The Jewel Box (28 page)

A cavernous silence opened up between the two women. Catherine returned the cups to the tray, rattling about. Grace simply watched her, feeling a sadness, a sense that she had irrevocably lost something. There are times when the sharing of a secret brings people closer. The secret strengthens the invisible bonds of time, experience, friendship. It tightens those bonds. Not so here.

“Where’s Nancy?” Grace asked, at length, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“She’s gone to Paris with John.”

“What?”

“She telephoned yesterday, full of news about Lindbergh’s landing. They had seats with the American ambassador. She’s been having the time of her life, meeting all sorts of people.”

“I see. Yes, I expect she has.” Nausea soured her insides. Everything was dark clouds. The distant buzz of a plane.

Mummy’s voice had lightened. Her relief at the change of subject was audible. “Edna’s taken the children out. They’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Right. I think I’ll go and unpack my case.” Grace got shakily to her feet.

“Grace.” Catherine put a hand on Grace’s arm. “John is your sister’s beau.”

“Of course he is.” Grace tried to toss the words out casually. “And a jolly nice pair they make.”

“My dear.” That hand was still on her arm. “She’s too young to stay alone forever.”

“Has he proposed to her, then?” She shouldn’t have asked it. Should just have headed straight up with the case. But she had to know.

“I rather think he might, if you let them alone.”

“If I…What are you saying?”

“You chose the other chap. That was the right thing to do.”

“No, it wasn’t. I don’t want O’Connell.”

The grip on her arm tightened. “She’s too young to spend the rest of her life alone. And she has those children to bring up. It’s your turn to do the right thing, Grace. Your turn to stand by the family.”

“All I ever
do
is stand by the family! It’s always about Nancy, isn’t it?
I’m
your daughter as well.
I’m
too young to stay alone forever!”

“It’s different for you.” Catherine relinquished Grace’s arm. “My dear, you’re just like your mother. You’ll always be the one to look after others. That’s just how it is with us.”

Something was stirring in Grace. Something dark. It was
like staring down into the Thames at the objects that lay on the riverbed among all the mud and silt. The things that lay buried, and had done for a very long time. Mysterious shapes. Shadows.

“You needn’t worry. John Cramer’s the last man on earth I’d want to be with. Nancy’s welcome to him.”

Two overlarge slices of cake untouched on their plates.

Summer’s arrived to send us all gaga. That old card, that party jester. At the first glimmer of even the tiniest ray of sun, we all go running about the West End in our sandals, exposing our unpalatable toes, displaying our lily-white legs and our flabby arms. My, what an unwieldy sack of potatoes we Londoners are. All through the winter we are so chic in our silver-fox coats and our plumed hats and our nicely cut tweeds. It’s as though we’ve all signed a pact, agreeing not to look or not to care for the next three months.

All this gay abandon simply doesn’t bring out the best in me. I am not of the type that is all ruddy complexion and flaxen hair and overflowing wholesomeness. My red-lipped, jethaired white-skinned visage is offset nicely by ice and darkness and the contrasting roaring fires. Today, while dashing about Dickens & Jones (there are pleasing summer dresses about that place in pastel col
ors for those who are the pastel type), I beheld my reflection in a long changing room mirror and was, frankly, aghast at my own ghoulishness. I resembled nothing so much as a vampire caught out in the daylight, and don’t know what I can do about this beyond a fastidious avoidance of mirrors for the rest of the season.

The hideous truth is that no matter how well dressed one might be or how sharp the angles of one’s bob, one can’t forever escape the ravages of the years. Summer is kinder to the young, with their golden flesh and their pure souls, than to the likes of me. I suppose I still think of myself as a flapper; indeed, as one of the original flappers: the pioneers who first danced the dances now performed so lithely and casually by the two-a-penny whippersnappers clogging up the floors at Ciro’s and Kit-Cat and Salamander. But it’s time to face facts: I’m a was-flapper, a former-flapper, a flapper-grown-up or even grown-old. When young gentlemen in tall hats and tails glance in my direction, they’re not, as I’d thought, admiring my décolletage or my shapely calves. They’re wondering why I’m not at home in a housecoat with the children and the knitting, or tucked up in a twin-bedded room with hubby. I should say, dear readers, that this is not an attempt to garner sympathy. I’m simply stating the facts of this week’s shock realization.

