Authors: Anna Davis
Or was it only in her imagination—the understanding between them? Was it just wishful thinking?
“These last few years—your silent years—”
“Ah. Back to the interview again.” He rolled his eyes. “I should have just asked you out on a date like any normal person.”
“You’ve been hiding from the world because you don’t want to be owned by it. You felt trapped being the Big Writer. Trapped being the Bad Boy. Everyone knew who you were and at first you enjoyed that, but then you found you didn’t want that anymore. You had to escape just so you could be yourself. I don’t know where you’ve been all this time, and what you’ve done, but that’s what it was all about.”
His face softened. Her hand was resting on the table, and now he reached across for it—laid his hand against it so that just their fingers were touching. Only their fingers. “You’re as clever as you are beautiful.”
A groan. “How disappointing to hear a line like that from
you
of all people.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” His fingers still rested against hers. Only the tips. But that was enough. “I’m just a man.”
“Anyway, I’m not beautiful. I’m too pointy. Too knobbly. I dress well. I know how to make the best of myself, where to get my hair cut. I’m
much
more clever than I am beautiful.” A sigh escaped her. She wanted, very much, to lay her head down—to let it rest for a moment on his arm. To feel his hand stroke the back of her hair.
“You asked about the novel. Well, there isn’t one. There’s not much left of me right now. Not after…well, not after the last few years.”
“So, is it a sort of writer’s block?”
“Not exactly. It’s something else, with me. I need to know another kind of life now. Something very different than I’ve experienced before. That would act as a kind of fuel for my writing.”
Violet Lamore had started another song. A dark, velvety song about a never-ending night.
“What shall I say in the interview? About the novel?”
“Say whatever you like.” Now his hand was closing over hers, holding it tight. “Say what your readers will want to hear. You never know—maybe, in time, it’ll turn out to be the truth.”
The heat of his hand. The melancholy singing. The fug of the drink. His clear eyes and something present but not quite visible behind his eyes.
“I don’t want this evening to end,” she said, without thinking. “I don’t want to go home.”
He smiled. “So don’t.”
Eating dessert with Dexter O’Connell, I realize I’m feeling rather odd. He’s not just a writer of novels. He’s the creator of a phenomenon. I am the Monster dining with Dr. Frankenstein (albeit an extremely well-dressed monster with immaculate table manners). Don’t get me wrong: there were flappers before
The Vision
—of course there were. O’Connell isn’t responsible for the fact that I’m
out dancing every night, just as it isn’t the fault of Louise Brooks or Clara Bow or Coco Chanel and the Ready-to-Wear Revolution (though, I’m sure you’ll all agree, girls, that the clothes in our High Streets and catalogues are
so
much more stylish these days). But it was O’Connell who came up with the word “flapper” in his very first short story. It was O’Connell who first brought the flapper to the wider scrutiny of all those buttoned-up types who liked to disapprove but were secretly fascinated. They reveled in rebellious, duplicitous Veronique. Helena, too, with her unhappy marriage and her devilish streak. And impetuous Georgia, in
Unruly Son
. Then there are the heroines of his short stories: the girls who played off their suitors against each other, who bobbed their hair and outshone their peers with their feminine wiles, who danced all night and smoked and drank. Those girls had fun. That’s what so many of us long for, isn’t it, girls? Before we settle down and start breeding (those of us who can find a husband, that is)? A life lived just a tiny bit fast.
As I chisel my way into my Pavlova (for those of you not in the know, this is a new antipodean dessert which resembles a snow-capped mountain. Named after the prima ballerina, it’s made from whipped-up egg whites and lots of sugar), it begins to dawn on me that without Dexter O’Connell, there might be no Diamond Sharp. What a strange thought that is. Perhaps it’s the reason why he specifically requested Little Me to do this interview.
When we take our leave of each other outside the restaurant, he shakes my hand in a businesslike manner. His handshake at least is dependable and solid.
Trust him? Not a bit of it. But that’s not the point with men like Dexter O’Connell. It’s not what we want from him nor what he offers. He is
the embodiment of the kind of sumptuous, glamorous decadence which resonates from all his stories. Some of us might dream of living that way, if only we had the chance—but perhaps we shouldn’t forget that O’Connell’s stories rarely have happy endings. The legend of O’Connell’s “lost” five years, and the hint of sadness behind his eyes, tells us that the dream is just that. A vision.
He kissed her in the street. In the rain and the dark. It was after 3:00 a.m. and they’d gone roaming about looking for a taxi. They were somewhere in Bloomsbury, sheltering under a shop awning from the rain—suddenly heavier—when he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him.
She’d wanted this all evening—this closeness. His body against hers. She’d wanted it long before this evening. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, needing it to become everything; to make the rest of her world fade away, even if just for now. His hands were strong and real on her back. His mouth…but he’d broken away.
“You know, I shall never know what it feels like to kiss a girl without having to bend down to do it. That’s the trouble with being so tall.”
“I’d stand on a step if we could only find one.”
He laughed. “Never mind steps. Let’s go to my hotel room. You can stand on the bed.”
He moved to kiss her again, and this time it was she who broke away.
“I can’t, Dexter.”
“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, splashing up her legs.
Footsteps behind her. “Grace, wait! What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong.” She wheeled around. “You’re…you’re
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 goddamn 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
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 bastard?” 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-Goddamn-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.
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.
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 advertisement—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 glass, 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 sunshine 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
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 pass 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
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 Saturday (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 spacious 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
. 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
and he conspicuously hadn’t done so. Or
had
he? Perhaps Dickie, in a fit of jealousy, was failing to pass on notes and telephone messages. She should telephone Dickie and confront him. But he’d only deny it, and then what could she do? Instead of accosting Dickie, 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 Dickie 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…