Don't Tell Eve (15 page)

Meeting at the Papyrus table, Jess and Phil comfortably resumed hostilities.

‘You could swap with someone.’

‘Fine – who do you want? Noel? Rog?’

Jess glanced at her choices. ‘Alright, sit down.’

‘Red?’ Phil asked.

Jess nodded and turned to her left, to the Traitor, also known as the world-famous, critically acclaimed author whose Cold War novel had been launched at the decadent Russian bar the month before. His previous book had been nominated for the principal award of the evening and, even though it had been published by Zest, he was now Eve’s. Usually reclusive, he’d agreed to come on the condition that he was seated next to Ilona – and nowhere near Papyrus’s MD. The publicity director, who had been keeping a low profile, had handled this request with her customary tact, so Eve knew nothing about it.

‘I love your books,’ said Jess. It was generally a safe opening gambit with an author, particularly if she didn’t know which books they themselves actually hated.

‘Oh? How kind of you. Which have you read?’ The Traitor was facing Jess but his hand was on Ilona’s thigh. There it remained while he chatted contentedly about his backlist. Mercifully he liked what he’d written and Jess had not only read but actually enjoyed all of them, and could even remember what most were about.

On the other side of the large round table, Eve sat between an ageing literary editor, who kept adjusting his glasses the better to see Eve’s remarkable breasts, and an intense agent, who only represented truly literary clients and so had a dwindling, if star-studded list. Eve’s suit, which Todd had managed to collect from the drycleaners seconds before they closed, was cream with wide lapels, a single button on the jacket and wide-legged pants. A gold heart-shaped medallion snuggled between her remarkable breasts and her matching earrings convulsed every time she flicked her hair. On her feet were gold slippers with towering perspex heels.

As she sloshed down her unexpectedly drinkable champagne, for once she wasn’t thinking about escape; instead her thoughts were about how damn impressive she was. If the imbeciles in head office could have seen her at this moment, they wouldn’t doubt her talent. She smiled vacantly as the agent and literary editor earnestly discussed books that Papyrus hadn’t published and that Eve hadn’t read and that might or might not win the evening’s big award. But it didn’t matter to Eve. These were books that weren’t going to improve her profit margin, weren’t going to get her photo in the paper and weren’t going to get her back to the other side of the world.

As was the way of these things, the literary editor already knew who’d won, but as breaking this embargo reportedly involved hanging, drawing and quartering, and then having your entrails fed to rats, he feigned ignorance.

The agent knew he knew, so he was trying to catch out the literary editor by asking leading questions and watching his
body language. That the agent would find out legitimately in the next couple of hours didn’t deter him: it was much more fun attempting to wheedle out the information. Besides, if the agent did manage to discover the winner, he might have time to change his bets in case he’d made the wrong call. This was unlikely, but these things had a way of turning out unexpectedly – and money was money.

Also thinking about money was Roger. He was sitting uncomfortably next to Hilary, who’d noticed him as she’d pulled out her chair and then rapidly turned away. This action had forced him to speak to the woman on his other side. As she was an important buyer from one of the largest bookstore chains, Roger felt the right thing to do was to talk up the Papyrus Christmas list. The woman focused first on her bread roll, then his, then Hilary’s, and gave no indication that she was listening. Everyone knew that the buyer liked to toy with people like Roger, and as he was struggling she was probably happy, although it wasn’t obvious from her expression.

Hilary didn’t seem happy either, but the difference between her and the bookseller was that she wasn’t happy. She hated these events but knew it was necessary to show up. It was all a question of status: if you didn’t go, you weren’t asked; if you weren’t asked, you weren’t important. And for Hilary the appearance of importance was of paramount importance. What annoyed her most was that so many people were talking about books. Even Noel, who was well-known for his dislike of authors, the reason that he was safe in his job, was forcing her to endure a lecture about a new management book.

‘I hate the word, the very idea of management,’ Noel was saying, not at all put off by Hilary’s eyebrows shooting to the ceiling, ‘but this book is fantastic. It turns the traditional corporate structure on its head, where it should be, and puts the people back on top.’ He paused. ‘I guess you read it months ago.’

‘Of course,’ snapped Hilary, and she had. While hating books, she read everything, everything that she thought Eve might need to know about, might need to be briefed on and wouldn’t have read. It was a long list.

Aware that conversation wasn’t Hilary’s forte – silent intimidation and covert manipulation being more her style – Noel gave up trying after a while and took to drinking. This made him want a cigarette, so he picked up his glass, commandeered Hilary’s, which wasn’t being used, filled both and went in search of someone more congenial among the exiled smokers.

On the other side of the table, the literary editor and the agent had moved on to a new topic.