But surely it isn’t just the unflattering mirror in Dickens & Jones that has brought this home to me? No, girls. I have been in Dorset, parading about in my swimming costume with a collection of people even older than my good self, who really Should Know Better. Fashionable dissolute types who look terrible in their swimwear; who like to indulge in children’s party games and who run about their gardens naked, play panpipes and jump off cliffs. These are people who are becoming increasingly desperate in their refusal to grow old. I suppose what I’m saying is that I don’t wish to become one of
those
people any more than I
wish to join the children-having, churchgoing, flower-arranging set. There must be another way, mustn’t there? Please tell me I’m not the only modern girl in this predicament?

And so it is good to cheer oneself up with ice cream! What a heavenly substance this is. The Yanks have been on to it for years, of course, and sell it by the quart in every corner store. Now it is finally here, too. I suggest you go this very day to your nearest Lyons Corner House (it’s certainly being served in their larger establishments, at any rate); crossing town by bus, tram or train if necessary (it’s worth it, I promise), and order yourself a dish of their wondrously refreshing and luxurious vanilla, chocolate, strawberry or lemon flavors. (It can’t
really
be fattening, can it? This meltingly unreal dessert of the gods?). Around and about the West End today, I noticed that plenty of cafés are putting their tables and chairs out on the pavements, French-style; so where possible, eat your ice cream outside in the sunshine.

As I was passing through Trafalgar Square yesterday, a man stopped me and tried to sell me some half crowns at a shilling each. Being the suspicious sort, I gave him a skewiff smile and shook my head, whereupon the chap leaped in the air, whooping with glee, and then ran off to try someone else. Too late did I realize that rather than evading his trap, I had stepped neatly into it! Now, it irks me to think that this fellow may win his bet or prove his theory so easily. So, if you come across him, readers, you know what to do, and together we’ll have the last laugh.

Only in London…

Diamond Sharp

“Tell
the driver to get a move on, will you?” Grace was resting her head against the leather upholstery, her eyes closed. “I’m absolutely parched.”

Dickie, sitting beside her in the back of the taxi, patted her hand. “Settle back, old girl. There’s some sort of holdup. An accident or something. We’ll just have to wait.”

Opening her eyes, Grace gazed out on Oxford Street, all shuttered shops and stragglers. Selfridges had a melancholy quality about it when closed, like a beautiful girl dolled up for a dance but left a wallflower. “Oh, Dickie, this is no good. I happen to know there’s a nice little place tucked around that corner. Why don’t we stop off for a cocktail and stroll over to the party in half an hour or so?”

“Won’t work. I need to be there to greet the guests.” He was twitching at his tuxedo, smoothing his hair again and
again, though it was uncharacteristically well oiled, not a strand out of place.

“Darling, you’re a bag of nerves. Trust me, a nice cocktail would steady you up. That place I mentioned—”

“No.” Dickie’s voice was sharp enough to attract the driver’s attention. He continued more quietly, “You needn’t worry, Grace. There’ll be plenty to drink at the party—sufficient even for your needs, I should think.”

“Dickie!” She’d been glad when he’d asked her to partner him to the
Herald
’s party. They threw a party every summer, but this year was also the paper’s fifteenth anniversary. The
Herald
’s circulation had soared since Dickie had taken over as editor in 1925, and it was very much his night. She was touched that he wanted her center stage with him. It suited her, just at present, to be on the arm of someone so absolutely safe as him. Now though, with Dickie so unpleasant, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

“Sorry.” He patted her leg, his hand lingering for a moment on the red velvet of her dress. “Thing is, Nancy came to see me today…”

“I should have guessed you’d be ganging up with her.”

“Don’t be so daft. Nobody’s ganging up. Nancy’s concerned about you. She says you haven’t been in to work at Pearson’s for over a week.”

“That’s none of her business. Or yours.”

“She says you’re out every night with Dodo and her cronies. And then you hide in your room all day.”

