Authors: Anna Davis
“Oh, sir, that’s such bunkum. It’s about time Pearson and Pearson joined the modern age.”
“A word of warning.” Pearson’s voice was quiet now. “If I were you, I should think very carefully about what you plan to say next.”
“All right.” Grace swallowed. “Forget about the image. We don’t have to show a woman smoking. Imagine a dance floor full of couples. In the foreground a man extends a hand to a girl, inviting her to step out. The copy reads, ‘Will You? Won’t You?’ Here’s another: The girl is seated
beside her beau in an open-top car. The line is, ‘How Fast are You?’”
Pearson pulled open a desk drawer and began to rummage about inside. Slamming it shut, he bellowed for his secretary, Gloria, to fetch an aspirin.
“Sir?”
“How long have you been with us, Miss Rutherford?”
“Almost ten years.”
He proffered a smile. It looked all wrong on his face—as though someone had glued it there. “You might well think, my dear, that London has changed considerably in those ten years.”
“Oh, it has.”
“But I would put it to you that not all of those changes are for the better. There are many people out there—
many
—who take that view. And at the heart of this ever-changing city, there is a fundamental core of values which remain unchanged, and which must remain so. A still, stable core, around which whirls a lot of flux and chaos. Pearson and Pearson is part of that core. That’s why we’re able to hold on to clients like Baker’s in the face of all the competition.”
“Sir, with respect—”
“Respect—yes, that’s a part of it, Miss Rutherford. Do you think it demonstrates respect for your employers and their clients when you arrive at the office an hour late, and visibly bleary? Or when you sit about the place, smoking cigarettes and exchanging jokes? Do you think it sets a good example to the typists and the secretaries?”
“But the other copywriters do just the same. And nobody seems to mind.”
Another of those glued-on smiles. “You’re an intelligent
girl. I shouldn’t need to spell it out for you. And what the devil possessed you to put
yourself
in that blessed photograph? Stanley Baker’d laugh himself all the way down the road to Benson’s if I let him see that proof.”
The secretary appeared with two aspirin and a glass of water, set them down on the desk and retreated. In her wake came a distinctly uncomfortable silence.
“So,” said Grace. “Shall I hand in my notice?”
A chuckle. “My, what drama! You have spirit, that’s for certain. Go back and do some more thinking. You did hit on something with your idea about targeting women. But not this way. See if you can come up with something more…domestic. And as to the rest of it—”
“I know, sir. I understand.”
Ten minutes later, in her tiny office, Grace picked up the telephone and asked to be connected to Richard Sedgwick, the editor of the
Piccadilly Herald
newspaper.
“Dickie, I want you to meet me for dinner tonight.”
“Grace? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Seven o’clock? I don’t much care where.”
“Sorry, old thing. Busy tonight.”
Grace drummed her fingernails impatiently on the desk. “What sort of busy? Work?”
Something that might have been a sigh but could easily have been a crackle on the line. “I’m not sure that’s any of your—”
“So it’s a girl. Not that dreadful Patsy again? It’s
not
her, is it, Dickie?”
“Grace. You know how fond of you I am, but—”
“That lisp is an affectation. Didn’t you realize? And the nose wrinkling. She’s playing the
little girl
. She thinks that’s what men want.” A frown. “It’s not, is it, Dickie?”
“I’m not seeing Patsy this evening.”
“Then who?” Becoming aware of an unusual silence among the typists outside the room, Grace extended her right leg and gave the door a sharp kick so that it slammed shut.
“I have to go and see that German picture. You know—the one that cost all the money. It’s on at the Pavilion.”
“Oh, that. Nobody’s going to
Metropolis,
Dickie. It’s depressing and preposterous. Evil machines and virgin girls—or was it the other way around? Quite, quite silly.”
“Thank you for your enlightened and knowledgeable view, dearest.”
“Not at all.” Grace slid a cigarette from the box on her desk and searched about for a book of matches. “What say we eat at the Tour Eiffel? You know how I hate it there, but I’d go anywhere for you, darling.”
“My, how selfless we are.”
“Then we could round the night off with a little party that Diamond’s been invited to.”
“So we’re going dancing now, too?”
