"You're so right," said Cramer. "I've been lost, really, in my own secret world of mourning. After the first few months it becomes something unspeakable. Untouchable. You're supposed to get over it. Pick up the pieces and stick them back together in a new shape. But they don't tell you how how." He shook his head. "G.o.d, it's good to speak to you about this, Grace. You and Nancy-you don't just turn away from it. You're the first people I've been able to talk to properly in such a long time."

"It's been less than two years since Nancy lost George."

"I know."

"She might seem robust and content but it's all on the surface. Underneath she's still very frail."

"I know that, too." He was looking at her oddly.

"The Rutherfords are a tight-knit family. Since we lost George we've been closer than ever."

"Grace, I have the utmost respect for your sister. I'm not playing any kind of game with her. We're friends."

Something twisted and tightened in Grace's belly and she looked away, down into the golden c.o.c.ktail in front of her. "Good. Because if you hurt her, I'd have to kill you. Another dance?"

It was an old-fashioned waltz this time. Couples drifted slowly about as though floating over the floor. Held close to Cramer, Grace breathed in the inky scent of his skin. She supposed her sister must have held him this way. She couldn't imagine it somehow. He wasn't Nancy's type, not judging from the past. But then he wasn't hers either.

"Nancy doesn't like mustaches," she whispered into his ear.

"How about you?"

"Can't say I'm particularly fussed."

"You like Americans, though. At least it seems that way in your writing. But perhaps I'm not 'impossibly handsome' enough?"

Silently she cursed Sheridan. "What is it between you and O'Connell? You say you can't stand him but you seem to be following him around like a dog."

She felt him tense up at that name. "What about you? Why were you wearing that ridiculous wig and hat tonight?"

"Clearly I didn't want him to know I was there. Seems it was the other way around with you. You wanted him to see you."

He let go of her now, while the band played on, and headed back to the table. After a moment she followed.

Seated again, he asked the waiter for a tonic water with lemon. She knew she shouldn't drink any more but ordered a gin fizz anyway and placed a cigarette in her long ebony holder.

"So?" she said. "Are you going to tell me anything about you and O'Connell?"

A sigh. "We were friends at Yale, he and I. Roommates. Closer than close. Along came a girl-a very special girl-and that was the end of our friendship."

Grace blew a smoke ring. "You're seriously saying it's all about a girl?"

"Isn't it always? She was a very special girl."

"There has to be more to it than a squabble over a girl, no matter how special she was. This was years ago. Life has moved on for both of you. Or it should have."

A shrug. An expression of wry helplessness that infuriated her.

"So what happened?"

"I married her. He wrote a book and put her in it. She died."

"You were married to Veronique Veronique?"

"My wife's name was Eva."

The band struck up a new number. A jazz piece that seemed to turn in faster and faster circles. Over on the floor, the dancers were spinning and capering. Grace struggled for clarity as her thoughts went spiraling.

"Look, I could tell you that O'Connell's a bad lot, that he feeds off people, that he did it to Eva and that he'll do it to you if you give him the chance. But there's no point saying it, is there? You simply will not be warned because you're the kind of girl who's obsessed with intrigue. The more bad stuff I'd tell you about him, the more fascinated you'd become."

She tried to force a laugh. "Don't fraternize with my feminine mystique. I need it intact."

He shook his head. "Mystique? You're certainly trying very hard with your anonymity and your silly disguises. But Grace, anyone would have seen it was you under that wig and hat tonight. You're transparent. Now, let me be frank: You won't be able to resist getting his side of the story. And when he tells you a load of lies about me, it'll make you even more fascinated and you'll be back to me for the next installment. Before we know it you'll be all over us both like a rash."

The smoke came hissing out of her nostrils in an angry stream. "I beg beg your pardon?" your pardon?"

"Dwinks, darlings?" Sheridan was back, laying one hand on Cramer's shoulder and one on Grace's.

"No, thank you, Sheridan." Grace got to her feet. "I should be getting along, actually."

"Aw, don't leave yet. I promise I'll shut up and behave myself." But there was still mischief in Cramer's eyes.

Sheridan wagged a finger at Cramer. "You're a wogue and a scoundwel. Gwacie, dear, don't go home. This man is a wepwobate and I shall have him fed to the pythons as soon as I take delivewwy of them. Listen, there's something I need to talk to you about, just you and me. Something important. Cover your ears, Cwamer, this is none of your business."

"Sorry, Sheridan. Must dash. Another time?" She shot a smile at one man and then at the other. "I'm on my way to see someone."

Four.