‘So what do you think of it?’ the literary editor was asking.

‘I think it’s really fresh – imaginative, subversive, sexy – and I found parts of it very funny.’

‘I agree, but at first I wasn’t sure what the hell to make of it and it took me a little while to get into the swing of it because I was expecting a more traditional approach. I’m also not a big fan of direct address – it feels bossy – and then there’s that opening line. What was it? “The reason you’re reading this book is not the reason you think you’re reading this book.” It wasn’t until I was halfway through that I thought, okay, I take your point. But what was that chapter? “Nothing Succeeds Like Seduction”? Best account of the beginning of a relationship I’ve read for a long time. It shows real emotional insight. My money is on the author being a novelist, a management specialist couldn’t – and wouldn’t – write like that.’

The agent nodded. ‘I like that idea; we must find out.’

‘I’m already on the case. Did you read the acknowledgements page?’

‘Just said the usual, no clues in there, I’d have thought.’

‘On the contrary, it said that the author wanted to thank three women, without whom the book wouldn’t exist, and I
quote – I remember it because I found it intriguing – “The first: one day you’ll know exactly what you meant to me; the second: who discovered me, your faith in my abilities was astounding; and finally, the one who made this possible and never doubted me”.’

‘Three women, lucky guy. Still, doesn’t tell us much.’

‘Well, for a start, what if it’s not a guy? What if it’s a woman?’

‘Ah, so you’re thinking it’s a lesbian novelist? That cuts down the list.’

‘No, I’m not necessarily thinking that. It could be a man but we can’t rule out it being a woman, possibly gay, possibly straight. It’s just written in a very particular manner, which is telling, I think.’

‘For you maybe, and you’re the literary sleuth, so good luck. Personally, I can’t see the point of writing under a pseudonym for a book like this – the material isn’t sensitive, after all – and non-fiction needs an author out there touting the damn thing.’

‘It would certainly help, but then a bit of mystery isn’t hurting it – and word-of-mouth can be a powerful thing.’

Feeling ignored, Eve decided to remind them of her presence. ‘The problem with word-of-mouth is that it can’t be guaranteed.’ She firmly believed in the value of marketing dollars over people.

‘
Au contraire
,’ said the literary editor, who’d never been employed by a commercial publishing company. ‘That’s what the net’s for, surely. I mean —’

Before anyone could find out what he meant, the lights dimmed and the speeches began. Eve sighed and signalled to the waiter. She was in need of another drink. It was going to be a very long evening – it had already been a long evening. Such a pity the leering literary editor’s voice was so nasal, she thought, and the hairs in his nose so long, otherwise
things might have been more lively. Her medallion clearly impressed him.

An hour and a half later the speeches were still going, one oozing into another, everyone hanging on desperately for the final award, the real one. It was to be announced, like Best Film at the Oscars, far too late in the proceedings. The difference was that the Oscars had glamour, movie stars, film segments, witty presenters, paparazzi. There was also the small matter than not one of Papyrus’s shortlisted titles had won in its category, so Eve was finding herself increasingly grumpy, as well as nearly catatonic with boredom. What she needed was a little pick-me-up. She made a twitching motion with her nose at Hilary. Hilary nodded, reached into her bag and passed a small package to Eve, who snatched it from her before making her way unsteadily through the darkness to the women’s bathrooms.

As they were dark, cavernous and empty, Eve didn’t see why she should bother hiding away in a cubicle. The white powder was quickly chopped, sniffed and then promptly sneezed out and about,
Annie Hall
-like. Todd was a Woody Allen fan, so Eve was able to appreciate the reference. And she had more of the powder, so the waste didn’t matter.

Round two was more successful and afterwards she stopped to admire the room and herself. While gazing into the mirror, she noticed the reflection of a lovely large glass of red wine at the hand basin. It wasn’t hers but it was there and it was full. Alas, as she reached to pick it up, she missed, knocking it over. Oh well, she thought, before redoing her lipstick, fluffing her hair and leaving the bathroom, feeling altogether much sparkier.

Jess hated queueing for anything, particularly loos, so she’d decided to zip in ahead of the frenzy that was sure to accompany the end of the speeches. Assuming they did end. It took approximately two seconds to see that Eve’s cream suit was splattered with pink – even in the dark – and that she didn’t seem to have noticed or, if she had, she didn’t care.

The dilemma Jess faced was whether to stop Eve or let her weave her merry way back to the table, the literary editor of a national paper and the agent, who had no reason to be discreet. The latter choice might have been satisfying but as the result would be sure to interfere with her plans – her project being about timing as much as anything – Jess chose to do what seemed to be the kind thing.

