The Jewel Box Part 16

"Stop." She pushed him away.

"Why?" He was still bending over her, perhaps about to kiss her again. "I don't want to stop."

"But what about Nancy?"

"There's nothing going on between Nancy and me."

He kissed her again and, despite her screaming conscience, she grabbed him, reaching around his neck to pull him closer, tighter. She shut her eyes as they kissed, and Nancy was there. Nancy in the dusky green dress she'd worn on the night of the Wiener schnitzel dinner, her face all floury and happy. Again she broke away.

"She's my sister. I can't do this to her."

He shook his head, a look of bafflement on his face. "Nancy and I are friends. Nothing more."

"My sister's in love with you. She's in love with you, John!"

He took a step back. Rubbed at his forehead. Acrid smells from the kitchen. Something was burning.

"But I've never done anything. I had no idea that she-"

"Oh, G.o.d! You're either ridiculously naive or utterly callous, and I'm not sure which is worse!" She tried to shove past him but he grabbed her by the arm.

"Grace, wait!"

"All that time you've been spending with her, just the two of you and the children. The walks, the cafe visits, the dinners..."

"We were both lonely. I've grown fond of the children. And of her. But that's all there is to it."

He was taller and thinner than O'Connell, but they were somehow alike. It was in the eyes, she realized. Cramer's were darkest brown, but their expression made them remarkably like the pale eyes of her lover.

"I think you know how I feel about you, Grace. I haven't felt this way in a long time. I think you feel the same."

"You have no idea about my feelings. If anything, I'm confused. So So confused." confused."

"Why? What about?"

"O'Connell told me about the bargain."

Cramer just stood there, looking perplexed.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. He's told me all about it."

"O'Connell says a lot of things, Grace. Very few of them are true."

She stamped a foot in impatience. "He says you were working on The Vision The Vision together. He says you made a deal-you got the girl and he got the novel. Why would he make something like that up?" together. He says you made a deal-you got the girl and he got the novel. Why would he make something like that up?"

"I don't know and I don't want to know."

"It doesn't make sense, John."

Cramer raked a hand through his hair. "That book is his and his alone. There was no "deal." I genuinely don't know why he said what he said, but with O'Connell, it's all about what he doesn't doesn't say." say."

"What do you mean?"

"All right." When he spoke again, a nerve was twitching in his face. "You want to know about the poison between him and me? Well, I'll tell you." He leaned back against the wall. Lit a cigarette and pa.s.sed it across to Grace. Lit another for himself. "There was no 'deal.' Eva chose between us and she chose me. We got married and lost touch with O'Connell, and we were happy together until that book came out. When Eva read it, she believed it held messages for her. She started accusing me of sucking all the color out of her, just like the numskull Stanley tries to do to Veronique. She read it over and over."

He inhaled deeply from the cigarette. Blew out smoke.

"She started writing love letters to O'Connell. I found the carbons. I never found any replies, but he must must have been writing back." have been writing back."

"Did you confront her?"

"Oh yes." He swallowed hard, as though he were trying to force something down. "We had huge screaming rows. Then afterward she'd beg for forgiveness, tell me it all meant nothing. That it was a kind of madness in her. And then the madness got bigger and I couldn't go on ignoring it. She'd go running off on some two-minute errand, leaving Betsy alone in the house, and not come back for days. Then when she arrived home, she might go to bed for a week and cry and refuse to talk to anyone. I never knew where she went."

"Was she with him?"

"I don't know, even now. It tortured me. I decided to have it out with him. Wrote to him care of his publisher. When we finally met up, it was about as bad as it could be. We sat in a fancy New York restaurant and I watched him eating oysters. Sucking them up in front of me. There was something about him...His air of condescension, his shiny gray suit with the big shoulders, the way he ate those G.o.dd.a.m.n oysters...I couldn't speak to him about Eva. I couldn't bring myself to mention her name to him. He was waiting for me to do it. He was ready to put a look of pity on his face and be nice to me, and I couldn't stand that. Do you see?"

"I think so."

"By this time Eva was in and out of the clinic. You know, I never had her locked away. She always went in of her own free will. And it was a nice place. Cost an absolute fortune. We tended to get on better when she was in the clinic-those tight visiting hours and hospital rules suited us just fine. I was as much to blame as she was for the fights we had. I was drinking heavily. Poor little Betsy would come wandering downstairs in the middle of the night to find her father staggering about and her mother talking to the Virgin Mary. Eventually, we moved her out to my parents'."

