Don't Tell Eve (14 page)

‘I’m sorry you won’t stay, but perhaps we could meet another time?’ She tried not to sound desperate.

‘Mmm,’ Oliver murmured as he walked out. He heard the door close very hard behind him.

Eve’s residual peevishness and frustration were taken out on Todd when he got home ten minutes later. ‘Where’s my dry-cleanin’? I told you I need to wear that suit tonight. Why don’t you listen? You’ve been out for hours and I asked you to do one thing. Just one thing! How hard is it? It’s not as if you have a job!’

Todd sighed and silently turned around, leaving the house for the fifteenth time that day.

After he had left, Eve poured herself another drink. Aside from Oliver’s inexplicable rejection – perhaps he really was busy – she was convinced the interview has gone well. She’d
been charming and entertaining, the house looked amazing and, as always, her appearance had been arresting. There was no doubt about it, Oliver would write a glowing account. How could he not?

As always, attempting to unravel someone’s dissembling required a considerable expenditure of energy, so after his appointment with Eve, Oliver was exhausted. But it wasn’t this, nor her carnal interest, that had pushed him out of the door in the end, although the timing might have suggested it. It was Kate. She was alone for the next three days, the boys being with their father, and Oliver had promised to have dinner with her. Cancellation wasn’t an option, not for someone in her state, so he went home, showered, changed and found a bottle of wine, then chose another, just in case.

When Kate opened the door she was not only dressed, which Oliver was pleased about, but she’d washed and blow-dried her hair and was wearing eye make-up. And lipstick. It was as though she cared. Naturally what Oliver read into all this was that Kate was beginning to feel better.

Kate wasn’t feeling better. But she felt she needed to appear that way, particularly as Oliver had been so kind to her – she thought she owed it to him – and she was tired of him arriving slick and soigné, while she was in daggy tracky daks and a baggy t-shirt from a selection that her husband
hadn’t thought worth taking. Oliver wasn’t only a reason to dress, he was a reason to dress up, which in a way did make her feel better.

‘So, what are we having?’ It was Oliver’s first question after he’d commented favourably on the change in her appearance. It wasn’t just the change that impressed him but the fact that she looked good. Really good. Not just well, but attractive. He wondered how he’d failed to notice that before. Possibly the husband and children had hidden it; he wasn’t the type to go for yummy mummies.

‘Wait-and-see pudding.’

‘That might work with the kids but I’m into instant gratification, so I’d like to know now.’

‘What, so you can leave if you don’t like the sound of it?’

‘Actually, so I can open the right wine.’

‘That’s a good reason – fish, a salmon and salsa thingy. You can talk to me while I throw it together.’ Getting dressed had required more effort than Kate had imagined, so she’d decided against preparing beforehand.

‘How flattering.’

There was an open, empty bottle of wine on the kitchen bench, which Kate casually tried to hide as they walked in. She was unsuccessful at both the casual and the hiding but Oliver said nothing, instead opening the first of the bottles he’d brought.

‘You know,’ said Kate, picking up her glass. ‘Maybe we should sit down first and be civilised.’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘Follow me then.’

Oliver guessed he was the last person to have been in the sitting room. It felt like years ago but was only weeks. At least this room didn’t have toys carefully placed around the floor to fell unsuspecting adults, like every other room in the house.

‘So,’ said Kate, leaning back into the sofa and enjoying her third glass of wine for the evening. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Well, I’ve had an entertaining afternoon, though you might not want to know about it.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘It involves Eve.’

‘Oh, right. How entertaining exactly?’ A picture of Eve sprang into Kate’s mind: vibrant and charismatic, she was dressed in an amazing and probably hideously expensive, if not plain hideous, outfit. This wasn’t Eve her ex-boss she saw, but Eve, femme fatale. Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the story.

‘She tried to seduce me.’

‘So, was she successful?’ Kate tried to sound nonchalant. She didn’t want to know the answer but couldn’t help asking the question.

‘Come on, give me some credit, if she’d been successful, do you think I’d be telling you? Or, come to think of it, saying “tried”?’

‘Good point,’ said Kate, slightly alarmed at how relieved she was by this admission. ‘Okay, tell me about it – but, hang on, weren’t you supposed to be interviewing her?’

‘I was – I did.’

‘Then I really do want to know.’ Tales of Eve’s bad behaviour were welcome, especially as the thought of Eve had become much less troubling recently, thanks not to time healing all wounds, but the doll. She longed to talk about this odd present with someone – and here he was, sensitive, thoughtful. But something held her back, not just the instructions – she’d always been one to ignore instructions, even those she read – it was something else.

