Don't Tell Eve (7 page)

It was five in the afternoon and Kate was sitting at her kitchen table. She’d been there for several hours, pulling at a button that was about to come loose from her pyjama top and studying a patch of peeling paint above the stove. It occurred to her that the patch resembled the Virgin Mary and her heart pounded as she pictured charging people to visit and pray. There’d be merchandising, she could sell mugs, tea-towels, t-shirts, postcards. By the time she’d reached postcards though, Mary had vanished and Tasmania had taken her place. She didn’t think she could charge people to see Tasmania, pleasant as it was. Shutting her eyes, she reflected that such thoughts were what Eve and Hilary had driven her to.

For the first time since it happened, she allowed herself to remember that final meeting with the two of them, the meeting she had lied to everyone about, having been too intimidated, and too ashamed, to tell them the truth. She couldn’t believe those figures were right, but they’d insisted. She had no defence against their paperwork.

It was the meeting that had led directly to her sitting there unable to leave the house, shower, or even answer the phone.
Thankfully, the boys were now staying with her mother. For the first few days, when all she’d done was mope in bed, they’d decided to stay home from school and look after her. She hadn’t argued, even when the ‘looking after’ consisted of standing several metres from her and saying, in unison, ‘Are you alright?’ and, as soon as she said the obligatory ‘Yes, fine’, retreating to their room and their PlayStation until they got hungry. They’d then stampede to the kitchen, forage for cereal, burn Kate some toast and stew her a cup of tea. This had gone on until the boys ran out of milk. Only then did they ring their grandmother.

Kate’s mother had burst into the house post-tennis that afternoon, wearing an alarmingly short white skirt, enough gold jewellery to satisfy a mid-range ransom demand, and a sun visor. She’d brought food – which meant she’d been to the supermarket dressed like that – but on seeing Kate had not unpacked it. Instead, she had volunteered to take the boys home with her, and Kate too. Kate had chosen to stay where she was, but had promised not to harm herself. Her mother had snorted and told her daughter not to be so dramatic, she didn’t come from that sort of family.

When the house was silent again, Kate had dragged herself out of her bed and into the kitchen, where she now sat, ignoring the knocking at the front door. Only when it stopped did she venture out.

On the doorstep sat a silver box wrapped in an ice-blue ribbon. Threaded through the ribbon was a card on which was written her name and address.

For a week after the dismissal there’d been presents. She’d received flowers, chocolates and, from Papyrus, a department store gift voucher, so the arrival of this box wasn’t unexpected and she wasn’t particularly curious about its contents. But after taking it inside, as she wasn’t busy and as it didn’t look like a bill, she opened it.

Inside was a parcel, also carefully wrapped, this time in white tissue paper. There was no card, no explanation.

She opened the next layer and there it was. What Kate found was not an ordinary doll. It wasn’t made of moulded plastic, fabric or even porcelain. It was not dressed in quaint old-fashioned clothes with pinker than pink cheeks, nor was it a trendy urban fantasy, all hair, pointy toes and slink. It wasn’t, in fact, a store-bought doll.

She examined the intricate work. It seemed that someone had made it, by hand, all of it – the face, hands, clothes and the shoes. The shoes. The doll was wearing a pair of sky-blue suede shoes. She was flummoxed. Why on earth would someone send her something like this? It didn’t feel like a prank, as it was too carefully constructed. It was homemade but not amateur. It was instead bespoke, handmade. It was more like a work of contemporary art than traditional craft. But that didn’t explain what it and its tiny blue handbag were doing in her kitchen. Nor did the note that accompanied it.

Our secret? repeated Kate to herself. But who are you? And what do you mean, ‘time is right’? She studied the doll more closely, and, for the first time in what felt like years, she felt the muscles in the sides of her cheeks spontaneously contract.

Not long afterwards there was another knock at the door and this time Kate answered it without hesitation.

