The Jewel Box (4 page)

His hands were on her back, her arms were around his neck. She looked up into his face, only to discover she was dancing with the other American—John Cramer from across the road.

Ladies, ladies, what on earth are you doing with your hair? I have observed, just lately, a marked deterioration in the quality of bobs. Has Mother been tending to your coiffure with the pudding bowl and kitchen scissors? Those heavy, crooked clumps to either side of the face are simply unforgivable! Hie thee to a proficient hairdresser posthaste and do not show your face again at Kit-Cat Club, Ciro’s, the Cave of Harmony or 55-Club until you have remedied the situation. If you must go out at all, please confine yourself to the Hammersmith Palais and other suburban venues where such matters may be overlooked.

Really, there is no excuse, as there are plenty of places that do admirable and geometrically satisfying bobs: Steffani’s on Jermyn Street, William Jones on Brewer Street and the wonderfully named Angular Salon behind Selfridges, to list but a few. I shan’t reveal here the identity of my own, much-treasured bob
cutter, as such advertising may prove to my disadvantage next time I call up for a last-minute appointment (though if you write in and appear truly desperate I may take pity on you). As it is, he’s becoming just a tad starry (I’ve hitherto spotted such luminaries as Isadora Duncan, Constance Talmadge and Louise Brooks stepping out from his chair). They come from far and wide for that masterful trigonometry that flows from his fingertips and which simply cannot be matched anywhere outside of Paris. As I sat in his chair yesterday in a half swoon, he whispered into my ear that he moonlights as a magician, sawing ladies in half before select gatherings and occasionally making them vanish. I advised him that in future it would be a public service to vanish only those with badly bobbed hair and leave the rest of us untouched.

Now, children: Spring is with us, the daylight is lingering on and stretching out—and with it, our dancing feet. The newly reopened Silvestra Club is particularly seasonal right now, all hung with pink and green garlands, and the walls sporting an array of tiny turquoise birds. I suggest ye gather ye rosebuds…A small request for Dan Cramen’s new orchestra, however: Could you play a tiny bit faster? Thank you.

Now, as to last Tuesday: I must beseech the management of Ciro’s
not
to offer their splendid venue to dusty old publishers for any more strange literary gatherings. Those glistening champagne fountains were an expensively bought mirage, for I absolutely will not concede that the world of books has about it any real glamour. Mr. Samuel Woolton, you are trying too hard.

Finally, a personal appeal on behalf of my little sister Sapphire: Would a certain broad-shouldered Irish American gentleman please step forward and reveal his identity? Poor Sapphire is smitten and will not rest easy until she knows who this devil-in-a-dinner-suit is.

Diamond Sharp

One
week after the Ciro’s party, Dickie telephoned Grace to invite her for lunch at Katarina’s, a much-lauded Russian restaurant in Kensington.

At the time of the call, Grace was at work on the new campaign for Stewards’ Breath-Freshening Elixir with Oscar Cato-Ferguson, a fellow copywriter whom she thought rather oily.

Cato-Ferguson’s contention was that they should plug Stewards’ as being a new and unbeatable health tonic: “Fresh Breath for Life.”

Grace had a pencil between her teeth in place of the habitual cigarette. “I don’t like it.”

“Why?” Ferguson was lounging back in his chair, his feet up on Grace’s desk. “Perhaps because it was
my
idea?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Grace regarded the soles of Ferguson’s shoes with pure loathing. “It just doesn’t
speak
to me.
Sour breath is more of a social problem than a health problem. It undermines the confidence. That’s where Stewards’ can help.”

Ferguson glanced at his watch and made as if to suppress a yawn.

“Kissing.” Grace laid particular emphasis on the word—watched for its effect. Yes, he was sitting up a little now.

That was when the telephone rang.

“Ever tried borscht, Gracie?”

Beneath the swirl of sour cream, the borscht was a deep, intense pink. To the taste, it was thickly sweet.

“What is this stuff?” Grace peered at her spoon.