Grace found her matches and struck one, the receiver wedged between ear and shoulder. “Seriously, Dickie. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Coming up Tottenham Court Road half an hour late, Grace was caught in an April downpour with no umbrella. There were no taxis, trams or buses in sight, and so she was obliged to scurry inelegantly through the end-of-day hordes; gutter water splattering up her ankles; gray rain soaking through her
clothes in smeary patches; the scent of wet builders’ dust rank in her nostrils. As she hurried, she silently cursed her timekeeping (Grace was always half an hour late); her employers (for locating their offices on Piccadilly—simply not close enough to Percy Street, home of the Tour Eiffel); the weather (this was London, after all. Who didn’t curse the weather occasionally?); God (in whom she didn’t believe); and Dickie Sedgwick (for agreeing to meet her, and for liking the Tour Eiffel).
By the time she arrived at the restaurant the rain was heavier still. Running, head down, for the door, Grace collided, hard enough to make her teeth rattle, with a very solid person. A hand closed around her forearm, and she looked up into pale, blue eyes set wide apart in a broad face. The mouth was smiling—or perhaps it was just one of those mouths that’s shaped so that it always appears to smile.
“Are you married?” The voice was smoothly American.
“No.” The word was out before she could stop it. The hand still held her forearm.
“Good.” When he spoke, he seemed to be looking past her. She became aware of a taxi parked nearby, its motor running. The man had perhaps just got out of it. The driver would be watching.
“Excuse me.”
She jerked free and moved haughtily toward the restaurant.
“Thirty-two, I should think.” His smile, reflected in the glass, was distorted. Jagged. “There’s a poignancy in your face.” He was delving in his pocket for change, stepping back to pay the driver. “Liquid and lovely.”
“I’m thirty, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“It’ll ice over in a year or two,” said the man. “Always does.”
Before the war, the Tour Eiffel had been a haunt for the more avant-garde artists and writers; Augustus John, Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound. Later on the sketches and notes in the visitors’ book were added to by Charles Chaplin, Ronald Firbank and George Gershwin—and the restaurant became the favorite of a more glitzy, fashionable crowd. By 1927, it was a monument to itself, with prices to match. The paintings and etchings of varying quality which crowded its walls put Grace in mind of gravestones, albeit higgledy-piggledy crazily colored gravestones. This place traded on its Bohemian past. One could perhaps order an hors d’oeuvre of coddled memories followed by a main course of stewed nostalgia. Certainly, Dickie Sedgwick was quite at home here.
“Punctual as ever.” Dickie stood up to kiss her on the cheek. “Gracie, darling, you’re absolutely soaking!”
“It’s nothing. I shall be dry again directly.” Grace sat on a carved walnut chair. “Meanwhile you can amuse yourself by watching great clouds of steam rising off me.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Dickie sat down. “I feel I should
do
something for you.”
“Just get me a drink, will you?”
“Try some of this.” He turned the wine bottle on the table so she could see its label. “It’s from the Rhône Valley, so Joe tells me. Frightfully good.”
“I’m sure it is, but I’m lacking a glass. Be a good fellow, and get Joe’s attention?”
He was still talking about the wine, and she was dabbing with her napkin at the damp patches on her black silk-crêpe dinner dress, when glancing up, she saw the broad-shouldered man from the street enter the dining room. He was wearing a white starched evening shirt and bow tie. Rudolph Stulik, the proprietor, was instantly at his side, leading
him to the best corner table, fussing about over his comfort, lighting his cigarette. The pale blue eyes turned suddenly in Grace’s direction, and she looked away—down at the beaded jet buckle on her dress—and back up at Dickie. He had a crumpled weariness about him this evening. Not at all his dapper, ebullient self.
“You seem tired, Dickie. Is everything all right at the
Herald
?”
A flicker of irritation. “It’s not all about the newspaper, you know, Grace.”
“I know.” An awkward moment. It was best not to draw him out further. Grace chanced another little gaze across the room. Stulik was explaining the menu to the American in the greatest detail, then pointing out a few paintings by the better known of his art clientele. The man appeared interested, but as Stulik looked away he shot a glance directly at Grace.
“Pig of a day.” Grace made herself look at Dickie, and only Dickie. “I handed in my notice.” She took a sip from her glass. “I say, you’re right about the wine. Very crisp.”
“
Did
you?”
“Well, I tried to. Pearson didn’t take me seriously, though. Aubrey Pearson, that is. And I suppose I didn’t take myself seriously either. I can’t afford to lose my job, not really. But they’re such dinosaurs, they drive one to distraction.”