The tall, dark-haired man in front of her was apologetic. ‘So, you’re alright. I was getting worried – I hadn’t seen you or the boys for a while and you hadn’t said you were going away —’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, to be honest, I haven’t felt like talking or listening to anyone.’ Kate felt the tears welling up yet again. ‘First I lose my husband, then my job – what is there to say? For me or anyone else? It’s been easier to be alone.’

‘At home, in your pyjamas, all day?’

Kate had forgotten that she was wearing the same pyjamas she’d been wearing for the last four days, and that she hadn’t brushed, let alone washed, her hair once during that time. What possessed her to open the door? If that damn doll hadn’t arrived she wouldn’t have. She’d have let the doorbell ring until Oliver left, then spent a little more quality time staring at the wall, mulling over life and injustice and mysterious objects.

‘How about I make myself a cup of coffee while you have a shower and put on some fresh pyjamas? Or you could go
all-out and put on some clothes. I don’t normally find myself asking women to do that,’ he added for clarification as he proceeded down the hall towards the kitchen.

‘No, no … no, don’t.’ Kate’s brain stirred into motion. The doll was lying on the kitchen table and while she was sure it wasn’t a joke, she couldn’t bear the possibility that he might think someone was making fun of her. ‘But you win. Wait in the sitting room – trust me, you don’t want to go anywhere near the kitchen, and I don’t want you anywhere near the kitchen. I’ll be back down in a minute and we can go out.’ This was the doll’s fault. It had been in the house less than ten minutes and … She stopped, she was being silly. It was a doll.

‘Excellent idea, just what I was going to suggest. There’s a new bar I’ve been meaning to check out – we’ll head over there.’

To Kate’s relief, Oliver obediently changed direction and made his way to the sitting room.

Barely used, her sitting room was always tidy, if dusty. Along with dust, the room harboured two ceiling-high overflowing bookshelves, which Oliver automatically gravitated towards.

Involvement in other people’s lives was normally something he avoided, but Kate was perpetually on the verge of a nervous collapse, even when things were going well, so the subtraction of both husband and job meant he felt compelled to keep an eye on her. Plus, he knew what it was like, having watched his own mother struggle to bring him up on her own. And Kate had the twins, whose purpose in life so far seemed to be to induce mental instability in any adult they encountered. Oliver himself had had a narrow escape.

The first time he’d met the boys, they’d been hiding in the back of his beloved, if ancient, Figaro, stowaways in a space designed for tennis racquets and golf clubs, not children.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell them to go home, or indeed drive them home, as by that stage he was a couple of hours out of the city and the car had broken down. Beloved, Oliver knew only too well, did not necessarily equal reliable.

After what he considered were harsh words, but what the twins considered friendly remarks, Oliver had offered them a choice. If he could fix the car – and given this happened regularly he was reasonably confident he could – he wouldn’t leave them there, by the side of the road in the proverbial middle of nowhere. He could instead ring their parents, take them to his lunch – a barbecue, where there would be other children and where they would behave – and then take them home, since it turned out they lived only two doors down from him. Or he could deliver them to the nearest police station.

After a brief whispered discussion, while Oliver opened the bonnet and diagnosed the problem, the twins had agreed to plan A, and a truce.

When Kate answered the phone, she had admitted rather too candidly that she hadn’t realised the twins were missing, though she had noticed an unusual calm. She liked the sound of a few more hours of that calm. As to safety, the boys sounded impressed with Oliver’s mechanical skills, and they liked his car, so she’d felt he’d probably survive.

It was the car that had caused the problem in the first place. The boys’ father, known to Kate’s friends as ‘that cheating, lying, selfish, mean bastard’, believed that cars were made to get people from A to B and back, and that to do so they didn’t need to be anything other than functional. Oliver subscribed to the first half of this belief, the A to B and back bit, but the basic bit he disagreed with, believing that, like everything else in life, a more-than-satisfactory appearance had to be a vital part of any equation. The boys unconsciously agreed with Oliver, and on seeing his car in the driveway they’d felt it necessary to investigate. It was unlocked, so they were meant
to climb in. It was, they’d decided, fate. When told this later, neither Kate nor Oliver agreed with their analysis, but the incident had led them to become friends, so perhaps it wasn’t entirely wrong.