“Beetroot,” said Dickie. “With a dash of vodka, I think. It’s about to be very fashionable. Diamond should take an interest.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“About your last-but-one column.” Dickie sipped his beer. “I’ve had a complaint.”

“What was it this time? Innuendo? I was
genuinely
talking about the Charleston, you know.”

“Female suffrage, actually. You expressed sympathy for women under thirty because they don’t have the vote.”

“No, I didn’t. Not exactly. I said I
would
sympathize if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re so fearfully young and lovely.”

Dickie’s expression was reproving. “Exactly how old are you?”

“Thirty. You know that.”

He dispatched the last of his borscht. “The
Piccadilly Herald
doesn’t have a stated position on the extension of the franchise.
You
know that.”

“I don’t care about the paper’s position, stated or unstated.
That’s your problem. I’ll write what I like. It’s up to you whether or not to print it.”

“You infuriating bloody woman.” He dropped his spoon into his empty dish with a clatter. But then he smiled. “On another subject, when do I get the much-vaunted Hampstead supper? I haven’t seen Nancy in ages. And as to the children—they’ll be grown up by the time you ladies get around to inviting me over again.”

“Seize the Moment with Stewards’.” Grace couldn’t help but think of the time Cato-Ferguson had tried to “seize the moment” with her. It was at an after-work do—she couldn’t remember which one, now—and he’d come staggering around the corner as she emerged from the ladies’ room. He was half cut, and tripped over his own feet. She’d reached out to help him regain his balance, and in seconds he had hold of her and was grabbing her all over with his long hands. She’d slapped him hard in the face and he hadn’t come near her since.

“The image,” said Grace, “is of a man and a woman about to kiss. Their eyes are closed. They are entirely lost in the moment.”

“Thinking of putting yourself in the photograph again, are you?” Ferguson’s smile was contemptuous. “Fancy yourself as a romantic heroine?”

“Get your feet off my desk, Cato.”

They don’t come much nicer than you, Grace thought, as she and Dickie tucked into a shared plate of dumplings.

Dickie was one of the rare sort who just might take her whole family on board if she let him. And he’d loved her, really loved her, not so long ago. How many other men had
genuinely loved her? Perhaps only one. The good-looking boys she’d flirted with years ago were all taken now, by other women—or else were long dead in the trenches. Those who were still available were the Cato-Fergusons of the world. Opportunists, liars, lounge lizards.

If only she could feel more for Dickie. If only she could feel
that
for him.

“I’ve got something for you.” Dickie tossed an envelope across the table. “It came this morning. I’m not in the habit of opening your mail, but for some reason it was sent care of my office.”

Trouble was, Grace could remember how it was, being with Dickie. Why she’d ended it.
There’s nothing more lonely than being with the wrong man
.

She reached for the envelope.

Miss Diamond Sharp

Piccadilly Herald

Dear Miss Sharp,

Would you kindly pass on the following message to your charming sister?

I should be most honored if Miss Sapphire Sharp would consent to step out tomorrow evening from the no-doubt tricky little jewel box in which you
sisters reside, to have a drink with me at 7:00 p.m. in the American Bar at the Savoy.

Do entreat Miss Sharp to accept my invitation, as I too am utterly smitten. Tell her that in the event she declines, I shall have to dine alone, once again, on overcooked steak at a dreary London grill, and possibly end my solo evening at the much garlanded Silvestra’s where, for lack of anything better to do, I shall sit and admire the small turquoise birds.

I do hope her bruised foot is now completely healed.

“You seem to have hooked your fish.” Dickie’s voice had a forced casual note. “Will you be writing the date up in your next column?”

It was as Grace moved through the revolving doors and into the Strand foyer, her reflection jumping out at her from gleaming glass and brass, that the panic set in. Her insides started churning and her breath caught in her throat so that she skittered through the great front hall beneath opulent chandeliers, to retreat to the nearest ladies’ room and fuss about at the mirror with hair and lipstick; her hands aflutter to the extent that the lipstick dropped through her fingers into the sink and snapped in two.