The moon was disdainfully slender in a violet, pinp.r.i.c.ked sky. The West End was falling quiet, and Grace's heels were loud on the pavement as she walked along the Strand. Held tightly in her left hand was a hotel key. moon was disdainfully slender in a violet, pinp.r.i.c.ked sky. The West End was falling quiet, and Grace's heels were loud on the pavement as she walked along the Strand. Held tightly in her left hand was a hotel key.

She wasn't going because she was in love, she told herself. She didn't want to please O'Connell or to spite Cramer. And she certainly wasn't "fascinated" by either of those arrogant, slippery, self-obsessed so-and-sos.

What she wanted was to look into that impossibly handsome face, watch its expression become knowing and self-satisfied and then fling the key at it, hard enough to bruise. She would announce that she was certainly not the demure type of girl, and she would turn and walk calmly away, accompanied by her intact dignity and feminine mystique.

In spite of her resolve, the set of her jaw, the jut of her chin, she wobbled a little as she pa.s.sed the Hotel Cecil, once considered Europe's finest hotel, but now utterly outshone by its grander, glitzier next-door neighbor. The Savoy was even more imposing by night than by day. All lit up and full of promise. Even at this unsociable hour there were still a couple of Daimlers and a Bentley outside the entrance, a taxi was making a tight turn in Savoy Court, and a few well-dressed but tipsy stragglers were still trickling out through the revolving doors, chattering loudly.

She did her best to a.s.sume the air of confidence of one who belongs, dangling the key conspicuously so that the blue-and gold-clad doormen would see it and a.s.sume she was a guest. She avoided the eyes of the woman polishing the bra.s.s and the clerk at the desk as she strolled fake nonchalantly past Reception. The grand front hall was suitably mellow-not too much lighting for this late hour, with most of the revelers long gone and the morning papers not yet arrived. And yet a light still glowed from the Grill Room. She asked the lift boy for the fourth floor and pressed a coin into his hand. It would be a commonplace occurrence, of course-a well-dressed, purposeful young woman wandering into the hotel by night, knowing precisely where she was headed. Discreetly conspicuous. Respectably unrespectable. She hated it though-the very thought of what might be going through the mind of the lift boy. Her hand, the one that held the key, was coldly sweaty.

Standing before his door, she wished she hadn't drunk that last gin fizz. The key was in her hand, but the very idea of walking in unannounced was so bold and brazen that it made her cringe. She should knock. That was the thing to do. She raised her hand and then stopped, lowered it again. Knocking was the demure way. The key-her possession of it-was itself a challenge.

He was lying on his side in the bed, facing away from her, and his deep, even breathing told her he was asleep. It was too dark to make out more than the vague shape of him. Slipping her shoes off, she approached the bedside table and flicked on the lamp. Still he didn't stir. His shoulders and back were bare, exposed. One arm was curled around his head, the other stretched out over the covers. She looked around her at the huge bedroom, taking in its opulence. Plenty of drapery and ta.s.sels. A lot of gilt-edged ornamentation. An Oriental screen. Through a half-open door she glimpsed another room, made out the dim shapes of desk, chair, chaise longue. Through a second door was the marble bathroom.

A sound from the bed, making her jump. A murmur, nothing more. He'd rolled over onto his back. His sleeping face had a gentleness to it that she hadn't seen before. He'd lost the guile and swagger that attracted and repelled her in equal measure. So now now what was she going to do? She could hardly hurl the key into his sleeping face. Was she going to wake him up simply in order to do so? Really, the very notion of throwing the key at him seemed ridiculous now that she was standing here beside his bed. what was she going to do? She could hardly hurl the key into his sleeping face. Was she going to wake him up simply in order to do so? Really, the very notion of throwing the key at him seemed ridiculous now that she was standing here beside his bed.

The smartest and most stylish course of action would be to place the key beside his face on the pillow and simply leave. That would be the way to regain control of this situation. He'd surely come chasing after her in no time. The idea lit a flame inside her, warmed her...Yes, she had to admit it to herself: She still wanted him. She wanted him more than ever.

But what if he didn't didn't come chasing after her? What if he read her stylish maneuver as plain old rejection? Was he really the sort of man to go running after a disinterested woman? come chasing after her? What if he read her stylish maneuver as plain old rejection? Was he really the sort of man to go running after a disinterested woman?

Another sound. A sigh. There was a smile on his mouth. His eyes moved beneath the lids. He was dreaming, it seemed. She wanted to get inside his dream. The idea gripped her, held her. Before she knew what she was at, she was unb.u.t.toning her dress, stepping out of it, unclipping her bra.s.siere...