Oliver hesitated.

‘Come on,’ said Kate.

‘Okay, so Ant, his assistant and I …’

The house, the art and the interview were described in detail by an animated Oliver and, as he talked, he topped up Kate’s glass, and his own.

‘So, what are you going to write then?’ Kate asked when he’d finished.

It was the same question Oliver had been asking himself for the last couple of hours. ‘I haven’t decided. Obviously I’ll leave out the bit about her coming onto me – I don’t want to be sued and it wasn’t as though she groped me – but as for the house and Eve, I just don’t know yet.’ Kate wasn’t a person with whom he wanted to discuss the approach he was considering taking. ‘How are you, anyway? You’re looking much better.’

It was Kate’s turn to hesitate. ‘“Much” is overstating the case, but I’m sure I’m on the mend.’

After dinner and a second bottle, Kate was no longer on the mend. Instead she was teary, miserable and convinced that she’d never find another job, another man or any way out of the gigantic hole she’d been pushed into. She’d also remembered that she was missing the country’s major literary awards dinner for the first time in ten years.

One way to handle her would have been to stop her drinking, sober her up, and then go home, but Oliver took what he thought was an easier approach. He attempted to comfort her and before long they were upstairs, semi-naked and in Kate’s bed.

Oliver’s comforting was only partially successful, or, to put it another way, as sobriety began to kick in, so did guilt. This was about halfway through the second act.

Kate also sobered up around this time and realised, with a mixture of delight and regret, precisely what she’d been missing for the last few years.

Afterwards, with Kate lightly snoring beside him, Oliver tried to work out the best way of dealing with the inevitable. It wasn’t as though he wanted to make Kate’s life any worse than it was already.

[site name donttell]/thedolls/exhibit-h

Her life had changed overnight. Structure, certainty, financial stability, a sense of purpose and community had all vanished, and in their place … In their place was confusion. And the doll.

The doll had arrived one afternoon like Paddington Bear, with a note tied around its wrist, but instead of an overcoat and gumboots, the doll was dressed in a cream suit and golden slippers with perspex heels. The note requested that the doll be looked after, not destroyed. It was not, the note said,
that
kind of doll. She disagreed. It looked just like that kind of doll, which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

The kitchen table was not the place for a well-dressed miniature mannequin but as she had decided the doll’s job was to be a sounding board, the table was where it needed to stand.

It was the fifth cake she had made that week; that these cakes weren’t needed was not the point. The ingredients were assembled, combined, poured into a greased tin and placed into the pre-heated oven. It was then time to make the icing; for a change, pink icing, with cochineal as the colourant. The icing sugar was placed in a bowl and the cochineal poured onto a spoon. Unfortunately, just at this moment she sneezed, and the explosion caused both sugar and teaspoon to fly into the air.

As she watched, the previously immaculate doll, in its cream suit, with its wide lapels, and even wider shoulder pads, was subjected to an avalanche of white powder and splattered with red liquid.

For reasons more to do with aesthetics than acoustics or convenience, the committee had decided that the annual awards dinner should be held at the town hall. For those who used public transport, it was the perfect location. A train station sat underneath the building and there were bus stops outside. Unfortunately, no one attending chose to use public transport and even authors were provided with Cabcharge vouchers for the evening.

The result was anarchy, with taxi upon taxi scrambling to find a place to unload guests within high-heeled tottering distance of the front doors. It was raining too, the first and possibly last downpour of the season, so instead of whinging, remarks were made through gritted teeth about it being ‘good for the farmers’. Such remarks were even heard from those in suede stilettos.

Reluctantly, Jess had agreed to share a taxi with Phil. They’d both been at work and were both going to the awards, so the receptionist and taxi-booker, who was a temp, assumed they’d want to go together. As the city was always chronically short of taxis, even in fine weather, they reluctantly accepted their fate.

Before the ride, Jess had prepared herself for questions about the doll, or dolls, as Phil had possibly seen more than one. But she needn’t have worried. They had almost reached their destination and, unexpectedly, Phil was still subjecting her to an account of the current problematic state of his lust life, having apparently forgotten, in his preoccupation and the darkness, that it was Jess he was with.

The current situation – he didn’t like to use the word relationship in this context, indeed in most contexts – had begun when Phil had attended the launch of a new men’s magazine.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Jess, but you’re wrong. We’re talking lifestyle magazine here: the focus is sport and culture.’