"Children always get the worst of it." Grace wasn't just thinking about Betsy here. "Stuck in the middle of situations they can't possibly understand."

"You're right about that. Betsy was better off away from it all. Frankly she still is...So anyway, it all got worse and worse. Eva was in the clinic more than she was out of it. I was very...absent. Then, on May 13, 1922, when we'd been married just over ten years, I came home from, let's be frank, a three-day drinking binge, to find messages from my parents, the police and the clinic. Eva had left the clinic without permission, made her way halfway across the state and died in a fall from a hotel balcony. They started out by talking about her 'fall,' but by the time I got to the mortuary they'd switched to 'jump.'"

A girl lying on the ground. A broken necklace and a broken neck...

"It was O'Connell's hotel balcony, Grace."

"What?"

He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor. "It seems she'd sought him out. He was giving a well-publicized lecture and she went looking for him at the fanciest hotel in town. She'd broken into his room, so the police told me, while he was out at his event. He claimed he'd had no idea she was in town and hadn't seen her. His cronies were at the police station-the publisher and the literary agent. They'd arrived before me. While I was still struggling for the vaguest understanding of what had taken place, I had the two of them on at me about the importance of keeping O'Connell's name out of the papers. I didn't find it difficult to comply with their wishes. I had no desire to run around shouting about what had happened."

"Oh G.o.d." She leaned against the wall and looked over at Cramer. His face was all darkness.

"I don't believe it's the whole story, Grace. I know O'Connell-and somehow it just doesn't add up. Over the years I've tracked him down and I've run into him, and each time I see him, I try to get the truth out of him. But five years on I still don't understand what happened, and he still hasn't given me an explanation that makes any kind of sense to me."

"You're not saying...He's not a murderer, John. Whatever he is, he's not that."

A shrug. "Like I said before, with O'Connell it's all about what he doesn't doesn't say." He reached out and put a hand against her face. "Come to Paris with me, Grace." say." He reached out and put a hand against her face. "Come to Paris with me, Grace."

"What?"

"Come to Paris with me. Let's go see Lindbergh together. Share in his moment."

"Oh, John..." She pulled away from him and started back down the corridor. That hand against her face-that was a gesture she knew all too well. O'Connell would have done just the same thing at such a moment-laid his hand gently against her face.

"You wanted to know so I told you. I'm not leaving you to him. him." They were back outside the ladies' toilets and he was right behind her.

"I can't think straight. It's too much."

"John, sweetie!" It was the blonde from the washbasins. The one who knew about betrayal.

"Oh. Barbara."

"Where did you get get to? We've been looking everywhere for you. Cecil thought you must have gone home but I told him, don't be silly. John wouldn't leave without saying good-bye." to? We've been looking everywhere for you. Cecil thought you must have gone home but I told him, don't be silly. John wouldn't leave without saying good-bye."

Cramer was looking helplessly past the blonde at Grace, as she seized her opportunity to get away. Out of the corridor and back to the dancing and the jazz and the c.o.c.ktails. Back to Dodo, who had gathered a stack of lemon slices from the bar and was feeding them one by one to Humphries and Topping, holding each slice carefully in her pointed red nails and slotting it into a willing mouth.

When Grace stepped out of the club, she was half expecting to find Cramer waiting for her in the street. But there was no sign of him. Unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed or both, she stuck out her arm for a taxi and clambered in, alone.

The taxi drove north. The driver kept trying to make conversation with her and she wished he'd stop. He was banging on, for some reason, about the new greyhound racing stadiums they were building at White City and Harringay. She had no interest in dog racing and would have had nothing to say about this even at the best of times. His talk floated all about her while, in her lap, her hands clenched and unclenched.

Something big and frightening was happening to her. She felt it in every cell of her body. It was throbbing in her head, flying in her stomach. When she looked out of the window, it was even echoed in the sky-in the sheer energy of day pushing its way up through thinning night the color explosion that is dawn.

Somewhere in the background the cabby was chuntering on. "I'll be heading back to Cricklewood after I drop you off. Back home to the missus. Snuggle down under the candlewick and have a good long kip. Lovely..."

"Layarteb," Grace whispered under her breath.

III.

