocean between us. And so, on it goes. And on. I’ll be an old man on my deathbed, and I’ll look up and he’ll be there. Right alongside the Grim-Goddamn-Reaper.”

  “Are you saying he has some sort of vendetta against you? That he followed you to London?”

  “Look, there’s a cab.” O’Connell stuck his arm out and a taxi pulled up.

  “Dexter?”

  “Only my mother calls me Dexter.” He opened the door for her and stood to one side to let her climb in. “The lady’s going to Hampstead,” he called to the driver.

  “Don’t you want a lift?”

  “You’re going north. I’m headed south to the Savoy.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s good night then.”

  “I suppose it is. I’ll be seeing you, Grace Rutherford. Oh, and watch out for Cramer. Don’t let him dally with your sister. Or with you.”

  And before she could say anything further he’d closed the door and the taxi had pulled out into the road. She held her hand up to wave to him, but he’d turned and was walking away.

  Seven

  Grace telephoned in sick to the office on the morning after, the better to focus on the writing of the interview. Wanting to revel in it. In spite of her sore head, the usual noisiness of the house, a lack of any notes—and indeed, in spite of her not even having interviewed O’Connell in the usual sense of the word—the piece almost wrote itself.

  On days two and three Grace walked around with a gormless smile on her face. At home she was absentminded: losing things, giving omelettes to the children one suppertime even though both hated eggs, failing to pay attention to the mealtime conversation of Nancy and Mother. At work she was unable to focus, and mistakenly sent down for approval an out-of-date draft of the latest Baker’s newspaper advertisement—one which had already been rejected—resulting in her being hauled over the coals yet again by Aubrey Pearson. She didn’t care. Her head was full of O’Connell. The kissing, of course, and the dancing—but the little things, too. The look of his big hand holding the slender stem of his champagne glass, that enticing mixture of strength and delicacy. A remark he’d made about how, when staying in Europe, he (perversely, so he thought) liked February, best of all months. February, with its crazy chaotic mix of freezing winds, darkness and snow, on the one hand; but, on the other, early spring flowers—pearly snowdrops, purple and gold crocuses perhaps peeping through the snow—and those odd days of clear, dazzling sunshine when you least expected them.

  “You never know where you are with February,” he’d said. “I like the not knowing. I like life to be unpredictable.”

  The more time she spent in mentally replaying their evening, the more details she remembered. Until she reached an almost too-perfect state of awareness of it all—her memory tightening, tautening, like a violin being tuned and then over-tuned so that the strings were almost snapping. She shook herself then—actually physically gave herself a good shaking—and told herself she must stop it right away and pay attention to the very real, pressing things in her life: Felix’s dirty nappy, her mother’s loneliness, Diamond’s attendance at the opening of a new French restaurant on Great Portland Street, Cato-Ferguson’s attempts to pass off the successful Steward
s’ Breath-Freshening Elixir campaign as being entirely his idea (this made easier for him by Grace’s “sick” day).

  By the end of day three her flights of fancy had moved on apace. She was thinking not so much, now, about what had already taken place between Dexter O’Connell and herself, but more about what would happen next. She saw herself out dancing with him again—perhaps at the Salamander, or at the Kit-Cat Club, where Ben Bernie’s Orchestra was playing a short season. Would she abandon her scruples and go back to the Savoy with him next time? She knew she shouldn’t, of course—a girl shouldn’t give her “all” so easily. But how long would he be prepared to wait and how long could she manage to hold out? He was no ordinary man, and she wasn’t exactly a conventional girl. Popular wisdom had it, of course, that a man lost interest when he’d “had his way”—but Grace wanted to believe that there was more to her than was the case with the average girl. Inexhaustible new territory that a man would want to go on and on exploring.

  There was the small issue that he hadn’t yet contacted her. But he would. She knew he would.

  On day four—a Saturday (and still no word from O’Connell)—she began to conjure scenes both awkward and magnificent: herself explaining to O’Connell that she couldn’t marry him and go to live in America because of her enduring responsibility for Nancy, Tilly and Felix—trying to elicit from him a promise that they might all live together in the Hampstead house, and receiving, instead, a declaration that he would export the entire family to a suitably spacious apartment in New York, perhaps looking out over Central Park so the children wouldn’t miss the Heath too much. She’d breeze into a writing job at The New Yorker. He’d dedicate his new novel to her. They’d rapidly have two children—twins, perhaps. The fantasies were reaching a hysterical pitch, and Grace was having to shake herself more and more. Mother had invited some old family friends over for lunch, and Grace was obliged to excuse herself several times and go up to her room, purely so she could give herself a good talking-to.

  On the Sunday, Grace woke to find doubts creeping right across her sunny hysteria, black clouds inching across the hot blue sky. The fact was, it had been five days. She tried to make allowances for him: He didn’t have her telephone number or address—but he knew he could reach her at the Herald and he conspicuously hadn’t done so. Or had he? Perhaps Dickie, in a fit of jealousy, was failing to pass on notes and telephone messages. She should telephone Dickie and confront him. But he’d only deny it, and then what could she do? Instead of accosting Dickie, she should telephone his secretary and get her to look into it—but no, he’d already have primed her. So, what then? It would all be all right, of course. O’Connell would realize that Dickie couldn’t be relied on. She had told him she worked for an advertising agency—so he’d telephone his way from agency to agency until he found the right one. She’d arrive at work on Monday morning to discover him sitting in her office, waiting for her…

  Monday arrived. As Grace pushed through the revolving door into the Pearson’s building, something was clenched tight inside her stomach. She almost couldn’t bear to look into her office—and when she did look, it was empty. Of course it was. The idea that he would be in there, first thing in the morning, was a ludicrous one. The post was brought around at 9:30, and there was nothing from O’Connell.

