Part 25 (1/2)
”That's rubbis.h.!.+ Him and me-well, I don't really know what it was all about but it wasn't love.”
”He loves you. Or loved you, I'm not sure which. As much as he's capable of loving anyone. And actually, enough to want you to find happiness.”
Grace could feel her hands shaking. Her whole body felt quivery and strange. ”What do you mean?”
”You've seen his column today, surely? He wrote, 'You're not the only one I've wronged.' And then he wanted to tell you there's another good heart out there. He said, 'I hope you find each other.'”
That feeling again-of a shared understanding between her and Cramer. Something fundamental in their bones and their blood.
”He came to see me at my house because of you. Because you told him he should tell me the truth about the past, and you made him feel ashamed of himself. Because he finally saw that he'd been clinging to the past as much as I. Because he realized, when you and he were standing there in that bathroom, that he'd lost you and that he was behaving like a child.”
Gradually, the shaking abated. As Grace tried to a.s.semble her thoughts, she kept her gaze fixed on the towers and roofs and spires of London.
”Let me tell you something,” she said eventually. ”Twelve years ago I sat on this bench, looking out at this view, and listened to a boy telling me he loved me. That same night he proposed to my sister. Four years later, I sat here again with a hollowed-out soldier who couldn't talk to his wife. He told me his secrets and we began to clutch at each other, and things happened between us which were utterly wrong and which should never have happened. It was George. Nancy's George. John, whatever there is between you and me-whatever there is-it isn't worth as much to me as my sister is. I will not get myself embroiled with another man who can't choose between Nancy and me.” there is-it isn't worth as much to me as my sister is. I will not get myself embroiled with another man who can't choose between Nancy and me.”
”That's quite a story.” The arm around her shoulders was withdrawn. He sat forward and appeared to be thinking this through. ”But Grace, we're not all the same. It's you that I want.”
”That was what he said, too.”
”I am not not George.” An angry glare. ”And I'm not O'Connell either. You're the only woman who's even George.” An angry glare. ”And I'm not O'Connell either. You're the only woman who's even registered registered with me in over five years. How many times do I have to tell you that Nancy and I are just friends?” with me in over five years. How many times do I have to tell you that Nancy and I are just friends?”
”But you took her to Paris!”
”G.o.d!” He bashed at his own temples. ”I took Nancy to Paris because she's good company and I didn't feel like being on my own. We had separate rooms. h.e.l.l, your sister deserved a holiday, Grace!”
Two boys were kicking a football about a little way off. Back and forth it went between them.
”And anyway,” he continued, ”what exactly were you you up to that weekend?” up to that weekend?”
”This isn't about what I I did. I went away with O'Connell because I knew I had to leave you to Nancy.” did. I went away with O'Connell because I knew I had to leave you to Nancy.”
”Oh, Grace, you're quite incredibly hypocritical and obtuse when you want to be. You're refusing to see the most obvious thing! It's you you who couldn't choose. Not me.” who couldn't choose. Not me.”
”I don't want O'Connell.”
”So what do do you want?” you want?”
Back and forth went that football, just down the slope.
A sigh. ”Nancy's in love with you. I can see it even if you can't or won't. G.o.d, even my mother mother can see it. I will not jeopardize my sister's happiness or her children's. Not again.” can see it. I will not jeopardize my sister's happiness or her children's. Not again.”
”Your sister and I will never be together. Never Never.”
The bash-bash of the football. A low hum that might have been the sound of the city below them. Of all the life surging through it.
”Good-bye, John.” Grace stood up and dusted herself down.
”Grace, for five years my world has been nothing but hate and darkness and grief. You've changed all that. You You. I'm living again. Really living. living. And I think you feel the same.” And I think you feel the same.”
”You asked me what I want. What I want is to leave London. What I want is to be far away from you. Good-bye.”
She turned for one last glance at him. He looked deflated, defeated. Nothing left to say. When she walked away, he didn't try to stop her.
Piccadilly Herald The West-Ender June 20, 1927 Once upon a time people believed that, before it dies, the swan sings a beautiful and mournful song. Hence the expression ”swan song.” But really, did any of the simple folk who propagated this notion ever bother to listen to a swan? She might have a slender neck and a nicer-than-average plumage but, in case you were in any doubt, let me a.s.sure you that as a chanteuse, Miss Swan is hardly on a par with Bessie Smith.
This, nevertheless, is Diamond Sharp's swan song. You, dear readers, will long ago have decided whether my dulcet tones are any prettier than those of my fair-feathered friends. Either way, this is the last time I shall ask for your indulgence.
Today I shan't be wors.h.i.+pping the choux pastry at Chez Noisette (though it is so light they must surely have to glue it to the plates to stop it floating away); bemoaning the boiled-to-pulp vegetables of Florence Finnegan's (may the proprietor drown in a vat of his own frothing cabbage water); accusing the manager of the Salamander nightclub of watering down the spirits (I josh, of course); or lauding the eye makeup of a certain Mr. Hamilton-Shapcott (Sheridan, where did you get that mascara? I must have some posthaste!).
By now you will all know where to go for a jolly evening out in the West End and I shan't waste any more ink on the subject. Instead, I want to talk about a subject of somewhat more substance than where to go for the perfect bob cut.
