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 hara.s.sment 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 G.o.d'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 n.o.body 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.

With love, Your D. O'C "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 tortoisesh.e.l.l-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 he someone who matters?" 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."

Two.

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. 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 amba.s.sador Myron T. Herrick is hobn.o.bbing 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 antic.i.p.ation 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." "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 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. The Spirit of St. Louis. She traces the letters. The man up in the c.o.c.kpit 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, h.e.l.lo, Grace. I knew you'd come." She traces the letters. The man up in the c.o.c.kpit 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, h.e.l.lo, Grace. I knew you'd come."

Three.

"How can you can you still still be asleep?" 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 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. 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. b.u.t.tery.

"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 b.u.t.ter, 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 s...o...b..a.l.l.s, 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 a.s.sumed 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.

Eventually, tiredness overcame her. They were still entwined with each other as they drifted toward sleep; Grace's last conscious thought being, I did the right thing, coming here with him. This is right.

Grace was singing to herself as she came downstairs in her dressing gown. Cheerfully antic.i.p.ating a beach stroll of the sort that involves poking about in rock pools and collecting precious pebbles and sh.e.l.ls which one immediately forgets the existence of, and then rediscovers at a wildly inopportune moment some weeks later-perhaps in the foyer of a good restaurant, sprinkling sand over the carpet as one produces them from a pocket.

We need a dog, thought Grace as she headed for the dining room. It could run about and swim and shake water all over us, and we could throw pieces of driftwood for it to fetch. I wonder if they can be hired?

But then- "Oh!"-and-"Well!"

Seated around the table with O'Connell were four extra people, eating boiled eggs and triangles of b.u.t.tered toast, and sipping tea.

"This is Grace," said O'Connell. "Honey, I think you already know Sam?" He indicated their host, Samuel Woolton, who was stroking his goatee and looking on, quizzically.

"Not properly. Delighted, of course." This was too hideous. And if only she'd dressed before coming down.

Next to Woolton was a frail-looking woman with translucently pale skin and bulbous eyes. Opposite were a squat, bald man in spectacles and a woman with curly blond hair, arched eyebrows and a tiny nose.

"Oh, I'm sure we have. Weren't you at our rather try-hard Ciro's party, Miss Rutherford?" Woolton couldn't leave his goatee alone.

"Indeed, I was." Grace felt her face color up as she turned to O'Connell. "Try-hard" was the expression she'd used when she mentioned the party in her column. Now, what else had she said in that column? "That was the night we first met, wasn't it, darling?"

"What a splendid Cupid you make, Sammy." This from the translucent woman. "I'm Verity. And here we have my sister Babs and her husband, Cecil. Oh, and it's mea culpa and all that. When Sam mentioned who he'd lent the house to, I told him we had to come straight down to join you! We've all been simply dying dying to meet you. Pat's been such a bore, holding out on us. Should I call you Grace? Or do you prefer Diamond?" to meet you. Pat's been such a bore, holding out on us. Should I call you Grace? Or do you prefer Diamond?"

"Verity!" The sister raised the arched eyebrows so high they all but retreated into her hairline. "You're embarra.s.sing her dreadfully. Do excuse us, Grace. We're quite uncouth, and we're all awfully jealous of you for landing Pat. He's such a terrible cad but so handsome and we do love him so."

"Don't listen to them." O'Connell was basking in the attention. "My cad days are well and truly over."

"Are they, 'Pat'?" Grace wanted to kill O'Connell. Slowly. "Are you sure about that?"

"My darling! How can you doubt my sincerity?" O'Connell put his hands over his heart.

"We'll vouch for Pat, won't we, Sam?" Verity nudged her husband. "He's a reformed character. He's not been so smitten in all the years we've known him."

Woolton stroked the goatee. "That's right. Well, not since..." But then he seemed to think better of it. "Welcome to our little circle, Grace. We're a friendly bunch, as you'll see. What we lack in glamour, we make up for in warmth and wit."

Oh. That was the other thing she'd said in the column: that the world of books had no glamour...

"You know, I'm certain we've met somewhere before," said Babs, the eyebrows darting together in a frown. "Quite recently, too."

