Authors: Anna Davis
Grace had her sulky-child face on now. She spotted it in the mirror and disappeared it quickly. “All right, then. But cut it shorter than usual. Shorter than short. Bobs are two a penny these days and I need to stay ahead of the pack.”
“That’s my girl.” Marcus’s smile was slightly sinister, especially when he was brandishing his scissors. Grace could only imagine how chilling it must be to watch him smiling as he performed the saw-the-lady-in-half trick. He was looking about for the girl and calling out, “Shampoo for Miss Rutherford, Penelope.” Turning back, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Sweet one, he’ll like you best just the way you are.”
“Who will?”
Marcus shrugged. “It’s obvious that you’re doing this for a man. There’s no point denying it.”
“I’m going on a trip.” Grace’s hands were working around each other in her lap. “Just a little jaunt, but I want to look my best. I’m leaving this afternoon.”
A pat on the shoulder. “You don’t need to change yourself for anyone, sweet one. Uncle Marcus knows best.”
Two letters in Grace’s handbag, down on the floor by her feet as her hair was washed. One, the white letter, was addressed to Miss Grace Rutherford in blue ink, in a slanting italic hand. Neat and attractive, though oddly difficult to decipher. The other, on pale blue paper, written in black ink, was all over spiky and spidery. Messy and angry-looking, yet easier to make sense of than its italicized companion in paper.
“So, who is he, then? Your friend?” Marcus lifted her thick hair, section by section, with a comb. Scissoring deftly. She marveled, every time she came here, at the speed with which he did this. At his dazzling precision.
“What makes you so sure I’m going away with a man?”
“Oh, Grace. Uncle Marcus is not a man to judge you for such a thing.” A knowing smile. Head to one side. His hairdressing implements lay in a neat row on the dressing table in front of her. Scissors, combs, razors, odd little knives. Highly polished, with matching tortoiseshell-inlaid handles. When he finished work at the end of the day—or even simply to go out for lunch or a coffee—he’d put them away in a purpose-made calfskin wallet. He’d tuck the wallet into the inside pocket of
his jacket, next to his heart. She’d seen him do it. His precious tools of the trade.
“Maybe I judge myself.”
Dear Grace,
I’ve been meaning to write a note to say sorry. Sorry for ruffling your feathers and stirring things up. I’m not sorry for kissing you though. I’d do it again if you’d let me.
Don’t let that last bit put you off. I’m quite the gentleman. Or, at least, I can be if that’s what you want from me. That’s a promise, actually.
Come to Paris with me. I’m leaving tomorrow, whether or not Lindbergh takes off on schedule. You won’t regret it and nor will I.
I’ll be at home all day, waiting for your answer.
“I’m a Catholic.” Marcus sliced the bob shorter and shorter. “We like to step inside a little booth every now and then, to deliver up our wrongdoings. Usually the confessor is a gnarled old man peppered with liver spots and with alcohol on his breath. Someone you would never want to have lunch with. But for some reason we go back to this old man over and over again, telling him everything we have to tell. It’s marvelous, really. Makes one feel quite liberated.”
Grace smiled. “I’m not a Catholic.”
“All the more reason to tell your secrets to Uncle Marcus. Who else do you have to confess to?”
Darling Gracie,
What we need, you and I, is to get away from it all for a few days.
Somewhere far from Aubrey Pearson’s desk, my rumpled bed at the Savoy, the sticky dance floor at the Salamander, the sleight-of-hand slipperiness of Wednesday Whist at Silvestra’s, the all-over autographed Tour Eiffel, the rotting air of the Marylebone Library, the daily harassment from my publisher (who has paid me many dollars on the promise of the Great Novel, and reminds me of this each day in an ulcer-making lunchtime telephone call), the ongoing silent reproach and sinister presence (I almost struck “sinister,” but it really IS the right word) of my onetime friend John Cramer, and the not inconsiderable burden (a lovely one, naturally, but a burden, nonetheless) of your family. Oh, and let’s for God’s sake get away from the rubber steaks they serve up in those dreadful West End grills. Somewhere far away from this cracklingly, pulsatingly, wind-rushingly, stomach-churningly, earsplittingly, head-shatteringly, breath-catchingly, jaw-droppingly, heartbreakingly (enough now?) electrifying city they call London, which I can’t quite abide and can’t quite tear myself away from and love and hate and hate some more and love some more.