Flight Piccadilly Herald The West-Ender May 23, 1927 Two new lunch restaurants have just hung up their menus next door to each other on Beak Street, each being so much more interesting for the existence and proximity of the other. Let me explain: Low Fat Feast is a place that does what it says on the tin. Most faithfully. The portions are tiny, the food devoid of fat (and hence, of flavor). The (floury) bread is spread with something thin and almost yellow that bears no resemblance to b.u.t.ter. The mayonnaise...Well, suffice to say it simply isn't. isn't. And yet the place is jammed with people of a lunchtime and there's a queue for tables that stretches out onto the street. My, but we're very bothered about our figures these days! I predict the current fervor will last until the end of August when Selfridges will have sold every last thread of its splendid swimwear collection, and then we'll all go back to stuffing our faces. And yet the place is jammed with people of a lunchtime and there's a queue for tables that stretches out onto the street. My, but we're very bothered about our figures these days! I predict the current fervor will last until the end of August when Selfridges will have sold every last thread of its splendid swimwear collection, and then we'll all go back to stuffing our faces.

Next door to the dietary establishment is Restaurant La Ronde. This place has a newspaper article stuck up in its window, warning of the dangers of dieting. Its food offers plentiful aid to any diner at risk from such perils. I went in yesterday for a splendid finnan haddock, which came with one of the richest cream sauces I've ever tasted. It should be noted, however, that the finnan haddock served at Low Fat Feast, though bone dry and half the size, is oddly similar. Indeed, if you compare the two menus, you begin to discern a pattern. Methinks I must get backstage to investigate the kitchen arrangements of these two easily uneasy neighbors. Lastly, would it surprise you to hear that the clientele of Low Fat Feast are, for the most part, on the large side, while those who dine at Restaurant La Ronde are a distinctly slender bunch?

Enough of lunch. I entreat you, on the next possible Friday or Sat.u.r.day night, to visit the Tivoli Club on Coventry Street and saunter about for a while on the roof. Yes, they've gone alfresco for the season. There's some very good jazz being played up there and the dancing's not at all bad. Really, I must applaud the Tivoli for taking the risk. There'll be some nasty wet nights ahead, I'm certain, but they've made preparations for this. There is a sort of canopy, and I couldn't help but notice a great many umbrellas on hooks at the foot of the staircase. So now I have somewhere proper to take a certain American gentleman of my acquaintance next time he talks wistfully of the summer roofs of New York. A word of warning, however: Don't bring your boyfriend along if he is a proponent of one of the more flailing and unruly forms of Charleston, or he might just dance himself off the edge and take you down with him!

A Mr. Runcett of Camberwell has written to kindly offer his services as my escort for all "gadding about" purposes. He professes himself "moved and saddened" by my column of April 18th, bemoaning the plight of the intelligent woman as regards the attentions of gentlemen, and also by my mentions of Good Girls, Bad Girls and the Devilish fellow I've been out and about with lately. He a.s.sures me he has all his own teeth and most of his hair, and offers a very reasonable rate. Grateful though I am for this most dashing of propositions, I'm glad to say I don't require Mr. Runcett's services at present. Girls, I'm sure you'll know for yourselves that it tends to be feast or famine out there. And just at the moment I appear to be dining, as it were, at La Ronde rather than Low Fat Feast. (Though as I said before, I do need to look behind the scenes...) Now readers, I'm off on a little jaunt and won't be writing next week. Miss me but don't cry for me or you'll smudge your makeup. If you're good I'll drop you a postcard.

Diamond Sharp From the Editor: Miss Sharp, currently away on the aforementioned jaunt, has asked me to deliver the following personal message to Charles A. Lindbergh on her behalf: "Attaboy, Lindy. Knew you could do it."

One.

"A change? You?" Marcus Rino stroked his mustache and contemplated Grace. change? You?" Marcus Rino stroked his mustache and contemplated Grace.

"I've had this hairstyle for years. I thought perhaps..." Grace, in the chair, studied herself in the long mirror. Her bob was still one of the sharpest in London. She knew this. She knew Marcus knew this, too.

"So, what do you want, eh?" The hairdresser pumped furiously with his foot and the chair rose higher.

"I don't know. Something different. A permanent, perhaps? There are some nice waves about."