“So you’re always saying. Shall we both have the fish? They’ve lemon sole today. With new potatoes.”
“Dickie, you have no idea what it’s like for a girl, working in a place like that. The men can do just whatever they like, so long as they get their copy written on time. But me—one hint of a laugh, one whiff of ciggie smoke and I’m for it. I’m supposed to be grateful to them, don’t you see? For
letting
me work there. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I was wondering…”
Sedgwick chuckled. “You were wondering what it would be like to work at the
Herald
. D’you honestly think it’s any better on a newspaper? Do you think you’d be treated just like any other fellow? It’s the world we live in, my darling. But it’s getting better—slowly.” He nodded to the waiter. “Joe, two fish, please.”
“Too slow for me.” Grace looked across the room without meaning to. The American was staring at his wristwatch, frowning…She dragged her attention back to Dickie’s freckled face—back to the matter in hand. “I’ve been thinking. What if Diamond were to start writing more than just her column? She could do book reviews, political comment, horoscopes even!”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t work.”
“But
why
? Diamond is a huge success, you’re always saying so. Who else on your silly paper gets sacks of letters? Who else gets gossiped about by
other
newspapers? Do you know what Harold Grimes came up with yesterday in the
Mail
? He thinks Rebecca West is Diamond Sharp.
Rebecca West!
”
“Man’s an idiot.” Dickie spoke under his breath, then cleared his throat. “Look. I couldn’t be more pleased with the way it’s all going. I can hardly believe it, to be truthful. But reading Diamond is like eating liquorice. You only want the tiniest bit.”
A huff. “Well, I needn’t be Diamond all the time.”
His hand came across the table to take hold of hers. Gently. “Grace, you
are
Diamond.
All
the time. You couldn’t be anyone else if you wanted to. I wouldn’t
want
you to be anyone else.”
The American was looking over again. At her hand, held in Dickie’s.
“Though sometimes I feel like Victor Frankenstein,” Dickie muttered.
“Well, then.” She freed her hand. “I shall have to do what
any right-thinking monster would, and demand that you double my fee.”
“Now, now, Miss Sulky. You’d better watch out—that frown of yours is carving permanent lines in your forehead. Ages you by a good ten years, I’d say.”
“Oh, Dickie, you’re so beastly! There’s simply no use in talking to you about anything serious.” She cast about in vain for their waiter. “Where’s Joe? We need some more wine.”
The American was gone from his table.
A bottle and a half later, Dickie and Grace hailed a taxi to Ciro’s on Orange Street. The rain had set in. Coupled with the darkness, it blurred the city. Grace gazed out of the window at bright shop fronts and the streaks of light reflected on the wet pavements. Figures scuttled beneath umbrellas or huddled together at bus stops, but for the most part London had gone home to bed.
“Who the devil goes to a party on a
Tuesday
?” Dickie said. “It simply isn’t civilized. Whose party is it, anyway?”
“I can’t remember.” Grace was vague as the wet night. “I’ve lost the invitation.”
“Splendid.
Now
she tells me. And you
could
have mentioned it’s at Ciro’s. I’d assumed it was a little jazz party at someone’s house. I’d have changed my suit if I’d known. Put on a bow tie.”
Grace opened her bag, drew out a black silk tie and passed it across. “Don’t fret. Diamond is always prepared for emergencies. And do cheer up—the invitation said champagne. It’s bound to be jolly.”
Toying with the tie, Dickie started on a story about Ciro’s—another night, another party—but Grace had stopped listening; awed, as always, by Piccadilly Circus at night. Here was
the Big New World that left the likes of Pearson & Pearson lagging far behind in the gentle past. The Circus, most famous convergence point of London’s great thoroughfares, was illuminated now by huge bold brand names picked out in colored lights. London County Council’s strenuous efforts to legislate against these advertisements had succeeded only in strengthening the determination of retailers to cash in on their location. Down at ground level, however, all was shabby, temporary and makeshift during the construction of an enormous new Underground station. The seminal statue of Eros had been removed while the works were in progress, and at first it had seemed that the Circus’s soul had gone with it. By now, though, Eros had been gone for so long that Grace could barely remember what it looked like. The soul of Piccadilly seemed instead to inhabit the new adverts. While ostensibly they yelled “Schweppes,” “Bovril,” “Gordon’s Gin,” they might really have been shouting, “I Am London. I Am the Future.”