Virtually Perfect (16 page)

That's where Google falls short.  You can only guess at what drives a person.  Their feelings, thoughts, hopes and fears.  The internet is one dimensional, it's only words on a page.  We're all just binary code.  It can't convey soul - it's just a computer.  It's up to us to fill in the blanks, turn it all into 3d.  And we do.  We do it every day.  We read stories in the press, whether it's Tom Cruise's divorce or the latest MP scandal.  We draw our own conclusions.  Sometimes we get it wrong.  Nearly always, in fact.  Because to get it right, we would have had to have walked a lifetime in their shoes, or alongside them, at the very least.  Sometimes, what we're reading isn't factually correct.  It doesn't really matter though, we don't know these people.  It may matter to them, but it doesn't to us. 

But when we
do
know them, or we're just starting to, a little information can be a dangerous thing.  Used in the best possible way, the internet connects people.  It pulls them together.  Used in the worst, it drives them apart.

Ben's thumb didn't make contact with the keypad.  His index finger drifted to the little silver button at the top.  He clicked it.  The light from the screen was extinguished.  He sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a clunk, running his hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling. 

He grabbed the remote and switched on the TV, flicking to Sky Sports.  Ben sat up, staring at the 42' screen. 
Leighton Orient 1, Arsenal 0
.  He frantically clicked at the buttons. 

Ben found ESPN just in time to watch Téhoué slam another ball into the back of the net.

'Yes!'

Ben heard a chirrup.  Mr Bojangles peered up. 

'Come on then,' said Ben, raising an eyebrow, inclining his head.  Bo just looked at him. 

'Come on!' said Ben, patting the sofa.  Bo jumped up, hesitantly stepping onto his chest. 

'You and me son, we have to talk.'

Bo meowed loudly, nuzzling his fingers.

'Not now though, eh,' said Ben, turning back to the match.  'There's a time and a place.  And this isn't it.'

Bo licked Ben's hand, nuzzling him again.  Ben stroked him absent-mindedly.  He lay watching the match, this warm, fluffy lump stretched out across his chest.  Bo purred uncontrollably.
 

Eve was in the bedroom when Ben got back, sprawled across the bed.  She was wearing her white robe, dead to the world, flat out on her front, curls tumbling from a loose ponytail. 

The soles of her feet looked red.  Ben could see a blister, even in the dim light.  She'd had her nails done.  Ben lay down beside her, careful not to wake her up, watching her back rise and fall with each breath.  She looked beautiful.  She smelt divine. 

He watched her eyes flutter open.  Eve looked up at him.

He seemed different from how she'd left him.  She could see the indentation where his goggles had been.  She could smell the chlorine, see the damp matted hair on his chest.  He still seemed a little out of breath. 

He had a white towel wrapped around his waist.  He tweaked her nose and flashed her a smile.  Eve smiled back; happy, relieved.  The elephant had left the room.

'You woke yourself up,' he said through upturned lips.

'I don't snore,' she said, drowsily rubbing her eyes.  '...Do I?'

Ben grinned at her.

'The windows were rattling.'

'Stop it!' she said, pushing him.

His fingers closed around her wrist.  Ben gently rolled her onto her back, rolling on top of her. 

He felt warm and heavy, his skin soft and damp.

Her face was bare.  She was luminous.  He saw a little patch of freckles he'd never noticed before.  They disappeared into laughter lines.  He closed his eyes and kissed her.

'You taste of beer,' Eve complained.

'...Me?' he said, innocently.

'Yes.  I saw the cans in the bin.  You got crisps all over the sofa.'

Ben smiled.

'You taste of...'  His brow gathered for a moment.  Ben kissed her again.  'Strawberries...  No, wait!'  He kissed her again.  'Banana,' he said, licking his lips.

'...Me?'

Room service had arrived with a tray of aperitifs after her treatment.  He'd missed out on the Parma ham and olives.  The smoothies were fantastic, just a sampler of each.  Raspberry and strawberry, mango and banana.