While congratulating himself on not having had children, especially ones like Kate’s, Oliver turned the pages of a book that had been tucked untidily onto a shelf at about shoulder height. At first he’d assumed it to be good old-fashioned pulp fiction. Given the cover featured a hatted, trench-coated guy observing a sexy, curvy dame this was a fair guess, but instead of guns, jaded PIs and noir-ish dialogue, he found it wasn’t fiction at all. It was, of all the unlikely things to find in Kate’s house, a book on management.

Now, if Oliver had been someone who read management books, or even business books, instead of prize-winning literary novels, racy biographies and design bibles, he would have noticed that the content was quite radical. This not being the case, he was simply amused that a book on a topic he considered to be as bone-chillingly dull as management should be so engaging.

Upstairs, while standing under the shower, Kate was no longer obsessing about how unfair life was. Instead, her mind was on other things – tiny sky-blue shoes, Oliver’s moss-green eyes, his hint of a Scottish accent and the question of whether or not she had just washed her hair.

Eve, who now featured on all the local PR companies’ guest lists, had been invited to the recent opening of Sand, but hadn’t been able to make it. Instead, Hilary had bossed her into going to a bookseller event where, to Eve’s disappointment, there were exactly zero glossy-magazine photographers. So this would be her first time at the bar.

Sand was officially hot, but not on a Monday night, Monday not yet being the new Thursday, even in this topsy-turvy part of the world. So, believing she wouldn’t be seen by anyone that mattered, this was the night Eve had invited the young author to meet her.

She’d asked him for 6 pm. At 6.30 she strolled in, absorbing the atmosphere. But for a few languid loungers, it was empty – perfect for what she had in mind. Moroccan daybeds, low light and dusty ochre walls gave the place the sense of intimacy she was after. That it was part of a chic boutique hotel meant she’d already been able to book a room, so when the time came, any awkwardness would be avoided.

‘Remind me, what does your old boss look like?’ asked Oliver, the most languid of the loungers.

Kate slouched opposite him, her back to the door. ‘I can’t believe you think it’s appropriate, acceptable, or even fair to bring that woman into the conversation, but, if you must know, she’s …’ Kate searched for the right word, ‘striking – Dolly Parton’s hair, a wardrobe probably stolen from the
Dynasty
set and show-stopping earrings. She’s hard to miss.’

‘Then I think she just walked in. Did I tell you I’m interviewing her for a piece I’m doing? And that – no, don’t —’

It was too late, Kate had already done it. ‘Oh God, that
is
her.’ She slid down further and covered her eyes.

‘Come on, she can’t be as bad as all that, not really. She fired you, but you know that’s not personal, it’s just an economic imperative. That’s how companies work. Getting rid of people would be part of her brief.’

‘It wasn’t just that she fired me —’ And then she remembered the non-disclosure document she’d been forced to sign.

Oliver was still mesmerised by Eve, so he didn’t notice that Kate hadn’t finished her sentence. ‘Who’s the bloke with her? The one she’s snogging?’

‘Oh, that’ll be Todd, her husband … Er, no, it’s
not
– that’s not Todd. Todd’s older. Not old, just older than that teenager. Todd’s also … What’s the word for it? Neat? I’ve only met him a couple of times but he struck me as the kind of man who irons his undies. You know – slicked-back hair, tidy, straight, everything matching. Actually, everything black. He’s a strange match for Eve, I’d have thought – but whatever the deal is, he certainly doesn’t deserve
that
,’ she spat out the word. ‘Then again, who does?’

‘No one, no one deserves a cheating-lying-two-timing partner. But, who knows, maybe they have an open relationship?’

‘We’d have heard about that. Phil – he does sport at Papyrus – would have found out and broadcast it. He loves gossip, particularly anything salacious.’

‘Fair enough, just thinking laterally,’ said Oliver, moving into a position that allowed him a better view of Eve. ‘And you’re definitely right about the clothes, though I wouldn’t say the leather skirt, bustier and thigh-high boots are
Dynasty
– it’s more like she’s auditioning for the lead in a Tina Turner tribute band,
Beyond Thunderdome
period. If I were married and meeting an illicit lover in a public place I’d tone things down.’

