Company (31 page)

“Jones?
Jones?”
Sydney calls.

Klausman already has his back turned and is mopping the floor. Jones jolts into motion. “Hi.”

“I had to sign for this.” Sydney pushes a courier's bag across the counter, glaring at him—because of the package, her new duties, or just a general attitude, Jones can't tell.

“Sorry. Thanks.” He tears open the bag. Inside is a shrink-wrapped box that says NOKIA 6225 and a plastic-encased SIM card. There's no note.

“Hey, new cell phone,” says a man beside him. “Where'd you get that from?” Jones has no idea. The man looks at Sydney with a bemused expression. “Got one for me, too?”

“What?”
Sydney snaps, having not followed this. Jones takes the opportunity to carry his package over to the visitors area and sit down. When he has successfully unpacked everything and put it together, he is rewarded with a little animation, a friendly tune, and:
YOU HAVE
1
NEW TEXT MESSAGE.

A few button presses later, he has that, too. It says:
IM SICK + BORED CALL ME

As he heads back to the elevator, Klausman and his mop veer in his direction. Jones's heart races. He is suddenly sure that Klausman is going to grill him about the phone, which, for some reason, he shouldn't have. His fingers tighten on the package. His brain vomits up a mass of inexplicable advice, like:
Don't tell him it's from Eve.
But then the elevator doors open on a packed elevator of loud, laughing suits, and as they walk by, Klausman's eyes remain glued to the floor. Jones steps into the empty car. When the doors slide closed, he remembers to breathe. He laughs shakily at his own reaction. He is clearly becoming either paranoid or insightful. He wishes he knew which.

“Hello?”

“It's me.”

“Ah! Jo . . . one second
. . . choo!
Oh, God. Sorry. It's good to hear your voice.”

“You sound like you're dead.”

“Not yet. Just . . . very . . . phlegmy.”

“Want me to come over?” He waits. He can't believe he just said this.

“Sorry, what?” There is a rustling noise. “Oh, God, that was my last tissue.”

“I'll come visit you,” Jones says. “With tissues.”

“Oh . . . Jones. That's really sweet, but . . . I'm not exactly looking my best.”

“I don't mind.”

“My eyes are puffy, my skin is greasy, my nose is red—not to mention dribbling—”

“Well, that's why you need tissues.”

A pause. “You seriously want to come over?”

“Yeah.”

“Even though I look like someone just dug me up.”

“Sure.”

She starts to laugh, which turns into a coughing fit. “Jones, you are something else.”

“Come on, give me your address.”

“Well,” she says, “so long as you know what you're in for.”

He is not hugely surprised when Eve's address turns out to be a sleek, modern building fronting the bay, nor that her apartment is at the very top and has its own elevator. He presses the intercom button while a light breeze tugs at his shirt, and takes the opportunity to think about what he's doing.

What he needs are some ground rules. Yes, he is visiting Eve. And yes, he is attracted to her. That's fine, so long as he handles it properly. There will be no flirting. No touching. He will not discuss incidents from his past, particularly of the romantic variety. He will keep the conversation on task; that is, he will get Eve to talk about Alpha so that he can learn how to break it.

“Hello?” the intercom croaks.

“It's me.”

The door in front of him goes
clack.
He pushes it open and rides the elevator to floor P, which Jones guesses stands for penthouse. It opens onto a six-foot corridor with a single door at the end, and as he approaches, this goes
clack,
too. He turns the handle and steps into Eve's apartment.

He is expecting a huge, light-filled room dotted with ultramodern furniture in coordinated colors. He is half right: it is enormous. And the sun does bounce off the bay beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But it is also practically empty. The only furniture is a single, lonely-looking table in the middle of the carpet and a few wooden chairs. There's a giant TV, but it's on the floor. Facing it is not a sofa but a spongy-looking mat.

He takes a guess and heads up a spiral staircase, past a gigantic stylized painting of the Seattle skyline—which, if Jones has his geography right, includes this building. Then the reflection of something colorful catches his eye, and he turns around to see a walk-in closet filled with clothes and shoes.

It is easily the size of Jones's bedroom. On each side are racks jammed with pants, skirts, dresses, and jackets. At least half still have tags attached, sporting names like Balenciaga, Chloë, Prada, and Rodriguez—which mean very little to Jones, other than expensive. The far end of the closet is a solid wall of boxes, and as Jones draws closer he sees each one has stuck on it a Polaroid photo of a pair of shoes. He is dumbstruck. There are enough clothes in here for Eve to wear a completely different outfit each day for about two years.

“Jones?”

He leaves the closet and finds the bedroom next door. Inside, Eve is propped up on a king-size bed, looking pale and bleary in a thin nightdress. The curtains are closed and the lamps on—which, as this room actually has furniture, rest on bedside tables. A full-length mirror stands on the far side of the room, beside one of two large wooden chests of drawers. There are more cupboards. One corner of the carpet contains a mound of balled-up tissues, suggesting that Eve recently staggered out of bed and swept them all there.

“Sorry,” she croaks. “Is this too gross?”

“In my job, I see a lot worse.” He holds out the tissues—eight boxes' worth, because Eve was very specific about the brand, which turns out to be sold only in tiny, beautifully packaged boxes. He's a little relieved to see that Eve is genuinely ill, because it will make it easier to stick to his ground rules, and a little disappointed, for the same reason.