'I don't know what you mean,' she said shrugging, smiling up at him.

Ben rolled over onto his side, stroking stray curls from her face.

'You should have said your feet were hurting,' he grumbled. 

She just shrugged and crinkled her nose. 

'How was your massage?'

'Fantastic,' said Eve.  Nothing hurt anymore.  She felt completely relaxed. 

'How was your swim?'

'Nice,' he nodded.

'...And the football?' 

He turned to her.  She raised an eyebrow. 

'You left the TV on.'

'We beat The Gunners 3-0,' he said happily.

'I thought you didn't like sport?'

'I don't,' said Ben.  '...Only when we're winning.'

Eve yawned and stretched.

'What time is it?'

Ben casually checked his watch.  He squinted at it again.

'...Shit!' 

He jumped up off the bed. 

'We're going to be late!'

He grabbed Eve's hand, tugged it.  She groaned. 

'Come on!  Get a wriggle on!'

He heaved her up onto her feet.  She stretched her arms, yawned again, starting ambling to the dressing room.  They'd be there all night, at this rate.  He playfully slapped her arse.  She froze, her eyes widened.  Ben laughed.  She was wide awake now alright. 

Ben and Eve click-clacked across the black marble floor of the hotel lobby.  The glass doors swung open as they approached, flanked by two brown-coated footmen in their black Russian hats.  They stepped out together into the chilly night breeze. 

It had stopped raining, though not long before - the streets were still shiny, puddles beaming back under amber street lights.  Eve held Ben's arm as she tottered down the steps.  A black Rolls Royce was waiting, engine running. 

The chauffeur held the door open.  Eve slid down into the warm, black leather seat.  Ben went around to the other side.  She couldn't stop looking him.  She hadn't even asked where they were going.

He'd walked in on her whilst she was getting dressed.  He flinched and fidgeted, then just stood there.  Watching her in her black lace bra and French knickers, as she slid her feet into her black silk stockings.  He watched them glide up to her thighs.  He heard the clip as she fastened them to her suspender belt.  Saw her look up and smile.

She'd been watching him too, stealing glimpses as he stood at the marble pedestal in his little towel.  She'd watched him shaving, working a soapy lather across his jaw with the fat brush, the careful strokes of the razor, watching him wince as he splashed on his cologne.  She'd watched him in the dressing room, biting her lip as the towel slid away, gazing at his ass, his tanned, muscular thighs.  He looked up at her.  She didn't care.  She just kept right on looking at him. 

She was different tonight, eyes wandering up and down.   She didn't care that he knew.  They were both turned on.  Neither spoke.  Neither made contact, except with their eyes. 

He watched her putting her makeup on, sitting at the dressing table in her underwear; the white tide of the foundation she smoothed into her skin.  The arch of her spine, the shadow between her shoulder blades deepening as her fingers drifted across her face.  The painted, cherry red nails sweeping her white skin.  She took out a gold pen, twisting off the end, clicking it, running the brush under her eyes.  Ben's gaze slid down to her ass, perched on the stool, perfectly round; the black lace knickers, the black crack he could see through them.  She took out a fat sable kabuki brush, dusting her face with powder.  He watched her draw a thin black line along her upper lashline.  His gaze lingered on her breasts in the mirror, quivering in the strapless balconette bra with every sweep of the brush.  She applied eyeshadow, blending smoky black into the sockets, antique gold across the lids.  He could see her nipples through the lace.  She highlighted the outer sockets with matt white, combing her perfectly arched, black eyebrows.  He smiled to himself as she applied her mascara.  She pulled the funniest faces. 

She emptied a satin purse of hairpins.  They spilled all over the dresser.  She picked up a wad, holding them in her teeth.  Starting at the crown of her head, she took her curls, winding them around her finger, pinning them up, one by one.

Ben watched her take out a deep red lipstick, running it along her bottom lip, then the top, painting a bright red arch.  He just stared; Ben was transfixed.  She was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

She looked at him in the mirror.  The lipstick snapped shut.  She turned her head, not quite looking at him.