After breakfast, Grace returned to the bedroom to dress. Glancing out of the window at the Wooltons' two spaniels yapping away in the garden, she told herself: At least we have dogs.

O'Connell came into the room, chuckling. "Gracie, you should have seen your face!"

"How did it look, then? Horror-struck? Furious? Embarra.s.sed?"

"All of the above." He winked at her in a way that made her want to punch him in the mouth. Instead, she did her best to regain her composure.

"This was supposed to be our weekend alone, just our plain and simple selves. Remember?"

"I'm sorry, darling." Finally, his expression became slightly more contrite. "They're good fun though. I promise you'll like them."

She sat on the bed to pull on a stocking.

"It is is his house. I could hardly forbid him to come here." He was looking at her legs as she reached for the other stocking. his house. I could hardly forbid him to come here." He was looking at her legs as she reached for the other stocking.

"Well, perhaps we should have gone somewhere else."

He sat down beside her. "You're right, of course. Next time I'll make sure we're on our own. But for now, I'd love you to get to know some very old and dear friends of mine. Will you forgive me, darling?

"How long have you known they were coming? Why didn't you tell me earlier instead of waiting for me to walk in on them? You let me go into that room in my dressing gown, clueless."

"Oh honey, it was just a little joke." Another infuriating wink. "I'll make it up to you."

She clipped the stocking into her garter belt. "Anyway, why are they all calling you Pat?"

"What? It's my middle name. Patrick."

"Strange. You think you know someone really well, but then you're reminded just how little you do do know." know."

"You know everything that's important." He put his arm around her shoulders.

She shrugged it off, switched her attention back to the garter belt. "I could have been in Paris this weekend, you know. With John Cramer. Did I mention that?"

"What?"

It had the desired effect. Finishing with the stockings, she stood up and straightened her skirt. "That's right. And I bet he he wouldn't have let a whole bunch of people turn up uninvited." wouldn't have let a whole bunch of people turn up uninvited."

"Grace-"

"Don't worry. It's you I want." Then, tossing the words back at him as she was halfway out the door, "For now."

Down on the beach, in the early afternoon, the sun was hot. It felt more like August than May. People were dotted about, sitting in deck chairs or stretched out on the gravelly sand, but there weren't too many of them. The three men, in swimming costumes, were at the water's edge, skimming stones out across the waves, competing with one another over whose would go farthest. The dogs scampered and splashed, barking and frolicking, chasing the skimming stones.

Farther up the beach, the three women-all clad in the much-vaunted Selfridges summer swimwear range, and looking like an advertis.e.m.e.nt-were sitting under the shade of a huge parasol, watching them. Babs and Grace were both smoking cigarettes in long holders. Bug-eyed Verity was nibbling shortbread, squirrelish.

"I've just remembered where I've seen you before," Babs announced. "It was at the Salamander, only a few days ago. I'd have probably realized earlier but I was so fearfully tight that night. It's a wonder that I can recall anything at all. We spoke in the ladies', do you remember? And then I found you talking to John Cramer. It's surprising, actually, that you should be a friend of his."

"Is it?"

"Rather. You do know about him and Pat, don't you?"

"Yes. Well, yes."

"Cecil was at Yale with them. He's always prided himself on being the only person who did did manage to stay friends with them both." manage to stay friends with them both."

They were watching the men, down by the water. Hairy Woolton, still stroking the goatee; Cecil, all shiny and pink and pot-bellied, a knotted handkerchief on his bald head to stop it getting sunburned; O'Connell, tall and broad and muscular, hurling a stick out to sea for the dogs to go fetch. Turning to salute the women, aware they were all watching him. All three waving back.

"The girl was to blame," said Verity. "They'd both have been fine if it wasn't for that girl."

Grace looked from one to the other. Barbara striking an elegant pose with her cigarette. Verity restless and fidgety, munching compulsively on the shortbread.

O'Connell was wading into the water, diving down with a splash and swimming out to sea. They watched the scything motions of his arms and the occasional bobbing up and down of his head as he swam farther and farther away.