Part 7 (1/2)
”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, splas.h.i.+ng up her legs.
Footsteps behind her. ”Grace, wait! What's wrong?”
”You know what's wrong.” She wheeled around. ”You're...you're you 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 really worried.” 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d?” 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-G.o.dd.a.m.n-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. 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt-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 gla.s.s, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 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 pa.s.s off the successful Stewards' Breath-Freshening Elixir campaign as being entirely his idea (this made easier for him by Grace's ”sick” day). 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 pa.s.s off the successful Stewards' 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 to her than was the case with the average girl. Inexhaustible new territory that a man would want to go on and on exploring. 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 Sat.u.r.day (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 s.p.a.cious 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 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 Herald and he conspicuously hadn't done so. Or and he conspicuously hadn't done so. Or had had he? Perhaps d.i.c.kie, in a fit of jealousy, was failing to pa.s.s on notes and telephone messages. She should telephone d.i.c.kie and confront him. But he'd only deny it, and then what could she do? Instead of accosting d.i.c.kie, 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 d.i.c.kie 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... he? Perhaps d.i.c.kie, in a fit of jealousy, was failing to pa.s.s on notes and telephone messages. She should telephone d.i.c.kie and confront him. But he'd only deny it, and then what could she do? Instead of accosting d.i.c.kie, 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 d.i.c.kie 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 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. 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.