Just a short vacation, my darling, from Diamond and the Devil and their amusing little parlor games.
Let’s find out what it’s like when it’s just you and me. Our plain and simple selves and nobody and nothing else getting in the way.
What do you say, Gracie? Shall we give the wheel a spin?
Send me your answer today at the Savoy.
“Maybe I’m someone who likes to leave things unsaid,” said Grace. “Maybe I like to hug my secrets to myself.”
“How very tedious of you, sweet one. I was relying on you to enliven an otherwise dull day of snipping and combing and curling. You’re usually such a good gossip.” He held up a tortoiseshell-framed mirror to show her the absolutely straight line that was the back of her hair.
“Yes, but my gossip’s always about other people. And things that don’t matter.” Grace turned her head this way and that, examining the effect of the shorter-than-short hair.
“So, is this something that matters, then?” Marcus began to pack away his tools in the calfskin wallet. “Is
he
someone who matters?”
“That’s what I need to work out.” The new style made her neck look longer, her eyes larger. She appeared younger with her hair like this. There was an almost childlike quality to her face. “That’s why I’m going away with him.”
Twilight.
A fat moon looms over the airfield, holding its own against the thick banks of purple cloud which threaten it. Down on the ground, the fences have been reinforced against the crowd, and the police have created a further, human barrier. Ever since Lindbergh flew past Newfoundland and out over the Atlantic, cable reports have been buzzing in from ships. He’s sighted at Goleen, Ireland, and then again over Cornwall. When the low-flying plane is glimpsed again over Cherbourg, vast numbers of people get into their cars and clog up the Route de Flandre, heading north out of Paris to le Bourget. “Lindy” fever has officially set in.
Grace is right at the front. As the crowd has swelled around and behind her, she has been shoved this way and that. Now, pushed and pressed from all angles, rammed against the fat belly of a gendarme, she waits, along with everyone else,
gazing up at the sky. Sometimes darting a look at the control tower, where the American ambassador Myron T. Herrick is hobnobbing with French officials.
She is just beginning to fixate on the inevitable conundrum: “I need to pee. Where and how can I pee?” when there’s a shout from nearby. Someone has spotted the plane.
Frantic peering. The clouds are thick now and there’s no sign of Lindbergh. But…wait…yes: a sound. A buzz, growing steadily louder.
“C’est lui! C’est Lindy!”
The monoplane appears for a few brief seconds, lit by silver moonlight. Then it’s behind the clouds again.
The people at the front have been waiting here all day. The anticipation is almost unbearable. They’re pushing harder, scrambling over one another for a glimpse. A woman near Grace faints clean away. The gendarmes have to break their line to carry her to safety.
Here it is—the plane! It’s out from the clouds, circling low overhead. The crowd is whooping and cheering.
The airfield is lit with klieg lights, and flares are being set off all along the runway. This pilot hasn’t slept for forty hours but he’s bringing his plane down right on target.
The crowd is chanting,
“Lin-dee. Lin-dee.”
The police line has already been weakened and it can’t hold out against the surge. Grace is carried forward in a human waterfall. She couldn’t stand back if she wanted to. Down go the fences, trampled underfoot, and they’re pouring into the airfield itself. Rushing forward with incredible momentum, beyond control. Grace can feel the laughter in her chest and her throat, though she can’t hear herself over the hubbub. She’s no longer being carried—she’s carrying herself, running for all she’s worth to get ahead of the pack. And suddenly she’s
up against immovable metal and she’s reaching out to place her hands against it, throwing her head back to look at the wooden wing stretching out above her. There are words inscribed on the metal in front of her.
The Spirit of St. Louis.
She traces the letters. The man up in the cockpit is pulling off his hat and goggles to reveal a shock of red hair and a splendidly handsome face. He’s looking down at her, and he’s smiling and saying, “Why, hello, Grace. I knew you’d come.”
“How
can you
still
be asleep?”
The abrasive shuttle of curtains being swept back.
Grace dragged open her eyes with an effort, blinking at the glare, and stretched. O’Connell was standing at the window, fully dressed.