  She was playing ridiculous games with herself, inside her own head. She had been, all week. The fantasies had gathered momentum and gone rolling off on their own. A pram that someone had let go of, careering down steps, like Battleship Potemkin.

  Knowledge and Despond landed on her shoulders with a great, sickening weight. He would not appear. He would not telephone. He had not sent and would not send a note. The interview was done and dusted. She was no longer the mythical Diamond Sharp to him. She had told him who she really was. And she had told him about her connection to John Cramer. It was all over before it had even begun.

  II.

  The Rivals

  One

  The Past

  Nancy had already written three letters to George by the time Grace even attempted a letter to Steven. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to write to him. It was just that she didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Everything had changed so much and she couldn’t decipher her own feelings. And her awareness of the great screes of stuff that Nancy was sending to George only made it harder.

  “Dearest Steven,”

  This greeting had taken over an hour one Sunday after lunch. She’d switched from “Dear” (too formal) to “Darling” (the opposite) to “My dear” (fond maiden aunt), all with much scrumpling of paper, before settling on “Dearest.” This exhausting internal struggle—plus the writing of the date, “September 10, 1915”—was the limit of the afternoon’s productivity.

  In the evening, Grace returned to her desk to try a little further.

  “I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you often and wonder how you are getting along.”

  (Maiden aunt again.)

  “Hampstead is dull and gray without you. Nancy and I have no company at the pictures and are forced to partner each other for dancing.”

  (Too moany—and when it came to the dancing, not entirely true.)

  “I miss you so much, my brave one, and pray each night for your safe return.”

  (Heavens!)

  She gave up, and another week passed. A week of dull university lectures and essays. A week during which Nancy fired off two more letters to George. By the following Sunday the guilt was weighing heavily on her. What sort of a person was she, to leave poor Steven languishing without so much as a hello, when surely all and sundry were reveling in their missives from home? It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him, after all. It was just…But could one in all fairness call it writer’s block (as she was beginning to) when the block concerned the writing of a mere letter?

  Sick of the inside of her own head, she waited for the household to go to bed, and then tiptoed into the living room and took out the bottle of dry sherry from the drinks cabinet. Helped herself to a good large glassful, gulped it down and poured a second to take upstairs with her. If that didn’t do the trick, then nothing would.

  Dearest Steven,

  I’m drunk on Daddy’s sherry—believe me, it’s the only way I shall ever succeed in getting this out. The thing is, you’ve turned me frightfully shy. I thought I knew you, both of you, but suddenly there’s a different you and a different George, and even a different Nancy. I feel I’m the only one of us who is still clinging to the past, to the idea of us as a foursome. The rest of you have moved on. I know that doesn’t make sense and I apologize for that (I shall blame the sherry!), but there you have it. I have been tongue-tied when it comes to letter writing, but I promise you I’ve been thinking of you all the time.

  Steven, whatever happens, I want you to know that I shall never forget that night in the garden. I know I was rather cross with you at the time, but that was just because of the surprise of it, and a degree of confusion. Truly, it was a very special night. And you are quite the best kisser I’ve ever kissed.

  I’m not saying this very well (again, the sherry). I think about you when I’m alone. I feel a lot for you—the sort of feelings I can’t talk about, even with the sherry.

  There. I hope that makes you smile. Steven, I have no idea what you’re living, and I’m sorry if this is all just awfully trivial to you. I can’t pretend that I remotely understand this war, or what it must be like to fight in it.

  I’ve been unforgivably slow in writing to you, but I hope you’ll forgive me all the same. Write back when you can, and take good care of yourself and George. I want you to come back soon to kiss me again.

  With all my love,

  Gracie

  The following morning, after breakfast, a much refreshed Grace (with not the slightest trace of a headache) headed upstairs to fetch the letter, intending to take it to the post office before she could change her mind.

  I shan’t read it again, she told herself—b
ut then of course she did. And blushed. Then she read it again and blushed some more and stood procrastinating.

  Buck up and think of Steven, she told herself. You’ve written it and now you must send it.

  So she placed the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and went downstairs to fetch her coat and keys.

  But in the few minutes she’d spent upstairs, the doorbell had rung and the world had moved on. Through the open doorway to the living room, she saw Mrs. Wilkins sitting in a chair, her face in her hands, and Mr. Wilkins over by the mantel, staring into the empty fireplace. Daddy was delving in his drinks cabinet—a look of surprise flitting briefly across his face when he held up the sherry bottle and saw how little was left.

  “Here’s Grace.” Mummy had spotted her, and was advancing toward the door. There were tears on her face. “Come in here a moment, darling. Where’s your sister?”

  Grace’s heart began to pound. Her hand opened and the letter fell to the floor. She heard her own voice say, “Which of them is it?”

  Steven had been killed in shelling at the Loos Battle. His death changed everything. The Rutherford girls had been in a bubble while the war went on somewhere else. They knew people who’d died, of course. But nobody crucial had been snatched away from them until now. Nobody intrinsic.

  Grace went on at university for a time but it all seemed so irrelevant, with Steven dead and George still out there. There had to be something more useful she could do. Despite her parents’ protests she dropped out and got a job at a munitions factory, in the belief that the most direct and effective way to contribute was to build weapons with her own lily-white hands. Weapons to kill the men who’d murdered Steven.