What if he didn’t turn up?

She’d be sitting in the American Bar, alone, with her cigarettes and her cocktail and her disappointment, and a waiter
would come across, with sympathy in his face, perhaps suggesting ingratiatingly that the gentleman—whoever he was—must be mad to stand up such a beautiful woman. And she’d find herself admitting that she didn’t actually
know
who he was—the gentleman in question—though she believed him to be a guest at the hotel. And the waiter would look confused and a little disapproving—and she’d decide that perhaps it was time to leave and take the bus back to Hampstead.

What if he
did
turn up?

As she entered the bar, fifteen minutes late (frankly this was
early
, by Grace’s standards), she made herself close her eyes, holding on to the moment that comes before you look and know. And then she braced herself, opened her eyes and looked around.

She’d forgotten how masculine this place was. Dark wood and model ships. She felt herself rendered girlie and insubstantial by it. There were plenty of people in, this evening, and most of the tables were taken—none of them by him.

A broad-shouldered man with fair hair in a good suit was sitting up at the bar on a high stool, smoking, his back to her. She felt the smile light up on her face and was about to slip across to tap him on the shoulder when she caught the sound of his voice over the general hubbub—and it was thin and English—and glimpsed his face in profile…And the nose and chin were all wrong.

Fifteen minutes late. No right-thinking man would be fifteen minutes late to meet a girl like her. He wasn’t coming. Something must have come up—some piece of inconsequential business—just significant enough to ruin her evening and dash all her hopes. Or maybe he hadn’t intended to meet her at all. Perhaps he’d never set foot in the Savoy and was even
now in some other bar, scrutinizing the women and laughing a little at the thought of her sitting alone, waiting and watching for him.

And suddenly there was a hand on
her
shoulder, and the familiar American voice that sounded slightly as though he might be laughing somewhere beneath it all, was saying, “So, shall I call you Diamond or Sapphire? Which is it to be tonight?”

Grace’s smile—suitably pleased to see him but not
too
excited, not
too
relieved—was already carefully in place as she turned around and said, “You can call me what you like, so long as you get me a drink.”

A corner table had come free. The waiter brought their drinks over—White Ladies for both of them. Served with ice, American-style, this was the latest of the many cocktail innovations of Harry Craddock, the Savoy’s famous head barman, who was himself specially imported from America.

They eyed each other over the cocktails. He was both less and more than she remembered. Less perfect, but somehow more real. It was as though she’d come to know him since last seeing him, even though she knew nothing whatever about him. Tonight that seemed an enjoyable contradiction—the not-knowing and the knowing. He was toying with his glass. She was toying with hers.

“So, tell me about your column,” he said.

“What is there to say? It’s an insider’s view of the West End. I tell people where to eat, dance, buy their clothes. And I tell them where not to go.”

His finger ran around the rim of his glass, dipped into the cocktail. He licked it. “Come on. I don’t read your column
every week to find out whether I should buy my shirts at Selfridges or Liberty, whether the house orchestra is better at Ciro’s or the Salamander.”

“You read my column every week?”

“It’s more personal than you’re letting on. It’s the story of an unusual woman leading a very new London life. A life that would only be possible
now
—this year, today.”

“Ah. So you think I’m all parties and champagne and perfectly bobbed hair.”

“Well, the bob looks pretty sharp from where I’m sitting.”

She smiled down into her glass. “So, what’s
your
life like? What are you doing in London?”

“Me?” He shrugged. “I have an interest in people. That’s why I’m here.”

“People?”

“I like to watch them. Think about what makes them tick. What makes them individual…special. You might say I’m a collector.”

“How so? Are you going to cram a load of interesting specimens into your suitcase to take back home with you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He took out a packet of Baker’s Lights and offered them across. His hands, as he reached over to light her cigarette, were absolutely steady.

“Take a look at the woman in the gray dress just over there.” He inclined his head subtly, and Grace glanced across. The woman was about forty or so. Attractive but too thin. Nervy-looking.