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 makeallowances 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…
Monday arrived. As Grace pushed through the revolving door into the Pearson’s building, something was clenched tight inside her stomach. She almost couldn’t bear to look into her office—and when she did look, it was empty. Of course it was. The idea that he would be in there, first thing in the morning, was a ludicrous one. The post was brought around at 9:30, and there was nothing from O’Connell.
She was playing ridiculous games with herself, inside her own head. She had been, all week. The fantasies had gathered momentum and gone rolling off on their own. A pram that someone had let go of, careering down steps, like Battleship Potemkin .
Knowledge and Despond landed on her shoulders with a great, sickening weight. He would not appear. He would not telephone. He had not sent and would not send a note. The interview was done and dusted. She was no longer the mythical Diamond Sharp to him. She had told him who she really was. And she had told him about her connection to John Cramer. It was all over before it had even begun.
II.
The Rivals
One
The Past
Nancy had already written three letters to George by the time Grace even attempted a letter to Steven. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to write to him. It was just that she didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Everything had changed so much and she couldn’t decipher her own feelings. And her awareness of the great screes of stuff that Nancy was sending to George only made it harder.
“Dearest Steven,”
This greeting had taken over an hour one Sunday after lunch. She’d switched from “Dear” (too formal) to “Darling” (the opposite) to “My dear” (fond maiden aunt), all with muchscrumpling of paper, before settling on “Dearest.” This exhausting internal struggle—plus the writing of the date, “September 10, 1915”—was the limit of the afternoon’s productivity.
In the evening, Grace returned to her desk to try a little further.
“I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you often and wonder how you are getting along.”
( Maiden aunt again. )
“Hampstead is dull and gray without you. Nancy and I have no company at the pictures and are forced to partner each other for dancing.”
( Too moany—and when it came to the dancing, not entirely true. )
“I miss you so much, my brave one, and pray each night for your safe return.”
( Heavens! )
She gave up, and another week passed. A week of dull university lectures and essays. A week during which Nancy fired off two more letters to George. By the following Sunday the guilt was weighing heavily on her. What sort of a person was she, to leave poor Steven languishing without
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 makeallowances 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…
Monday arrived. As Grace pushed through the revolving door into the Pearson’s building, something was clenched tight inside her stomach. She almost couldn’t bear to look into her office—and when she did look, it was empty. Of course it was. The idea that he would be in there, first thing in the morning, was a ludicrous one. The post was brought around at 9:30, and there was nothing from O’Connell.
She was playing ridiculous games with herself, inside her own head. She had been, all week. The fantasies had gathered momentum and gone rolling off on their own. A pram that someone had let go of, careering down steps, like Battleship Potemkin .
Knowledge and Despond landed on her shoulders with a great, sickening weight. He would not appear. He would not telephone. He had not sent and would not send a note. The interview was done and dusted. She was no longer the mythical Diamond Sharp to him. She had told him who she really was. And she had told him about her connection to John Cramer. It was all over before it had even begun.
II.
The Rivals
One
The Past
Nancy had already written three letters to George by the time Grace even attempted a letter to Steven. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to write to him. It was just that she didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Everything had changed so much and she couldn’t decipher her own feelings. And her awareness of the great screes of stuff that Nancy was sending to George only made it harder.
“Dearest Steven,”
This greeting had taken over an hour one Sunday after lunch. She’d switched from “Dear” (too formal) to “Darling” (the opposite) to “My dear” (fond maiden aunt), all with muchscrumpling of paper, before settling on “Dearest.” This exhausting internal struggle—plus the writing of the date, “September 10, 1915”—was the limit of the afternoon’s productivity.
In the evening, Grace returned to her desk to try a little further.
“I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you often and wonder how you are getting along.”
( Maiden aunt again. )
“Hampstead is dull and gray without you. Nancy and I have no company at the pictures and are forced to partner each other for dancing.”
( Too moany—and when it came to the dancing, not entirely true. )
“I miss you so much, my brave one, and pray each night for your safe return.”
( Heavens! )
She gave up, and another week passed. A week of dull university lectures and essays. A week during which Nancy fired off two more letters to George. By the following Sunday the guilt was weighing heavily on her. What sort of a person was she, to leave poor Steven languishing without
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