Part 19 (1/2)
”Down? Why, certainly.” Seconds later she was back on terra firma, and he was helping Woolton carry Cecil over the fence and up to the house, followed by Verity.
”Are you all right?” Grace addressed Babs, who was dusting herself down.
”Fine. Glad this ludicrous episode hasn't been entirely pointless.”
”What do you mean?”
Babs frowned. ”I wouldn't have thought you'd be so obtuse. Pat just proposed to you, Grace.”
Four.
”What a night.” O'Connell was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes. ”Think I'd better tell my agent to get me a new English publisher. I'm not sure I'll be able to look Sam Woolton in the eye again!” a night.” O'Connell was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes. ”Think I'd better tell my agent to get me a new English publisher. I'm not sure I'll be able to look Sam Woolton in the eye again!”
”Yes, it has been quite a night.” Grace sat down at the dressing table and began to cleanse her face, keeping an eye on O'Connell in the mirror as she did so.
”We never did get our walk.” He was taking his socks off now.
”I was waylaid by Babs. We had a couple of drinks together.”
”Oh yes?”
”She enjoys a bit of a gossip, doesn't she?”
A chuckle from O'Connell. ”Good old Babs. We go back a ways, she and I.”
”So she said.” She wiped an eyelid with cotton wool. ”She obviously knows you very well. She actually seemed to know me rather better than I'd have expected, too.”
”Oh yes?” He began unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt.
”She thinks you're serious about me.”
”And so I am.” Was that a hint of tension in his voice?
”She even thought you were proposing proposing to me back there in the garden.” to me back there in the garden.”
”Really?” He chuckled. Dropped a cuff link with a clatter on the bedside table. ”My, but that woman's imagination does fill in some pretty big gaps!”
”So you weren't, then? Proposing to me, I mean?” She wheeled about on her stool to face him. ”I didn't think you were, but then I do keep getting things wrong when it comes to you. Everyone else seems to know you so much better than I do, Pat Pat.”
He came across to where she was sitting. Crouched down in front of her and took her by both hands. ”Darling, I was just having a bit of fun back there in the garden. Babs is an incorrigible troublemaker, really she is. I'd like to think that when I get around to proposing to you, I'll manage it with a little more style and finesse.” He reached up to ruffle her hair as though she were a child. Then, straightening up, he slipped off his s.h.i.+rt and threw it on the floor.
”So you might propose to me one day?” She tried to make her voice light and playful like his.
”That depends. Are you you planning to go waltzing off with John Cramer?” planning to go waltzing off with John Cramer?”
”I'm not planning to go waltzing off with John Cramer.”
He smiled broadly. ”Then we'll have to see what we can do, my darling. You know that I'll never be worthy of you, of course? I've quite a past, I'm afraid: I've had affairs with more women than I can remember. I've dived naked into city fountains. I've been at parties where everyone takes each other to bed and steals each other's jewelry. I've had women who have destroyed hotel rooms, food fights that have destroyed hotel restaurants. I once lost a racehorse in a game of poker. I once drove a white Bentley smack into the foyer of a hotel in Alabama. Shall I go on?”
”No need.”
His shoulders relaxed visibly. ”Do you think you might look kindly on a proposal from a slippery, caddish sort such as myself?”
”Your past doesn't bother me, Devil. And neither does your caddish reputation. But behind all my bravado, I'm a very ordinary girl who wants very ordinary things. I want to love someone who loves me back. I want to marry a man I can trust with my life.”
”Grace, you're such a sweet thing.”
”Not really.” She could hear the dead note in her voice. Turning back to the mirror, she looked again at his reflection and at her own. And for a moment, both appeared as strangers to her.
The night was long and restless. The curtains were open a c.h.i.n.k, letting the moonlight smear its way in to the bedroom, illuminating O'Connell's face on the pillow, accentuating his large features, the hollows in his cheeks, making him appear entirely different from his daytime self. His profile was more severe by moonlight, his skin waxy gray.
It's a glimpse of how he'll look when he's old, thought Grace. He'll look like this in his coffin.
Sleepless, she lay propped on an elbow, watching him. She'd been watching him for a long time. Her tired eyes would start to swim every so often, and his face would distort further-becoming skull-like, the flesh melting away. Then she'd try, once more, to close her eyes and slip away into blissful unconsciousness, only for it to continue to evade her.