Kate glared at him.

‘Not that I would have an illicit lover if I were married.’

‘Hmm. You don’t know Eve, she doesn’t know the meaning of discreet,’ said Kate. ‘But wait a sec, what do you mean you’re interviewing her?’

‘Exactly that. I’m doing a series of interviews called “Designing Women”. I’m speaking to a number of successful women in creative industries who have a distinctive, recognisable style and a level of influence. I’m also doing a film-maker, theatre director, architect, and that – how to say it? – that plus-sized fashion designer with the hair.’

Kate giggled, and nervously smoothed down her naturally sleek bob.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, nothing.’

‘No need to apologise – it’s a bad habit. Lots of women do it. But what do you mean, “nothing”? It’s really annoying when people say that.’

‘They generally say it because they don’t want to admit what it is they were thinking about.’

‘What? I thought plus-sized was a sensitive, New Age way of putting it?’

‘It is, I guess, although the sensitive thing would have been not to mention it at all, but that’s not it anyway. If you must know, it was the word “doing”.’

‘Ah, “doing”, yes, very funny. For the record, I’m not “doing” anyone right now.’

‘Really?’ Kate was unable to stop her face flushing.

‘Were you drinking before we came out?’ As it was completely impossible that she was flirting with him – she was Kate, after all – Oliver thought this had to be the answer.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Nothing, just that you’ve never commented on my sex life before – but hey, I’m always happy to talk about it …’

‘No, sorry, no, I know. I just … I didn’t have lunch … and the whole Eve business has thrown me.’ She noticed that he didn’t say love life – and wondered once again why someone like him was bothering to spend time with someone like her. She liked him, but she was intimidated, even more so now that she was on her own. It hadn’t mattered when her husband was around, as she hadn’t thought about Oliver in that way – not then.

‘Well, I think you’re safe enough from Eve here, he’s definitely got all her attention. But maybe we should eat. There’s an Italian place next door and risotto should soak a bit up.’ He rolled off his daybed and helped Kate out of hers.

From the other side of the room Eve, a long-time if not particularly adept multi-tasker, watched as they walked out. While Kate was partially hidden, Oliver she was able to admire fully.

Chris, meanwhile, was wondering what he was doing there. The drink hadn’t been his choice; Eve hadn’t asked, she’d commanded. Besides, she was head of the company that was publishing his book and she liked him. So he’d told
himself there was no harm in being pleasant. However, he was going to have to convince her that groping and tongue use were out.

‘So, what do you think?’ Eve gestured towards herself.

Chris wasn’t sure what to say: was she talking about her outfit? Her cleavage?

‘G-great.’ It was a useful, all-purpose word.

Eve had taken considerable care in putting the outfit together, wanting it to send exactly the right message. ‘I knew you’d appreciate it, you’re so obviously a man of discernment.’

The man of discernment was astounded by how far from the truth she was.

‘What are you drinking?’ asked Eve.

‘Mineral water.’ It was the safest option, as Chris knew he was not just a cheap drunk but an amorous one.

‘Oh, darling, nobody but nobody drinks water in a wine bar,’ said Eve. ‘Unless —’ she looked at Chris speculatively, ‘unless they’re in recovery.’

Chris shook his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t; she’d given him the perfect excuse.

‘Then let’s get a bottle of bubbly.’

A red talon moved up and down the extensive wine list, settling on a bottle of Moët. The waiter was suitably impressed with the price of her choice.

‘Now, what say we move somewhere a little less exposed – a good idea, don’t you think?’

Without waiting for an answer she stood and they moved to a partially curtained alcove, lit only by the wavering flame from a small candle.

‘This is more like it.’ Eve casually adjusted her bustier. ‘Love the shape, but it does drift down, if you know what I mean.’

Chris was grateful of the distraction when the food platter arrived.

