The Jewel Box by Anna Davis Page B

she laughed and laughed as they danced. He had a grin on his face, too, that made him look like the young boy he must have been when first he conjured up Veronique.
    When finally they staggered, dizzy and disheveled, from the dance floor to their prime table (Manny Hopkins, the proprietor, had actually cleared some people off it on spotting them come in together), with a good view of the orchestra and tonight’s special guest singer, Violet Lamore, fresh from a season at the Montmartre in New York, O’Connell called to their waiter for champagne. On impulse Grace turned to him and said, “Are we celebrating something? Have you finished your new novel?”
    His face clouded over.
    “Dexter, I’m interviewing you for a newspaper. I have to ask you about the novel.”
    “Oh yes,” he said. “The interview. I’d forgotten about the interview.”
    “It was your idea.”
    “Not one of my best.”
    “Dickie thought you might have finished the novel.”
    “Did he now?” They fell quiet as the waiter brought the champagne.
    A crackle of applause. Violet Lamore had taken her position at the microphone. She was tiny and stick-thin, but her voice, when she began to sing, was amazingly deep and resonant, with a hint of tragedy to it. O’Connell sat gazing across, seemingly moved.
    Sipping her champagne, Grace watched O’Connell watching the singer. She’d been with him for five hours now. All too soon the evening would be over and she’d be on her way back to Hampstead. Back to the family, to her life of hectic dullness. Somehow she’d have to find the time, in between a few snatched hours of sleep and a day’s work at Pearson’s, to cull a coherent newspaper interview out of what would surely end up as an evening of flirtation and verbal dueling, underscoredby an odd intensity—a sense that, at some deeper level, they had an understanding. That they both knew they were dancing the necessary dance.
    Or was it only in her imagination—the understanding between them? Was it just wishful thinking?
    “These last few years—your silent years—”
    “Ah. Back to the interview again.” He rolled his eyes. “I should have just asked you out on a date like any normal person.”
    “You’ve been hiding from the world because you don’t want to be owned by it. You felt trapped being the Big Writer. Trapped being the Bad Boy. Everyone knew who you were and at first you enjoyed that, but then you found you didn’t want that anymore. You had to escape just so you could be yourself. I don’t know where you’ve been all this time, and what you’ve done, but that’s what it was all about.”
    His face softened. Her hand was resting on the table, and now he reached across for it—laid his hand against it so that just their fingers were touching. Only their fingers. “You’re as clever as you are beautiful.”
    A groan. “How disappointing to hear a line like that from you of all people.”
    “Sorry to disappoint you.” His fingers still rested against hers. Only the tips. But that was enough. “I’m just a man.”
    “Anyway, I’m not beautiful. I’m too pointy. Too knobbly. I dress well. I know how to make the best of myself, where to get my hair cut. I’m much more clever than I am beautiful.” A sigh escaped her. She wanted, very much, to lay her head down—to let it rest for a moment on his arm. To feel his hand stroke the back of her hair.
    “You asked about the novel. Well, there isn’t one. There’s not much left of me right now. Not after…well, not after the last few years.”
    “So, is it a sort of writer’s block?”
    “Not exactly. It’s something else, with me. I need to know another kind of life now. Something very different than I’ve experienced before. That would act as a kind of fuel for my writing.”
    Violet Lamore had started another song. A dark, velvety song about a never-ending night.
    “What shall I say in the interview? About the novel?”
    “Say whatever you like.” Now