Don't Tell Eve (4 page)

In engineering her vault across the room, Eve managed to ignore Roger, who quickly pretended he wasn’t planning to speak to her anyway and instead joined a gaggle of sleek publicists, who immediately fell silent.

‘Damn,’ said Zoë, realising they were too late. ‘How did she do that?’

‘Practice? Desperation? I’m sure she won’t be long.’

The reason for Jess’s confidence was that Cheekbones was staring, bunny-caught-in-headlights, at Zoë. This reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, since what Zoë had decided to wear to a casual after-work literary book launch was a skintight silver catsuit, zip undone almost to the navel. But somehow she managed to make dressing like an extra from
Star Trek
seem both fashionable and appropriate – even desirable.

She winked at Cheekbones. ‘You’re right. Let’s stay. We might learn something.’

‘So,’ Eve was saying, drawing out the word and ending it in a w. ‘Who have we here?’

David, alarmed by this sudden interest, began to explain. ‘Chris, Chris —’

Jess immediately recognised the surname. He was indeed one of theirs, one of David’s to be precise. Which explained what he was doing there, with David.

Eve recognised the name too, and held her head a little higher. ‘But, of course – heck, the author photo just doesn’t do you justice.’

Turning to David, she said, ‘We’ve talked before about photos and authors.’

David flinched.

Eve continued. ‘We’re all delighted to have you on board. You know, I read those sample chapters of your novel and loved them.
Loved
them.’ Hilary had briefed Eve on the contents of the five sample chapters that had been provided. ‘David tells me the rest is just as good and of course I trust
his judgement completely. He really does have an ear for fresh young voices.’

She put her arm around an increasingly uncomfortable David and gave him a squeeze, before returning to the author. Chris’s lean, boyish face, slogan t-shirt and badly ironed cargo pants made him seem no more than twenty-eight. He was in fact on the side of forty at which many people are inclined to assess their progress, and find it wanting.

‘David’s great,’ he said quietly. ‘I consider myself p-p-privileged to be able to work with him.’

David blushed, shuffled a bit, then offered to get them all more to drink.

‘Yeah, you do that.’ Eve thrust David into the throng. ‘So, Chris, this book of yours,’ she lowered her voice, ‘is it autobiographical?’

Her voice wasn’t quite so low that Zoë and Jess couldn’t hear it.

‘Zed, hon,’ said Jess. ‘I’ve read his book. Time to exit stage left right now and find a drink ourselves.’

‘Not so fast. What’s it about?’

‘Oh, you know, this and that. Sex, mostly.’

‘Well, why the fuck would we want to move now? Are you crazy? This could be a hoot.’

‘Or just excruciatingly embarrassing – for all of us.’ Jess was feeling squeamish already.

‘Come on, I want to see how he deals with her – don’t you?’

‘In a way, but to be honest I’m more interested to see how she deals with him. It would be useful to know what she’s like outside the office. I know a bit, but this …’

‘That’s more like it.’

‘N-n-no, it’s not,’ Chris stammered.

‘I’m not sure that he’s going to do so well.’ Jess kept her voice down.

‘Oh, I think he’ll bounce back. Indie-boy-band appeal plus authorship of a book on sex? Of course he can handle her.’

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Eve continued. ‘It’s just that I know how common it is for authors to draw on their own experiences, particularly in their early writin’.’ As she said this, she touched his arm gently.

Ugh, Jess and Zoë thought simultaneously.

Chris made an apparently casual sidelong glance in Zoë’s direction. ‘I’ve heard that, but if I’d wanted to use my own experiences I’d have written a m-m-memoir. There’s a lot m-m-more money in it, especially if it’s graphic and all about how b-b-bloody awful things were. Why are people so keen to read about other people’s m-m-misery? Does it give them a vicarious thrill? Or is it “there but for the grace of God”, et cetera? Or do they just like triumph over adversity? Whatever, my book is pure fiction: m-m-made up, imagined.’ He smiled, the kind of heart-melting smile few straight women could resist.

Zoë elbowed Jess. ‘See? He’s good.’

‘What? No, he’s not, he’s naïve. That’s just going to encourage her.’

‘But where do you get your ideas from?’ Eve didn’t wait for Chris to answer. ‘You know, the reason I got into this business is that I’m fascinated by the creative process and creative people. They’re what it’s all about. But it’s not just writers I admire: it’s all artists. I collect contemp’ry art, you know – there’s such lively work here.’ She moved her chest in closer. ‘I find creativity so invigoratin’, so inspirin’, so challengin’, so … stimulatin’.’

Jess rolled her eyes.

Eve continued, unaware of the discomfort she was causing. ‘I really pity people who can’t appreciate it – life must be so dull.’ She giggled in a way that was meant to sound coquettish rather than simpering.

Zoë and Jess looked at each other.

Chris didn’t seem to know where to look. There was no mistaking it, Eve was hitting on him. His publisher, or rather his publisher’s boss, was hitting on him. His eyes darted about the room in the desperate hope of seeing David. David, who was perennially dowdy, no matter how much he spent on clothes, shoes and glasses. David with an armful of drinks and an expression that said, Don’t worry, I wasn’t really going to leave you.

But there was no David, as David, while dowdy, wasn’t silly, and was hiding in the men’s bathrooms, the one place Eve wouldn’t find him.

Jess and Zoë were the only ones close enough for Chris to appeal to, but they weren’t silly either, so they were walking away, or more specifically Jess had grasped Zoë’s arm and was dragging her away.

‘I’m beginning to think I had book launches all wrong. I mean, this has been very entertaining and there’s free vodka. Hell, another drink and I might even buy the book. What’s it called again? And remind me, what’s it about? Airport thriller, murder mystery, chicklit, dicklit, chooklit, aga-saga or a genre-defying-work-of-eye-popping-brilliance?’ Zoë asked smugly. She liked to prove that occasionally she did listen to what Jess said.