My mother, Catherine, was a suffragette. In her tender years she marched with the WSPU and was arrested for hurling eggs at members of the Liberal Party. Even now, in her dotage, she goes as often as she can to Women's Freedom League rallies and bangs on endlessly about their four demands. (For those woefully ignorant souls who know nothing about the demands, they are: (1) pensions for fatherless children; (2) equal guardians.h.i.+p; (3) equal franchise; and (4) the rectification of the s.e.x Disqualification [Removal] Act.) I must confess to having ignored, rolled my eyes at and even mocked my mother as she launches into her lengthy speeches on the plight of Twentieth-Century Woman. Frankly, I'd much rather spend my day off at home painting my toenails, sipping a gin fizz and listening to jazz on the gramophone than go out to Speaker's Corner or some such place to stand in the rain with a placard. In fact, let's be honest, I'd rather spend the day having my toenails yanked off one by one with a pair of pliers to the strains of Beethoven's Fifth than at one of those rallies.
And yet, dear readers-and yet, I rather believe that I've always promoted equality for women. My words are less weighty than those of my heroine Catherine (that's not sarcasm, Mother, you really are my heroine, in spite of everything), but emanc.i.p.ation has many faces. Some may seem trivial, but this trivia is the very fabric of our lives, yours and mine. Is a woman truly emanc.i.p.ated when she's tripping over her own petticoats? Is it fair and equitable that a young lady is forced to stay home with a book on a Sat.u.r.day evening for fear of her parents' disapproval while her even younger brother is out dancing the night away at the Hammersmith Palais? Why should it be that the woman who dines alone by choice once in a while should have to tolerate being pointed at and whispered about by all those half-cut idiots propping up the bar? And while we're on the subject, what's wrong with a girl taking a c.o.c.ktail or three of an evening? Drinking is fun for females too, and we're not ”loose women” or ”secondhand goods.” Come to think of it, maybe some of us are. Maybe there's nothing wrong in that either.
That's the end of my rant. Now I'm off to dance my finest Breakaway in pastures new (the Breakaway, for those who've been hiding under a rock lately, is a Charleston with extra frills). I'll be back in dear old London sometime when the moon is full and the band is playing fast. Look for me at c.o.c.ktail hour and you'll know me by my splendidly geometrical bob (the name of that man, by the way, is Marcus Rino), by the lipstick smear on the side of my gla.s.s and the smoke rings I'll be blowing. If you see me, come over and we'll have a drink for old times' sake.
It's been a pleasure, my darlings, and I only hope the pleasure has not all all been mine. May your nights be long and your dresses short. Always keep your head clear, your mind open and a spare pair of knickers in your handbag, and remember that Life Is the Spice of Variety. been mine. May your nights be long and your dresses short. Always keep your head clear, your mind open and a spare pair of knickers in your handbag, and remember that Life Is the Spice of Variety.
Kisses.
Grace Rutherford Alias Diamond Sharp
Four.
d.i.c.kie had reluctantly agreed to Grace's only stipulation for her farewell lunch party: Keep it small. In addition to the two of them, there would simply be Sheridan, Dodo, Margaret and Nancy. Nancy, who was still out on a limb, being avoided by Grace as though she had done something terrible. had reluctantly agreed to Grace's only stipulation for her farewell lunch party: Keep it small. In addition to the two of them, there would simply be Sheridan, Dodo, Margaret and Nancy. Nancy, who was still out on a limb, being avoided by Grace as though she had done something terrible.
When it came to the choice of venue, d.i.c.kie took no notice of Grace's list of preferences and booked Tour Eiffel. Grace was vocal in her protests but secretly glad. It was soothing to know that whatever else might change, d.i.c.kie would always be d.i.c.kie.
She'd made an effort for this lunch, choosing a printed chiffon dress by La Samaritaine, all petals and softness and luxury. It had been a gift from O'Connell, but she was determined not to let that put her off. It was far too nice a frock to be left on its hanger for personal reasons and enjoyed only by moths.
When she entered the restaurant, there were only three people seated at the corner table.
”Here she is.” Dodo's eyebrows were even more finely arched than usual, and she was wielding a cigarette holder longer than any Grace had ever seen. Margaret, sitting beside her, had her mouth stuffed full of bread and had to wave her greeting. (Could anyone anyone eat like that girl?) eat like that girl?) ”Darling sis!” Sheridan was becoming a little overexuberant about their newly discovered bond. Just how many people had he told? ”I've instwucted them to bwing their finest champagne and they've gone to delve in the cellar. d.i.c.kie's paying, so I think we should enjoy ourselves, don't you? Serves him wight for being so outwageously late. And what about our divine sister? Is she a habitual late awwival too?”
”How extremely annoying of the pair of them,” snapped Grace, more from nerves than genuine irritation. ”They know very well that I like to be the last to arrive, and I'm on the dot of my usual thirty minutes en r.e.t.a.r.d!”
”Oh, weally, Gwacie. Lateness is so vewy last year.”
”d.i.c.kie had urgent business at the Herald, Herald,” said Dodo. ”He said he'll be here as soon as he can. Actually I think there's something afoot.”
”What sort of something?” Intrigued, Grace took a seat at their window table.
”I don't know, but he had a very s.h.i.+fty expression on his face.” And Dodo did something extraordinary with her eyebrows.
”n.o.body's expwession could be as s.h.i.+fty as that!”