‘Whatever you say. So why was she there?’

‘Well, as we all know, soap operas are an important part of contemporary culture, from the classics like
Dallas
,
Days
and of course
Neighbours
to —’

‘Yeah, I know what a soap is – what’s your point?’

‘I haven’t made it yet. These kinds of shows are watched by millions. A soap makes gossip legitimate, life glamorous or the familiar bearable, right? They can launch fashion trends, hair styles, make locations popular. You can’t deny that they’re important, culturally-speaking.’

‘Why would I deny it? Mind you, I would say their influence isn’t what it was before
Big Brother
and its spawn. Give me a spicy soap over reality any day. But your vigorous defence of what is sadly becoming an outmoded form of entertainment makes me think that she’s a soap actress. Actor.’

‘As it happens she is, though that’s not why she was there.’

‘Why was she there?’

‘She’s also a model – who likes sport.’

‘Ah, now it’s all making sense. Let me see – she’s featured in the magazine’s first issue, playing her favourite sport and
almost wearing her favourite sports outfit. What is her favourite sport, by the way? Paddling in a g-string? Speed sun-tanning?’

‘Don’t be so sarkie, it’s a real sport.’

‘What?’

‘Beach volleyball.’

‘Oh, beach volleyball. You’re right, it is a real sport, even an Olympic one these days. So she was there in her capacity as a volleyball aficionado and you discovered you shared a mutual interest in sweaty women with hardly anything on.’

‘You think I’m that shallow?’ Phil tried to look hurt but didn’t succeed. ‘But actually, half-naked and sweaty was the problem.’

‘Since that sounds like her key attraction I don’t see how that could have been a problem.’

‘Well, here’s the deal. I saw her in the magazine and then, about thirty seconds later, while I still had her page open, we were introduced, so of course I had to comment. Then we got talking. I said I liked beach volleyball – well, okay, between you and me, I don’t like to play it – serving really hurts my hands, have you tried it? It’s painful – but anyway, I’m a bloke, of course I like watching girls play. What’s not to like? So there was a bit of chatting and the next thing I knew she was at my place and the sun was coming up.’

‘Giving you the benefit of the doubt, and hoping that last phrase was meant literally and wasn’t a disturbing metaphor, what you’re suggesting is you were completely innocent in this seduction. That she spiked your drink.’

‘Er, no, not exactly. Okay, not at all.’

‘Right. So you got drunk and shagged her?’

‘Yeah. Then I asked her out to dinner.’

‘I kind of like the reverse order, but that’s just me – old-fashioned. Out of curiosity, how old is she?’

‘Hard to say.’ Phil scrutinised Jess’s face far too carefully in the dim light. ‘Well, no wrinkles, plus no stretch marks, and
serious waxing, if you know what I mean. There’s nothing there, nothing. I’d say she’s twenty-one, twenty-two – twenty-five at the most.’

‘“Hollywood” is the term, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, but what I don’t understand is where this problem lies. I still don’t see it. Well, not anything that would be a problem for you, anyway.’

‘Interesting. What’s a Brazilian then? I thought —’

‘This is
so
not a conversation I want to have with you. Shall we focus on the problem rather than what the problem does with her pubic hair?’

‘Okay, fine. The thing is, we went out a few times, as you do, but beyond the volleyball, we had nothing in common – zip, zero, naught, nothing. And she talked constantly, and I mean
constantly
, so much that you’d have thought there would have been something in there to latch onto, just for the sake of the bod. But no. She was really, really cute but really, really boring – the kind of boring that’s physically painful, like marketing meetings.’ Phil watched the raindrops slide down the car window. ‘I didn’t used to care about that bit. I’d just tune out, think about my golf swing, what the hell our test team were up to, my next holiday, my favourite movies —’

‘What is your favourite movie?’

‘
The Cars that Ate Paris
.’

‘No! That’s a horrible film.’

‘It’s a horror movie, Jess, that’s the point.’

‘Being scared witless isn’t my idea of a good time. Spooky I can handle –
The Sixth Sense
was great.’

‘I agree, terrific film. Loved Bruce.’

‘Yeah. But back to Volley Girl.’