‘Actually, it’s a spy-thriller-of-eye-popping-brilliance. Eve did mention this in her speech, if you’d bothered to listen, and there are copies all over the place, and posters and bookmarks, all of which do kind of give away the gist of it …’

The answer to this was a flick of the mane. Zoë had a mane – black, glossy, long, thick – and she knew how to flick it. Jess’s glasses, therefore, didn’t just provide a psychological barrier between her and the world and help with her eyesight, they also provided physical protection against Zoe’s powerful weapon.

‘Eve did not say eye-popping, I would have remembered that. Besides, I was otherwise occupied – talent-scouting, in fact. For you as well as me, so I think a bit of gratitude rather than sarcasm is in order. And it’s lucky really, because cute as he is, Cheekbones is going to be out of action for a while longer.’

‘Only you, Zoë, could come to a book launch with the aim of picking up.’

‘Only you, Jess, could ignore what’s on offer. When did you last go on a date anyway?’

It was a question Jess didn’t deign to answer. ‘Okay, so what’s on offer?’ All Jess could see were nervy colleagues, well-coiffed middle-aged women, scruffy academics, daggy bookshop staff and sleazy journalists. The bar was full of the usual stereotypical suspects, all nice enough but there was no one there to raise the pulse, except Cheekbones, who’d been captured.

‘Weeell …’ Zoë examined her voluptuous upper half in a nearby mirror, making sure that her hair was as artfully fluffed as it had been last time she’d checked. ‘There’s that waiter.’ She pointed to the waiter with a Celtic tattoo peeping out from under the sleeve of his skin-tight white t-shirt.

‘Gymbo bimbo, probably gay; either way, more you than me.’

‘Honey, where have you been? The safe money would be on metrosexual not gay. But, fine. What about him? Maybe he’s more your type …’

She nodded in the direction of a man standing alone at the bar, critically surveying the crowd and, if the supercilious arch of his well-defined left eyebrow was anything to go by, finding it wanting. ‘Actually, I take that back, I think he’s more my sort. Oh yes, he’s just my sort.’ Zoë gazed his way, not concerned that this might attract his attention. ‘Anyone who can successfully wear low-slung, snug-fitting pants like that
works for me. And I’m kind of partial to that dark, crumpled hair, pale-skinned thing – what would you call it? Vampire chic? Mind you, with that eyewear he’s also giving off a bit of an early sixties intellectual vibe. Does it a lot better than David. Maybe he’s a designer of some kind?’

‘Or he works in a clothes shop.’

‘And the problem with that would be exactly what?’

‘Nothing. Just saying: don’t judge a book.’

Almost on cue, the dark-haired mystery man noticed them, and Zoë being Zoë gave him an artificially coy smile. Jess had been through this all before. She’d be given all of five seconds to make up her mind about someone before Zoë pounced. Sadly, assuming his arrogant-clothes-horse affect was only superficial, he had appealed to Jess, but she knew better than to try to compete with her curvy silver-suited friend. Nevertheless, it was a pity.

Zoë, unaware as always of Jess’s thoughts, returned to the main topic. ‘You know, the thing I admire about Eve is —’

‘Voice down, Zed.’

‘Oh, no one’s listening.’

‘What were we just doing?’

‘Oh, right, I see, fair enough.’ She frowned, ran her hand over her hair and glanced over towards the dark-haired man again before whispering, theatrically, ‘My theory is that she rose above her destiny.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think she began life as Yvonne and she rose above the destiny such a name bestows upon a person.’ Zoë pronounced Yvonne with the stress on the Y. ‘It’s the name of a robust bridge-playing, fundraising society matron, or a tragic suburban librarian with a fondness for mauve polyester blouses, who organises the children’s activity schedule, but, as cruel fate would have it, is never able to have children of her own.’

‘Due, ironically, to her love of mauve polyester, that well-known prophylactic.’

‘Sadly.’

‘So Yvonne isn’t the name of a managing director?’

‘Well, how many industry leaders called Yvonne do you know? But wait, there’s another one.’

Irrationally expecting to see another Eve, or even an Yvonne, Jess instead found that Zoë had Phil, Papyrus’s sports publisher Phil, in her sights.

‘Do you know what else I like about the big Y?’

‘You do know that she’s not really called Yvonne, don’t you?’

‘Don’t be dull, work with me here.’

‘Okay, what else do you like about her?’

‘That she surprises me. I mean, when I came here tonight, I just didn’t know which direction she’d be heading, you know, fashion-wise. She’s so fabulously promiscuous.’

‘Who’s promiscuous?’ Phil was rarely where he was supposed to be, but could always be counted on to be where he was least wanted.

At least by Jess. How he had materialised on her side of the room so damn quickly she had no idea. ‘Phil,’ she said.

‘Jess,’ said Phil. ‘I don’t think I’ve met your gorgeous friend.’

‘Zoë, this is Phil – works with me. Phil, this is Zoë – an old friend.’

‘No, not old, not even ripe, just … right.’

Why people fell for Phil’s cringe-making lines amazed Jess, but she knew that Zoë at least would resist him. She’d told Zoë about him before.

‘So, back to your previous topic. Who’s promiscuous?’

Jess pretended to have forgotten. ‘Who was it you were talking about, Zoë? There are so many possibilities around here.’

Zoë scrutinised the surrounding crowd. ‘Yeah, it’s difficult to recall – tell you what though, I’m sure another drink would help me remember.’

‘Vodka?’ Phil asked.

Zoë nodded.

‘And one for Jess too,’ Zoë called as he turned to go.

‘Sure.’