‘Free food, wonderful,’ said Eve, immediately jamming several olives into her mouth, then spitting out the pips. Licking her fingers, she turned back to Chris. ‘So, this is cosy, isn’t it? Have you been here before? No? I was asked to the openin’ but I couldn’t go, a work do got in the way – you just would not believe how much I do out of hours.’ Her slight pause didn’t leave Chris time to comment. ‘But it’s all part of the job, bein’ the face of the company. My predecessor, Lionel, was very much a stereotypical old-school publishin’ type, right down to the cigar he smoked. At least, I think he did – I’ve not heard any Oval Office-esque rumours suggestin’ otherwise. But anyway, he thought good books should just sell themselves. Can you believe it? I mean, really, the world has moved on. Why would you buy a book when you could get a CD or DVD that you’ll listen to again and again?’

Chris wasn’t sure if he should suggest that people might want to buy both. Deciding against it, he drank and studied Eve’s bustier, before realising that this might encourage her. He helped himself to an olive.

Eve, neither needing a response nor expecting one, continued. She’d been briefed on this subject. ‘Because,’ she took a gulp of champagne, ‘because books can change your life. Books do change people’s lives, all the time.’ She tried to think of an example but couldn’t – Hilary hadn’t actually named any of these so-called life-changing books. Personally Eve couldn’t see how a book could be life-changing – a film, maybe; a television program, yes; even a lipstick might be, if it were the right colour. But a book? She couldn’t picture it. ‘Anyway, it’s about image and brandin’ and makin’ sure people know who they should be buyin’ these life-changin’ books from. And now, instead of dull worthiness, I think you’ll agree that people associate Papyrus with glamour, with style – we’re an aspirational publisher.’

She pulled back her shoulders and leaned forwards. ‘You’re very lucky to be with us at this moment in time, very lucky.’ She stopped to sip her champagne and dip some bread into the hummus. ‘And we, my darlin’, are very lucky to have you.’

Making a non-committal noise and moving as far back as he could without lying down, Chris retrieved his glass. It would all be manageable, he told himself, if Eve continued to talk about herself.

‘But enough of me, I want to know about you,’ she said. ‘If your book isn’t, as you say, autobiographical, then I’d like to know where you get your ideas, particularly for the more – how shall I put it? – “intimate” scenes. What kind of research do you do?’

‘Like I said last week, I make it all up. N-no research.’

‘Ah, so you have an active fantasy life – I like that in a man.’

‘I like to think of it as an imagination.’ Chris said this slowly and carefully.

‘But you must want to test things out, to make sure they work?’ Eve batted her eyelashes.

No one had actually batted their eyelashes at Chris before, and somehow this action so often associated with classic movie starlet glamour didn’t transpose particularly well to real life. Chris, who was a fan of both old movies and starlets, wondered if the peculiar effect was to do with the speed at which Eve batted or the weight of her false lashes.

Eve wondered the same thing, as Chris was looking more alarmed than aroused and she was beginning to feel dizzy. She stopped.

What worried Chris about the eyelash batting wasn’t so much the action, although it was disconcerting, it was that it showed Eve wasn’t getting the message. He did admire both the breasts and boots, but he had no intention of compromising himself. He’d just spent five years with no
money, no social life and no idea whether it was all going to be worth it in the end. There was no way he was going to let anyone think he got the deal by screwing the boss.

‘If you really want to know,’ he said in desperation, ‘what I’m more interested in is using those s-s-sexual adventures as a way of exploring c-c-character.’ He took a breath. ‘It’s also a metaphor …’ After trawling through his patchy memory, for the next fifteen minutes Chris lectured Eve about Lacan, Foucault, semiotics, hermeneutics, post-structuralism and post-modernism, and how this related to his book. There’d been a girl in his literary theory course who had distracted him during most of his lectures and tutorials, and certainly all his spare time, and while she’d never spoken to him, her existence meant that none of what he said made sense.

When Eve furtively glanced down at her watch he knew he was winning; next to purple polyester, Chris had found the perfect prophylactic. He risked a slight, smug grin.