Why had he gone and told Barbara? Why? Why? Had he chosen her as his confidante? Poured out all his worries and doubts about his new relations.h.i.+p? Or did it simply make an amusing anecdote? And was it only Barbara or had he told others, too? Did he toss it casually into conversation with the boys over cigars and brandies? G.o.d, she could just imagine how it would go. Had he chosen her as his confidante? Poured out all his worries and doubts about his new relations.h.i.+p? Or did it simply make an amusing anecdote? And was it only Barbara or had he told others, too? Did he toss it casually into conversation with the boys over cigars and brandies? G.o.d, she could just imagine how it would go. ”That new girl of mine-well, she might appear to be just a nice English girl, but beneath that impeccable bob and behind that s.h.i.+ny smile, there's something of a Pandora's box. Doesn't bother me of course-I'm rather enjoying opening it up. A little dirt piques my interest.” ”That new girl of mine-well, she might appear to be just a nice English girl, but beneath that impeccable bob and behind that s.h.i.+ny smile, there's something of a Pandora's box. Doesn't bother me of course-I'm rather enjoying opening it up. A little dirt piques my interest.”
When sleep did make fleeting appearances, it was only to tease her with its elusiveness. She'd be sliding beautifully off, when suddenly she'd find herself cast back into the bedroom, with its thick brown curtains, faded carpet and cracked ceiling (the cracks seemed to be growing); with the heavy, even sleep breathing of the stranger lying beside her (for he was was still a stranger to her, she could see that now); with the ticking of her alarm clock evolving into a constrained but relentless taunt. The s.p.a.ces between the ticks seemed to extend themselves over the hours; to stretch out and grow, until on came the next sickeningly inevitable tick. still a stranger to her, she could see that now); with the ticking of her alarm clock evolving into a constrained but relentless taunt. The s.p.a.ces between the ticks seemed to extend themselves over the hours; to stretch out and grow, until on came the next sickeningly inevitable tick.
How could he sleep so deeply while she fretted and whirred beside him? How could he be so utterly oblivious to her fury? His sleep was an affront. The more she thought about it, the more she burned inside.
Why had he brought her here to this monkey house and lied to her about it? This was supposed to be a weekend for the two them to get to know each other better. How ironic that she perhaps was was getting to know him, finally. getting to know him, finally.
Eventually-the clock showed five o'clock-she got out of bed, dressed in the previous day's clothes, and threw her belongings into the little case she'd brought with her. Throughout her hurried and not particularly quiet packing process, he slept on. His sleep was obscene.
She took a brief look back at him from the doorway. The sun was coming up now, and his face was softening again, his skin honeying. For a moment she almost dropped the case, took off her clothes and got back into bed with him. Perhaps she should wait for him to wake up, give him a chance to explain...Her grip tightened on the handle of the suitcase. Just then, he stirred in his sleep and made a tiny sound in his throat, which had something of his laugh in it. His laugh. She turned and headed out the door.
Walking down the lane, Grace was soothed by birdsong and the sparkle of morning sunlight on the sea. She'd thought it would take a good hour to reach Horace and Mrs. Horace's cottage and feared it might be longer still, but in fact it was only a twenty-minute walk. Cars distorted distances so.
It took a while before the upstairs curtains twitched. Shortly afterward, Horace appeared in a beige dressing gown.
”What the devil's up, miss? Is someone taken ill or something?”
”I'm sorry to disturb you so early. Nothing's wrong. But I'd be most obliged if you'd drive me to the station.” Grace couldn't quite look him in the eye as she shoved some coins at him.
”Righto, then. Back in a jiffy. Would you like to step in a moment, miss...? Very well, then, as you please. You just wait here and I'll be down directly.”
A c.o.c.kerel was crowing somewhere nearby. A dog was barking. Grace sat down on the doorstep, her case beside her, and waited to start out on the drive back to the station. Once there, she'd catch the grindingly slow milk train to London. Alone in her carriage, she'd come upon a folded copy of yesterday's Telegraph Telegraph, its front page emblazoned with a photograph of a monoplane coming down over a floodlit airfield, and she'd settle back for the journey with the story of Charles A. Lindbergh's epic flight. And long after she'd finished reading the article, she'd be sitting thinking about the man who wrote it. Turning things over in her mind. The things he'd said. The way he'd kissed her. John Cramer.
Five.
”Nancy?”
Grace's heels were loud on the tiled floor of the hallway, the emptiness of the house ringing out at her. It seemed bigger than when she'd left. ”Nancy?” she called again, though she knew by this time that her sister wasn't at home, and wasn't quite sure why she had shouted her name a second time. As if she could summon her up like a genie.