“I love you so much for coming.” Her smile is unusually loose, almost goofy.

“Are you high?”

“I did take a number of anti-flu tablets, once I knew you were coming over.”

“Was it a large number?”

“I wanted to perk up for you.” The smile wobbles across her face again. Her pupils are huge; at first he'd thought it was the low light. She slides down the pillows and clasps her hands above her head in a position Jones finds confrontational. “Come, sit with me.”

“Uh . . . no, I'm okay.”

“You can't just stand there.”

“How much are all those clothes worth?” he says.

“I don't know. I never added it up.”

“It must be . . .” He starts to do sums in his head, then realizes the figure is going to be ludicrous. “How are you going to wear all that?”

“It's not just the wearing. It's the acquiring, and the having. Come on, sit.”

He stays on his feet. “Don't take this the wrong way, but have you considered therapy about this?”

“I do see a therapist. But I'm not allowed to tell you what we talk about.”

“Oh. Okay. Wait, you're not allowed to tell
me
specifically?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not?”

“I can't tell you.”

Jones exhales.

“He said you won't understand.”

“I'm trying to think why you're discussing me with your therapist.”

“Because you're important to me, Jones.” She blows her nose. “God, thank you so much for these tissues.”

He eyes her. “If you don't want to tell me, that's—”

“He says you're a mother figure to me.”

Jones sits on the bed.

“I know what you're thinking,” Eve says. “
Mother
figure? But it's nothing to do with sex. It's about roles.” She leaves a pause, in case Jones wants to say something. “My dad's a loser, not like you at all. Mom was the strict one.”

“You think I'm strict?”

“Dr. Franks—that's my therapist—says you fill a need for moral guidance that's been missing since I left home.”

“This is very disturbing.”

“It's really a compliment. It speaks to how much I look up to you.”

“I thought you didn't even like your mom.”

“I don't.”

“I'm confused.”

“Maybe you should see Dr. Franks,” Eve says. “He's very good.”

Jones stands up again. “Did you give me that phone because you're sick and you wanted your mom to come take care of you?”

Eve laughs, then sneezes, then laughs again. “That's so funny. I have to tell that to Dr. Franks. Jones—hey, come on, sit. Sit down.” She waits until he complies. Then her lips curve. “Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Are you worried about the virus? Don't be a sissy.”

“Eve, I'm not going to kiss you.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . it would be a bad idea.”

“I want you to know I don't think of you as my mom.”

“Fine. I accept that. But no.”

“It's because I'm sick and ugly, isn't it.” This isn't a question. Her face pinches.

“Eve, you're very attractive. Even with a bit of tissue stuck to your nose.”

She rubs her nose and inspects her finger. “That's embarrassing.”

“You're not ugly,” Jones says firmly. “Trust me.”

“How can I trust you? You're the new wiz kid at Alpha. That was
me,
a few years ago.” She puts a hand on her chest. “That was me. And
you
won't even
kiss
me. How do I know you won't hurt me?”

Jones blinks. “I won't hurt you.” As this comes out, he realizes he really means it. Exactly how this dovetails with his aim of sabotaging Alpha is not clear.

“Prove it.”

“No.”

She sneezes.

“Anyway,” Jones says, paddling for calmer conversational waters, “illness is a major cause of corporate productivity loss. As an agent for Alpha, you should know better.”

She wipes her nose. “You know with peacocks, only the males have colorful tails? The gene that causes that also lowers their immune system. That's why females find it sexy, not just because the colors are pretty, but because they're proof the male is strong enough to fight off infection even with a lowered immune system.”

“Why does everyone around here use animal analogies?”

She grins. “Because it's a zoo. A big, corporate zoo.”

“Well, I don't have feathers coming out of my butt. And I'm not going to kiss you just because you have a long list of practical reasons for it.”

“I'm a practical girl.” She nods. “A practical, practical girl.”

“I noticed.”

“But that doesn't mean I have no feelings, Jones. I also have a nonpractical reason.”

“You do?”

“I do. Do you want to hear it?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Yes or no?”

Jones hesitates. The correct answer here is clearly no. It is also probably to stand up and walk out of the apartment. But what he says is: “Yes.”

She smiles. “Okay. I . . .” She looks down and laughs. “Now I'm embarrassed.”

“Forget it,” he says, already regretting his decision.

She puts her hand on his. “I want to be honest with you. But . . . this is new territory for me.” She pushes herself up in the bed and adjusts the pillows behind her. When she arches her back, Jones's eyes drift helplessly down to where her breasts push out her nightgown. He tears his gaze away, but not before he realizes he is in serious, serious trouble.

“So,” he says, “you slept with Blake.”

Eve freezes. “What?”

In one sense, this is a terrific success: it plugs a lot of Jones's more alarming feelings and gets him back on task. But he can't believe he just used a line from
Days of Our Lives.
This is the noxious nature of Blake, Jones realizes: he brings you down to his level.

“You think I slept with Blake?”

“Did you?”

She looks stupefied. “God, I
wish.
”

Jones says, “I have to go now.”

“Jones! No, I mean, years ago, I had a thing for him, it didn't work out. I don't want to sleep with him now. I couldn't; it'd be too competitive. We're Alpha's top two after Klausman. You can't date someone who's the same level as you. You have to go up or down.”