‘The arse-numbing boredom meant I couldn’t tune out, and as I couldn’t tune out, I didn’t want to shag her. I just wanted to take her home – to her place – and not have to listen to the
endless babble about beauty products and insane star diets and bloody Britney or Paris or Lindsay’s latest bloody crisis. Who could fucking care? I didn’t even like Paris’s tape – Pammy’s a classier act, you’ve got to admit. God, we don’t even have the same film vocab –
and
she loves reality TV. Looks just weren’t enough, which means …’ Phil stared out into the darkness, as he had for most of the conversation, ‘I’m really worried I’m getting old.’

‘Christ, that’s what this is about. You are, we all are, that’s how it works, unless you’re Dorian Gray, and even then someone’ll find that picture, or Benjamin Button, and that story hasn’t got a happy ending either. You could just think about it as growing up, which isn’t so bad.’

‘Thanks. So really I have two problems – the main one being that she’s now obsessed with me. She keeps texting me, emailing, and – here’s the creepy bit – I’ve seen her staking out my house in her little gold girlie car, wearing huge sunglasses and sipping a giant cup of coffee.’

‘How funny, I’d always imagined soap actors had busy schedules.’

‘Yes and no, it depends on what’s filming when and what their role is. She’s on set a lot, but seems to be allowed to play with her electronic toys when she’s not in front of the camera. For that, read “Sent from my handheld”.’

‘So, what did you say to her?’ Despite herself, Jess was intrigued by Phil’s predicament.

‘Say to her?’

‘What did you say when you had that earth-shattering revelation that she wasn’t the love of your life and you were going to have to let her go?’

‘What did I
say
?’

‘Phil! You’re such a fucking bloke. You didn’t tell her, did you? You just pretended that you had a great time and then you stopped calling her.’

‘Well, I didn’t want to upset her. I thought she’d just take the hint. As I said, she’s cute, she’s young, she’d got great —’ Phil stopped himself just in time. ‘Anyway, she’s young.’

‘You idiot, that kind of “read my mind”, “guess from my actions what I mean” behaviour is fine for adolescents, juvenile twenty-somethings, even, but not for someone – how old are you anyway? Thirty-five? And you might even get away with it now if the girl you’re dealing with is stable. And psychic. And didn’t like you in the first place so was relieved not to hear from you again. Personally, I’m thinking you’ve bred your own little stalker. Amazing that it hasn’t happened sooner really.’

‘Yeah, well. Let’s pretend you’re right – and I mean pretend – what do you think I should do?’

‘Has she done anything illegal yet?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then meet her for
coffee
and no,
not
for a drink, you’ll need to stay sober and you also want her sober. You have to be honest and leave her no room for doubt.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Or you could keep ignoring her and hope that she gets over it and that she doesn’t become a bunny boiler.’

‘Or fish fryer.’
Fatal Attraction
was a film Phil never discussed with women, and the one that had convinced him about the dangers of having even a seemingly harmless affair. ‘She wouldn’t mess with my tropical fish?’

‘You have fish? How about that?’ This information forced Jess to adjust her mental image of Phil, slightly. ‘Anyway, I’ve never met the girl. All I know about her is that she acts in a soap, plays beach volleyball, has nice boobs and waxes. I have no idea what she is or isn’t capable of – maybe nothing, maybe she’ll just get bored and go away of her own accord. Or maybe she won’t.’

‘Shit.’ Phil pictured his collection of exotic, expensive, defenceless fish swimming innocently around their over-priced but worth-the-money ruined underwater city.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Well, look on the bright side – pretty young girls still find you attractive.’

‘Of course they do, why wouldn’t they?’

At last Jess felt on firmer ground, this was the Phil with whom she was familiar; Phil the sensitive fish-fancier with a stalker didn’t fit the picture. ‘Out of interest then, since you are so irresistible – why are you so often single?’

‘Choice. And I might well ask the same question of you: why are you so single?’

‘I’m not “so” single, I’m single, newly so, and wait a sec, how do you know?’

‘What do you think we do at soccer? Kick a ball around?’

‘How long have you known?’

‘A while, hence the word “so”.’

‘Well, if you know, you also know that you’re not supposed to know and that no one is supposed to know.’

‘I know. Might have been easier just to have been honest about that.’

‘In the current work environment?’

‘I’m just saying.’

Before Jess could think of a response, the taxi pulled down a side street and stopped, the driver explaining it would be impossible to drop them in front of the town hall.

‘I’ll get this,’ said Phil generously, pulling out a Papyrus Amex card from his wallet.

They walked into the party under separate umbrellas; Jess turning left at the entrance and Phil right, both wondering what had just gone on.