'I will tell you, you know,' she proffered. 

'I owe you an explanation.  I just need a little time.'

Ben sat up on his elbows.  He nodded. 

They drove along the dark, rain-soaked streets, on down Marylebone Road.  Over the flyover, through the twinkling concrete jungle.  They pulled out onto Westway.  It was busy tonight, red brake lights blinking up ahead.  The driver wove in and out of traffic, Ben kept looking at his watch.  They took a right on Harrow Road and started driving up Wembley Hill.  They couldn't be going to the West End. 

Ben wished she'd listened to him.  She wouldn't put her coat on, she said it wouldn't 'go'.  She just wrapped a black pashmina around her shoulders - she was going to be cold.  It was a nice dress though.  She looked fantastic in it.  Deep red taffeta with a black sheen; strapless, ruched at the waist.  The colour contrasted with her skin beautifully; complimenting her lipstick, hair, big dark eyes.  She was wearing the earrings he'd bought her, married up with a pearl choker.  She was watching him.

Where the fuck were they going?  They weren't in a nice part of town.  She could see the lights up ahead, the big blue arc twinkling high in the sky. 

You have got to be kidding...

'Where are we going?' she demanded.  Ben could hear the annoyance in her voice. 

'Can't tell you,' he said.  'It's a secret.' 

He smiled at her.  She wasn't looking at him.  When she finally did, she looked like she was going to kill him.

The roads were rammed, nose to tail.  They edged closer with the mass of brake lights.  Eve glared at him.  Ben took her hand and kissed it.

'Mia principessa.'

She snatched her hand away.

Finally, she saw it.  They pulled up outside.  A huge billboard towered above them, a picture of a Chinese lady in an exotic headdress.  Eve squinted at the gold lettering.

'Tu-ran-dot?'

'Turand-
o
,' Ben corrected her.

Her face was blank. 

'Puccini?' 

Not a flicker. 

'Nessun Dorma?' 

Eve's brow crinkled. 

'...Opera?'

'Yes.'

Ben sat on tenterhooks for a second.  Eve's face exploded in a grin.  She took his hand and squeezed it.  She almost broke his fingers.

'We can always go back,' he told her  'Go and watch a film...'

She shook her head frantically.  He heard the door clunk open, watched her slide around and get out. 

'Do you want my jacket?' he asked her as they took their seats. 

'No, no.  I'm fine,' she told him, pulling the pashmina up over her shoulders, wrapping it around herself again.  He looked so smart tonight.  Black dinner jacket, crisp white shirt,
bowtie.  Daniel Craig had nothing on him.  His face was silky, his hair was neat.  Eve looked into his bright, smiling eyes.

'I'm sorry for being a bitch.'

She watched the lines around his eyes deepen, heard him laugh. 

'I can't believe you thought I was taking you to the football!'

She shrugged.  He put his arm around her.

The musicians were tuning up in the orchestra pit, a dozen or so metres away.  Eve was watching them, listening to the kafuffle, peering up at the murky stage. 

Ben could see how happy she was, her eyes sparkling back at him.  She was easy to please, it didn't take much - just look how she was with the bear.  Change from a score and presented in a carrier bag.  The last guy was an easy act to follow.

She could be up her own arse though.  Not with him so far, not the outburst in the car.  That was just frustration, annoyance.  Not even the tantrum on the beach.  No, he'd only caught a glimpse of her high horse once: at
The Groucho
, when it trampled Felicity Doodah. 

You couldn't really blame Eve.  She'd sent out a few warning shots.  It was patently obvious she was uncomfortable with the intrusion.  But she'd still taken Ben by surprise.  The bespectacled forty-something was one of the most caustic figures in publishing, reviled and revered.  She was known amongst his fellow photographers and cover designers as
Hitler in High Heels
.  And yet here was Evelyn, usually so sweet, so unassuming, reducing the executive director to a frightened little mouse.  She'd never talked down to Ben, but she wiped the floor with her, sending her scurrying off, with not much more than a look.