“A girl has to get her beauty sleep
some
time.”

“She says you’re barely speaking to her. She’s blaming herself, thinks she must have done something wrong. What could Nancy have done to warrant that kind of treatment, Grace?
Nancy?
I mean, she’s just the loveliest—”

“Oh, do shut up about Nancy.” Grace fixed her gaze on the pillars of Selfridges. “When is this damn taxi going to
move
?”

“She says you’ve gone through pretty much every bottle in the drinks cabinet.”

“I’m having a little off patch, Dickie. That’s all. You surely have off patches? Nancy certainly does, though she’s conveniently forgotten, it seems. I’d be fine if everyone would just leave me to get on with it and get over it.”

Dickie. That oh-so-familiar face of his—pale and lively and edgy. He wasn’t handsome, neither in the classical sense nor unconventionally. But he exuded intelligence and wit—practically sweated it out of every pore. And women adored him for it. This would never have been true in reverse, of course. The bright-but-plain sort of girl stood no chance with a high-caliber gentleman. Not unless she was also filthy rich. Perhaps, Grace realized, somewhat randomly, it was the very fear of finding that she herself was the bright-but-plain type that had always driven her to shun that kind of girl and to strive so hard with her appearance, her persona…

“Grace, this is more than an off patch. What’s going on? This can’t all be about Dexter O’Connell. Can it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Jealousy is not attractive, Dickie. Not in the least.”

A sound that was almost a scoff. “Heavens, you think I’m still in love with you!”

Well, aren’t you?
The words were almost out. She had to fight them back. Then the embarrassment came flaring up in her face, hot in her cheeks. And the big yawning space that had been opening up inside her over the last week or so seemed to widen just that little bit further.

“I think I should go home.” But as she said it, the traffic began to move and the taxi jolted into motion.

“Dead horse in the road,” the driver called back over his shoulder. “Can you believe it, in this day and age?”

Grace peered out as they drove past. Three policemen and a couple of workmen were trying to move it out of the road, watched by a bunch of bystanders. Five men struggling to shift one dead horse.

“Come to the party with me, Grace.” Dickie felt for her hand. “I’ll stop prying, I promise. You’re my best chum, in spite of everything—perhaps
because
of everything—and I want you there with me.”

The cabaret was already in full swing up on top of the Tivoli Club, in the roof garden. The Chaz Rowney band were playing loud, while a bunch of black dancers from Harlem, in glittery costumes, danced something entirely new. It started out as a Charleston, but as Rowney launched into one of his crazy trombone solos, the dancers broke away from their partners to improvise elaborate solo moves. All around the dance floor, the bright young things were watching closely while the sun went slowly down beyond Trafalgar Square. Some of them were tapping out the steps, determined to be among the first to bring them to London’s nightclubs.

“It’s the Breakaway.” Dodo was wearing a golden dress with a single gold-painted rose threaded into her hair. “Quite something, isn’t it?” She was flanked on either side by Topping and Humphries. They’d become, so Grace had thought of late, her guard dogs. They were always with her, but you didn’t have to bother speaking to them anymore. You might toss them a biscuit quite legitimately.

“Looks like a Charleston with a bit of extra showing off,” said Grace. “Perhaps dances will always be variations on the Charleston from now on. It’s the definitive dance, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, there’s another column,” said Dodo. “I wish
my
job was so easy.”

Grace was looking about for Dickie, but he was still over by the top of the stairs, shaking hands. “I need a drink.” As she said it, a waiter placed a glass of champagne in her hand.

“I bet you do.” Dodo took one for herself. “That’s
him
, isn’t it?” She gestured across the roof.

Grace hadn’t seen O’Connell since the morning she’d run from Sam Woolton’s house. He looked unworldly tonight in a suit of purest white with a single red rose, the same red as her dress, in the buttonhole. The only man not to be wearing a black dinner jacket. He was standing talking to a girl in front of a white-painted fence entwined with plastic vines and lilies and fairy lights. As Grace looked over, he caught her eye and smiled distantly—the kind of smile you’d give to an acquaintance. His raven-haired companion, in a blue satin dress that glowed green under the lights, was familiar.