“Look. I brought you tea.” He pointed at the cup and saucer on the bedside table. “I even fixed it the way you like it, though the very
thought
of that sickly, milky concoction makes me shudder. You really ought to start taking it with lemon. That’s how cultured people take their tea, donchaknow.” He was silhouetted against the window, but she knew he was smiling. She could hear the smile in his voice.
“I was dreaming. Gosh, such a vivid dream. What time is it?”
“Time to walk on the beach in the sunlight. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I last visited the seaside. We should
build sandcastles, go swimming. You should bury me up to my neck in the sand and leave me there.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Hey, maybe we should sneak back down tonight and swim naked. I haven’t been skinny-dipping in the longest time.” He came across and perched on the edge of the bed. Reached forward to kiss her on the mouth. His breath warm and mellow. Buttery.
“I dreamed I was in Paris to see Lindbergh land.” Grace sat up against her pillows. “Has he landed, do you think?”
“I don’t know. There might be a newspaper downstairs. I’ll go and have a look.”
She was about to point out to him that there would only be a paper downstairs if he’d been out to buy one, but he’d already disappeared, leaving her to drink her tea and reflect on her dream. Its vivid detail and intensity. The euphoria she’d felt.
Grace and O’Connell had come down to Dorset by train, arriving at Weymouth the previous evening. A man in a peaked cap had collected them at the station and driven them out of town and along winding roads to the cliff-top house which was being lent to them by O’Connell’s English publisher.
“It’s apparently a rather stark old place,” O’Connell had said. “But the views over the bay are supposed to be superb.”
Not that they’d been able to see the views. It was already dark when they drove up. A stormy wind was blowing in, and the crashing of the waves was hostile, vaguely threatening. Horace, the man in the cap, showed them around the house; and in the kitchen he indicated, with overstated flourishes, a meat pie covered over with a tea towel, which his wife had cooked for their dinner, with some graying boiled potatoes.
She’d also left a loaf of bread in the pantry, along with some butter, eggs and a jug of milk.
“I’ll bring more supplies midday tomorrow.”
“Is there any wine?” asked Grace.
“The cellar’s full of the stuff.” Horace wrinkled his nose. “He drinks it by the gallon, but if you ask me, those bottles have been there too long. Covered in dust, they are. I wouldn’t touch them if I were you.”
He took an age showing them how to make the water heater work, before finally heading off, leaving them to vent their suppressed laughter and go straight down to the cellar to search out a good bottle. Or two, as it turned out. And a half.
There was a gramophone in the front lounge, and some jazz records. They pushed the chairs out of their way, kicked off their shoes and danced together on the carpet, whirling about and smooching close. Stopping only to slurp more wine, and then dancing on. Finally, hunger drove them to investigate the pie, prizing open the pastry crust to reveal some lumps of gray meat of an indeterminate variety, mixed up with peas and carrots in a kind of fatty sludge. They ate it cold, standing at the kitchen dresser in their bare feet, and found it surprisingly good. Not so the potatoes, which they hurled at each other like snowballs, giggling all the while and chasing each other up the stairs.
Their lovemaking was of the drunken, fun sort. Plenty of rolling about and more laughter, followed by an aftermath which was, for them, unusually quiet and tender. As they lay together, her head on his chest, it came back to her that she wanted to find a way to talk to him about what she now knew about Eva’s death. Cramer had assumed she would share his suspicions about O’Connell. In fact, the more she reflected on it, the more sympathy she felt for her lover. He’d been
dragged into the heart of someone else’s madness, someone else’s tragedy. And ever since, that tragedy had stalked him, in the form of the grieving Cramer. She couldn’t even be angry with him anymore for telling her the bizarre lie about the trade-off when she’d shared her secret about the affair with George. He’d probably have said anything rather than talk about whatever had taken place in that hotel room. In fact, it now seemed likely to Grace that Eva’s suicide was the trigger for O’Connell’s five years as a recluse.
How she wanted to reach out for his hand right now and tell him what she knew—soft and close, as whispers in the dark. Tell him there should be no boundaries between them, that he could trust her with even the most sensitive and private of truths. But then she’d also have to tell him how she’d found out about it all—through an intimate talk with Cramer, his enemy.