Taking Eve by the shoulders, she steered her away from the crowd, pretending they needed to talk. When she was safely in a corner, Jess texted Hilary, who was with them moments later, bags in hand.

‘You can go back to the table now, Jessica, I’ll take care of this. Just say she’s ill.’

‘But I’m not ill, I feel fantastic and I want to go back to the table. I want that old lech to ogle me and I want to be there when we win. I want to give a speech – I’ve got a speech ready. You’ve got a speech ready, don’t you, Hilary? But it doesn’t matter, I’ve got plenty to say. I want to get on that podium. I —’

‘We need to go, trust me.’

‘Why should I trust you? I don’t trust anyone. Why would I trust you of all people? With your
record
?’

‘We’re going. Now.’ Hilary moved Eve away before she could say, and Jess could hear, anything else.

The following morning Hilary was in the office early. Up since five, she’d already completed her usual routine – an hour on the treadmill, wheatgerm shot, Omega threes, vegetable smoothie, shower, hair and, finally, her mask.

Unlike Eve – who’d finally been told by Todd that if she wanted to continue eating the way she did she had to exercise, so now reluctantly slunk down to a gym a few times a week – Hilary hit the gym daily. Far from being a respite from the worries of work, it was when she did her best thinking, when she came up with those inspirational ideas about how to make the lives of those around her that little bit more difficult, while seeming to do just the opposite.

Lately Jess had been on her mind, and her performance the previous night hadn’t eased Hilary’s anxiety. While she acknowledged that Jess had saved the company – and Eve – from a potentially embarrassing situation, the act didn’t prove her loyalty. Grainy photos might show up in a paper any day: Jess had opportunity, motive and she had means. Jess had sent her a text, hadn’t she? She’d therefore had a mobile to hand. The same mobile that she’d used before, at the launch, when she’d photographed Eve and the boy. Not that anything
had come of that. Yet. The crux of the matter was that Jess had far too much information for Hilary’s liking and what worried her most was that Jess might discover exactly what their management strategy involved.

But dealing with Jess wasn’t yet at the top of her agenda. Hilary’s work involved many things, all of which were interrelated – her ‘helping’ people and ‘advising’ people roles related directly to her ‘financial’ role, for instance – and they all served just one purpose: everything she did was aimed at making Eve look better and the company appear more successful.

She was particularly pleased with SAP. On the surface, SAP was a human resources initiative that had the employees’ best interests at heart, but even the most trusting ingenues at Papyrus knew that to admit to suffering from an emotional problem and then to take part in Hilary’s ‘Staff Assistance Program’ was only for the truly desperate. While they would be put in touch with a counsellor, the company would pay, and they’d even be given time off to attend, the real cost was extremely high. A code of ethics prevented the counsellors from reporting back to Hilary in full, but she was able to entice them to share a little. And a little was enough. The hapless employees’ names would be added to Hilary’s List, not a black list so much as a slack list. Why a person used the program in the first place was irrelevant – marriage break-up, grief, stress, drug problems – for Hilary they all pointed in the same direction: to weakness.

Hilary knew information, any information, was power, and, along with SAP, she had more traditional ways of gathering it – a favourite was strolling the corridors, papers in hand, as though going somewhere important, but instead she’d loiter. More often than not she learned something this way. The best spot for overhearing people who believed they were having private conversations was just outside the printing room. The
small, noisy, slightly toxic space had an intimacy about it that made people feel as though they could talk freely, despite there being no door to close.

So it was the print room she chose to stand outside at 10 am, mobile phone pressed to her ear as if on a call, and listening. Two male voices wafted towards her. One was Phil’s and the other David’s. As it was unlikely Phil was doing any work in there, she guessed he’d spotted David as he was walking past in search of entertainment. Theoretically, David shouldn’t have needed to be in there either as he was paid too much to spend time on administrative work, but it was well-known that he didn’t like to ask his assistant to do too many of what the girl referred to as ‘busy’ jobs – little tasks, such as copying and filing. So David, ready to do anything for a peaceful life, did them himself, and left her to do other things, though quite what these were was anyone’s guess. It was an issue that Hilary planned to ask him to address, at some point.

‘So,’ came Phil’s voice, ‘Any good gossip from your side of the table last night?’

‘Well,’ said David, in a tone he never used in meetings or when speaking to Hilary, ‘There’s …’ His voice trailed off.

Worried that David was about to check the corridor, Hilary’s body stiffened and she held her breath, as though doing this would render her invisible. Should she move away, she wondered. She didn’t want to as she sensed that he was about to say something of interest. Just in case, she composed her face to resemble that of someone hearing an absorbing piece of news. She was ready, should David actually be able to see her. But a head didn’t poke around the corner.