There was more than one way to take control of this situation.

When she pulled back the covers and slid into the bed, he still didn't stir. Lying there beside him, her naked body only inches from his, she experienced an intense sense of antic.i.p.ation. A delicious mingling of l.u.s.t and nervousness that made her want to laugh out loud. At last she reached out and touched him. Tentatively, and then more definitely, placing her hands on his chest, warm and firm, lightly sprinkled with hair-feeling, as she did so, a kind of ownership-yet aware, nonetheless, that so many other hands had been placed here, like this.

"h.e.l.lo, Grace." His voice was still laden with sleep, his eyes still shut. "I didn't know if you'd come. I thought perhaps I'd have to dance the dance a little more."

"I'm tired of the dance." She kissed one eyelid, and then the other. Tracing the edge of his face, stroking his neck.

His eyes opened. He reached up to touch her face, and brought his own to meet it. "You want to be known," he said. "Really known known by someone. Don't you?" by someone. Don't you?"

She was aware that she didn't care, now, which of them was in control. In fact, the truth went further than that. She wanted to abandon control, to surrender it to him utterly.

"You want to fit with someone," he said. "Don't you?" And then he moved her, moved with her, manipulating her, fitting her body to his. There was no awkwardness in their movements. No clashing of limbs, no misunderstandings. She marveled at the ease of it all. She'd never been so unself-conscious with a man. When she looked down at their bodies moving on and against each other, the very sight made her want him more. And then, at last, he was inside her and it was the most incredibly animal experience, the most purely physical s.e.x she'd ever had. She got up on top of him. He rolled back on top of her.

It had been over a year since she was last in bed with a man, and that had been a one-off with d.i.c.kie. It had finished between them long before, without nastiness or recriminations. After an initial period of difficulty and distance, they'd settled back to friendship, and both had seemed comfortable with that. But on this particular evening, out at the Mitre together, they'd both been lonely. He'd come back to the house for a nightcap and they'd sat by the dead leavings of the fire with their brandies, talking about inconsequential things. As they'd sat there, she'd weighed it up. Bed with d.i.c.kie would feel friendly and familiar, she'd thought. Safe. She could enjoy it without having to think too much about it. Their story was already at an end and this would be a kind of brief epilogue. A welcome interruption in the expanse of nothingness that was her love life at that time. A pleasant reminder that she might still be desirable.

She'd gotten up and taken hold of his hand and he'd looked up at her with surprise and confusion. They'd climbed the stairs in silence and gone quietly to her bedroom, where their lovemaking was gentle and melancholy. Afterward, huddled with him in the single bed, finishing up her brandy, Grace had found she was reeling with the sadness of it-the futility of the attempt they'd each made to escape their loneliness through the s.e.x act, or at least to share the loneliness.

"We shouldn't do this again." It was d.i.c.kie who'd spoken. The words were in her head too and she'd been preparing herself to speak them aloud. It was such a relief to know he felt the same way as she did. It made her want to hug him. She'd been about to agree, vigorously, when he added: "There's still something special between us, Grace. We shouldn't squander it this way."

They were eating chocolate cake in the bed, Grace and O'Connell, and drinking champagne. Scattering crumbs over and between the crisp linen sheets. He had announced he was peckish and pushed the bell push marked "waiter." The waiter then appeared so rapidly that Grace couldn't help but wonder if he'd been standing behind the door the entire time, watching them through the keyhole.

"So it's true. You can get absolutely whatever you want just whenever you want it at the Savoy," she said.

He took a bite and pa.s.sed the remains back to her, leaning against the cushioned headboard and grinning. "Sweetheart, I've always been able to get whatever I want whenever I want it."

"You like things carefully orchestrated, don't you?" She licked her fingers. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was you who started the rumor about tonight's supposed reading. You'd have done it just to see who'd turn up. Just to have a secret little laugh at them all under your fake beard."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think that of me? Did you have that thought racing around in your head while you sat on a folding chair in your ginger wig and hat, waiting?"

"You have no idea how much I regret the wig and hat, Dexter."

"I told you not to call me Dexter."

"Then what do I call you?"

"Come here. Let's get down among the chocolate crumbs."

She was so aware of his strength when he took hold of her again. He could throw you bodily across the room with barely an effort and you'd lie there all broken and crumpled, and how glorious it would be to be broken by him.

"Happy?" he asked her afterward, as they lay side by side.