Marcus took a large white handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped his brow. "Your hair, oh sweet one, is fantastically straight. You have no cowlicks, not a single kink. If I cut it right, it makes the beautiful lines, the angles...Why do you want me to fry it into a frizz, eh? You want to destroy all your natural advantages?" He nodded meaningfully down the long, heavily mirrored room, where his brother Pietro had just finished putting rollers into the dull brown hair of a bejeweled woman, and was mixing something in a pot. Something that gave off a strongly chemical smell.

"I'd like to think my straight hair isn't my only only natural advantage, Marcus. What say I keep it straight but change the color? How about blond?" natural advantage, Marcus. What say I keep it straight but change the color? How about blond?"

The hairdresser bit his little finger. "You want me to put peroxide all over that lovely, dark head and drain all the color out of you?"

"I know you do Dodo Lawrence's hair. Apparently it's all right for her her to be blond, but when it's me-" to be blond, but when it's me-"

"Dodo Lawrence is a natural blonde. You, oh sweet one, are not. If I could wave a magic wand to show you how you'd look with a permanent or blond hair, I would. We'd both have a good giggle and then I'd magic you back again. I'm a pretty good magician, but this is one trick I can't perform. Uncle Marcus knows best. And I can't have you running about town with ghastly hair telling all and sundry who did it to you."

Grace had her sulky-child face on now. She spotted it in the mirror and disappeared it quickly. "All right, then. But cut it shorter than usual. Shorter than short. Bobs are two a penny these days and I need to stay ahead of the pack."

"That's my girl." Marcus's smile was slightly sinister, especially when he was brandishing his scissors. Grace could only imagine how chilling it must be to watch him smiling as he performed the saw-the-lady-in-half trick. He was looking about for the girl and calling out, "Shampoo for Miss Rutherford, Penelope." Turning back, he put a hand on her shoulder. "Sweet one, he'll like you best just the way you are."

"Who will?"

Marcus shrugged. "It's obvious that you're doing this for a man. There's no point denying it."

"I'm going on a trip." Grace's hands were working around each other in her lap. "Just a little jaunt, but I want to look my best. I'm leaving this afternoon."

A pat on the shoulder. "You don't need to change yourself for anyone, sweet one. Uncle Marcus knows best."

Two letters in Grace's handbag, down on the floor by her feet as her hair was washed. One, the white letter, was addressed to Miss Grace Rutherford in blue ink, in a slanting italic hand. Neat and attractive, though oddly difficult to decipher. The other, on pale blue paper, written in black ink, was all over spiky and spidery. Messy and angry-looking, yet easier to make sense of than its italicized companion in paper.

"So, who is he, then? Your friend?" Marcus lifted her thick hair, section by section, with a comb. Scissoring deftly. She marveled, every time she came here, at the speed with which he did this. At his dazzling precision.

"What makes you so sure I'm going away with a man?"

"Oh, Grace. Uncle Marcus is not a man to judge you for such a thing." A knowing smile. Head to one side. His hairdressing implements lay in a neat row on the dressing table in front of her. Scissors, combs, razors, odd little knives. Highly polished, with matching tortoisesh.e.l.l-inlaid handles. When he finished work at the end of the day-or even simply to go out for lunch or a coffee-he'd put them away in a purpose-made calfskin wallet. He'd tuck the wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his heart. She'd seen him do it. His precious tools of the trade.

"Maybe I judge myself."

May 19, 1927 Dear Grace, I've been meaning to write a note to say sorry. Sorry for ruffling your feathers and stirring things up. I'm not sorry for kissing you though. I'd do it again if you'd let me.

Don't let that last bit put you off. I'm quite the gentleman. Or, at least, I can be if that's what you want from me. That's a promise, actually.

Come to Paris with me. I'm leaving tomorrow, whether or not Lindbergh takes off on schedule. You won't regret it and nor will I.

I'll be at home all day, waiting for your answer.

Yours, as ever, John "I'm a Catholic." Marcus sliced the bob shorter and shorter. "We like to step inside a little booth every now and then, to deliver up our wrongdoings. Usually the confessor is a gnarled old man peppered with liver spots and with alcohol on his breath. Someone you would never want to have lunch with. But for some reason we go back to this old man over and over again, telling him everything we have to tell. It's marvelous, really. Makes one feel quite liberated."

Grace smiled. "I'm not a Catholic."

"All the more reason to tell your secrets to Uncle Marcus. Who else do you have to confess to?"

May 19, 1927 Darling Gracie, What we need, you and I, is to get away from it all for a few days.