David went on. ‘What’s the story with Ilona?’

‘Ah, Ilona …’ Phil had hoped it was going to be about Eve, he wanted to know what had warranted her swift exit the previous evening – she hadn’t seemed sick to him.

‘I mean, I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I wasn’t sure if they were true or just gossip.’

‘What makes you think gossip isn’t true?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah, yeah, okay. What do you want to know exactly?’

Hilary leaned towards the space where a door ought to have been.

‘Well, what about …’ David named the award-winning author who hadn’t, in fact, won the major award, as they’d all expected. ‘Is it true that that’s how she got him to come over here?’

‘I imagine Viagra had more to do with it.’

Hilary imagined David blushing.

‘So it’s true?’

‘That they’ve been screwing? As far as I know it is.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Very reliable source.’

‘How reliable?’

‘Horse’s mouth.’

‘Ilona told you?’ David sounded surprised.

Hilary too was surprised. Was Phil ‘screwing’, as he’d so delicately put it, Ilona as well? That was the only explanation for her confiding that kind of detail. He really was —

‘No, our author was rather proud of his conquest.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘Oh, she knows what she’s doing. Been doing it for years.’

‘You don’t mean …?’ David floundered again.

‘Seducing authors? God, yes. Can be a very effective technique when it doesn’t backfire and cause a complete balls-up, so to speak. I can’t believe you didn’t know.’

David was silent, but only for a moment. ‘Have you ever done it?’

‘Don’t need to.’ Phil blocked with his imaginary cricket bat. ‘Besides, the bulk of my authors are blokes and I wouldn’t go
that far for the sake of a deal. I don’t know though, a cute female tennis player might tempt me. Great legs, fit, aggressive. Could be fun.’ There was a pause. ‘Wouldn’t be about the deal though, it would be entertainment, pure and simple. No, to be honest, there’d be too many complications sleeping with someone you’re doing business with, and I’m not a fan of complications.’

‘So,’ David began to whisper, as though he sensed someone was listening. ‘Who else has she … you know?’

‘Bonked? Shagged? Screwed? Fucked?
Made love to?
Well …’ Phil listed a number of well-known literary names.

‘My
goodness
.’

Out in the corridor, someone finally walked past Hilary. Unfortunately, just as they did so her phone, which she’d meant to switch to silent, rang.

‘Just waiting for a call back,’ she said, forgetting momentarily that speaking would alert David and Phil to her presence.

She was too late. Both men emerged from the alcove, Phil striding past and nodding to her as though nothing was wrong and David slinking past, pretending not to see her.

Still, happy with her work, Hilary returned to her office, confident in the knowledge that a good morning was about to get even better. Eve was going to like what she had on Ilona. While Ilona hadn’t yet made the list, it didn’t matter; it was always useful to have a hold over someone. Besides, Eve was sure to be tetchy after the previous evening, so a little present in the form of blackmail material would cheer her up.

Hilary knocked on her boss’s door.

Five minutes later, Ilona was summoned to join them.

What Hilary hadn’t calculated on was Eve being more than tetchy. She was tired, hungover and very bad-tempered. Hilary also hadn’t factored in that Eve remained very sensitive about the Chris episode, as well as the more recent Oliver episode – he had, after all, rejected her too.

While Hilary had related the overheard conversation, Eve had focused on one key issue: what did Ilona have that she didn’t? She was approximately the same age, but Ilona was less imposing, her clothes less impressive, and Eve was, there was no doubt, richer. She just couldn’t work it out.

That Ilona was single, sympathetic and a good cook hadn’t crossed Eve’s mind. That she was feminine, non-threatening and coy, had failed to register. That she was a woman who combined a high IQ with a high EQ was beside the point. Or rather, these attributes were dismissed as unimportant, if not actual weaknesses.

What drove Eve to call Ilona to her office then wasn’t concern for the reputation of the company, although that’s what she claimed.

Eve and Hilary coldly and calmly presented all they knew of Ilona’s history and then asked for an explanation. Ilona said nothing at first. Instead she simply stared at Eve, who that day resembled a backup singer for a country and western band, complete with tassles, denim and plaid, and then at Hilary, her Armani-clad security guard. It seemed as though she might apologise. Or even cry.

Please God, let her cry
, Hilary prayed.

But crying wasn’t any higher on Ilona’s agenda than apologising. Instead she told them both that her personal life was none of their damn business and that if they expected her to continue working for the company under these circumstances, they were
very, very wrong. She’d be leaving immediately and discussing the situation with her solicitor. They’d hear from her.

‘Not if you hear from us first,’ said Hilary, with significance.

In the adjoining office, Jess closed the vent and added a new name to her own list.