"I don't know." Now that the heat had ebbed away out of her, she felt ashamed of her weakness. She'd believed herself to be taking strong and decisive action, as she walked along the Strand earlier. But it was weakness, not strength, that had brought her here to him. He hadn't had to so much as lift a finger to get her into his bed. That key had been enough to make her deliver herself up to him like a birthday present. "I don't know where I am with you."

"You want me to tell you I love you or something? s.e.x isn't love. I wouldn't have thought I'd need to explain that to a woman of the world such as yourself."

She sat up against the headboard, drew her legs up under the blankets to hug her knees. "You once told me you're perpetually in love. That love makes us feel alive."

"Trouble is, you're too used to men falling in love with you. There's enough bewitchery bewitchery in you to make it happen pretty reliably. You decide you want a man and you click your fingers, and down he goes-prostrate on the floor. But think about it. Did you really expect that from me? Is that really who you want me to be?" in you to make it happen pretty reliably. You decide you want a man and you click your fingers, and down he goes-prostrate on the floor. But think about it. Did you really expect that from me? Is that really who you want me to be?"

She held her knees even tighter. Scrunching herself into a ball. "I wanted you to telephone me or send me a note."

"Sure you did. But don't you see it's better this way?" He reached for the cigarettes on the bedside table.

"For you."

"For both of us." He pa.s.sed the cigarette across. "Grace, you're not in love with me any more than I am with you. If I'd done all the right things, the predictable things, you'd already have tired of me. I'd have been firmly dispatched with a one-liner in your column: 'Girls, you'd have a more exciting evening with one of his books than with him'-am I right?"

"Maybe." She blew a smoke ring and then stubbed out the cigarette.

Their third time was dreamy and slow. Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol, but their bodies seemed not to be in the bed or the hotel room at all. It was as if they were in midair. Her eyes locked on to his and she couldn't allow herself to look away, feeling that if she did so, she would fall, and it would be a long way down.

At some point it must have ended. They must have dozed off, for Grace was dreaming about Margaret the typist, her coiled black hair transformed into a snake. John Cramer was in the dream too, playing a wooden flute, and the hair snake uncoiled and reared up to its hypnotic tune.

Five.

"Sit down, Miss Rutherford." down, Miss Rutherford."

Mr. Henry Pearson didn't look up from his paperwork.

"Thank you, sir." She sat on the visitor's chair, gazing around at the many miniature oil paintings of horses on the brownish-green, baize-covered walls. Walking into this office was like stepping back into a bygone era. Stale air, floating dust particles, creaking chairs, a very specific sort of silence rather like the silence of a library.

Her focus shifted from the room in which she now sat to a brighter, sunnier vista. After a rather sheepish breakfast at the Savoy, she and O'Connell had taken a walk along Victoria Embankment in the bright blue morning. Heavily laden boats were plowing busily by, churning up the water, making it froth and sparkle. There was as much traffic on the river as on the roads and bridges. London was pulsing with life, and Grace found herself thinking of the blood pumping through her own arteries. Walking beside O'Connell, her hand held in his, she'd been happier than happiness...

"Idle person. One who squanders money or opportunity." This was spoken loudly, so that Grace jumped. Mr. Henry's head was still down.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Seven letters." At last he looked up over his gla.s.ses, thick eyebrows raised. In front of him, she saw, was a newspaper crossword.

Grace swallowed. "Wastrel, sir?"

"Indeed." His smile was too large for the occasion, and vanished after only a second or two. "Obvious, when you come to think of it." Then his head was down again, presumably to write the word into his crossword-and yet she didn't think he did so. Instead, he seemed lost in some invisible detail, leaving her to stare at his bushy Victorian whiskers. His silver-topped cane was resting in a porcelain stand in the far corner of the office, along with an umbrella and an odd-looking object that might have been a suction plunger (though what would he want with one of those?).

How odd it had been to be out with O'Connell in the brightest daylight, beside the silvery, enticing river. A man like him should surely exist only in bars, restaurants and hotel rooms, softly lit and shrouded in smoke, husky laughter and erudite evening quippery. Yet there he was. There they were they were, a couple of night creatures out on the loose in the early morning. It had felt almost normal, almost natural.

Mr. Henry laid down his pencil and sat scrutinizing her. If only she wasn't still in yesterday's dress. She kept a spare outfit at the office for just this sort of eventuality, but had forgotten, today, that it was at the cleaner's. She'd been about to nip out to fetch it when Mr. Henry's secretary had knocked on her door. Still, she hadn't seen Mr. Henry yesterday-perhaps he wouldn't realize. There was such a reek of smoke about her, though, and she was sure there must be a kind of abandon in her appearance. A wild look in her eyes...