The Insiders (2 page)

It didn't take
Eve long to discover that she didn't really want to become a model. There wasn't anything exciting or challenging about what was supposed to be a glamour job, standing around posing—either baking under hot lights or freezing outdoors and there just weren't enough openings and opportunities in and around San Francisco to make it worthwhile—New York was where the big money was. But after the training, Eve did take a few assignments, mostly out of a sense of gratitude, partly to find out for herself how it really felt. And that was how she met Marti—and Mark Blair.

Marti came first. Marti Meredith was an established model who had made the six-hundred-dollar-an-hour bracket before she left the East Coast. An inch taller than Eve, who was five foot seven, Marti had a truly patrician face, with a polished-ivory complexion and large dark eyes fringed with spiky black lashes. Where Eve had curves, Marti was all angles.

They were introduced by one of the secretaries at the agency when it turned out that Eve was looking for a place to stay in the city and Marti, who had just taken on a too-large apartment, needed a roommate.

When they were first introduced and went out to look at the apartment together, Marti didn't waste time beating around the bush, either.

"There's something you'd better know before you decide to share an apartment with me, Eve. I don't dig men, except as buddies. I dig women. I'm a lesbian. Most people in our crowd know it."

There was more—and Marti said it all, flat out, while Eve just stood there looking at her. Later, she thought it was mostly the challenge that Marti had indirectly thrown at her that had led her to accept both the apartment and Marti. Now, three years later, Eve and Marti not only accepted and understood each other, they really liked each other. As Marti had pointed out early in their acquaintance, there were several advantages to roommates who dug playmates of different sexes—the main advantage being that you didn't have to worry about poaching on each other's preserves.

Now . .
. Eve opened her eyes, seeing her own reflection in the full-length mirror that was angled on the wall across from her bed. The mirror had been David's idea—he had hung it for her about four months ago. And damn David again for coming back into her mind! She felt like a child again, crying for the moon or the stars when she had everything; didn't other people always say so enviously? Why did she still want David when she had done quite well without him before?

David, David, David. Just saying his name, over and over like a litany, a cry of pain and passion. David, who had been
her
David just two months ago. Who had him now?

Eve's reflection stared back at her—smudges under her eyes. Concentrate, Eve. Assess yourself; this won't do. All your good points. Face. That's okay. Cheeks slightly hollow now (good for camera angles) from too much thought and too little nourishment. Green-tinged hazel eyes (they were really more green than hazel), copper-brown hair, cut to shoulder length. Nice breasts. Not too big, thank God, but definitely
there.
And long, slim legs, too long to cross comfortably behind the desk in the newsroom. She had begun, again, to play tennis and the exercise was good for her. Mental and physical discipline, that's what she needed!

Why can't I turn David out of my mind? I made myself stop thinking about Mark Dear Mark, why did

you have to die?

Eve thought about Mark deliberately now, about her first meeting with him. It was one way to keep David out of her mind, wasn't it? Dear, helpful Peter and his helpful tips. Self-analysis for the masses. Do-it-yourself head-shrinking. Stop it, Eve! It's Saturday, and you have nothing to do until four-thirty Monday morning when the clock goes off again. Remember Mark. He, at least, was kind.

She always noticed men who were taller than she was. And she had known he was someone important from the way everyone seemed to fawn over him the minute he walked in. Mark had
presence;
he was the kind of man one couldn't help noticing.

Eve had been modeling gowns at a charity ball, given just two weeks before the San Francisco Opera season opened. She had been feeling desperate that evening because she knew she had to get a job—a real job. She'd switched over from Berkeley to San Francisco State University, but the question remained. Scholarship or not, she had to have a part-time job so she could send money home and still have enough to live on.

"Mart, I've
got
to find something! Mr. Higgins gave me this really great letter recommending me to the editor of the
Record,
but it's been two weeks and I haven't heard—"

"Well, you will. And wipe that sick look off your face, for Christ's sake. You're not playing Violetta, remember, just modeling the gown Beverly Sills is going to wear. Go on out there, baby. You're on."

The gown, really a costume, was gorgeous. Yards and yards of skirt and a tightly fitting bodice that exposed her arms and quite a bit of cleavage. Eve walked out to the lilting waltz theme from
La Traviata,
and the first person she noticed was Mark.

Tall, with silver-gray hair. Piercing blue eyes in a tanned, ruggedly handsome face. His gray suit almost matched the hair. And she knew, without having to look after that first glance, that he was watching her.

She hadn't known until later that he had arranged to sit next to her at dinner. Or that he had been the reason the five models had been asked to stay on for dinner. Another of the things she was to learn later was that Mark Blair always got what he wanted. He wanted Eve, and she didn't even realize who Mark Blair was and what he represented until Marti clued her in, much later on that evening, when Eve had floated back to the apartment on a champagne cloud.

"Darlin' child, your future is assured. Mark
Blair!
The elusive, aloof Mr. Blair, who just happens to own— almost everything around here! Do you feel like Cinderella?" Marti was half-drunk herself, but honestly happy for Eve, who hadn't really recognized her luck yet.

Eve wasn't thinking "luck"—she'd never met anyone like Mark Blair before, and she'd been more impressed by the man himself than the aura of power that clung to him. He hadn't been distant with her, and he was both a fascinating companion and a tender and undemanding lover.

It was not until afterward that Eve realized just how much Mark had done for her. He'd taken over. She'd got the job working as a feature writer for the
Record,
one of the newspapers Mark owned, and had finished college. And it had been Mark who'd found her the job at KNXT, insisted she must take it. It was almost as if he had been preparing her for what would happen—for learning to live without him. All she had left of the two years with Mark was memories. Sudden, surprise "vacations" all over the world, an education she could never have had in college. A closet full of expensive clothes and a few pieces of expensive jewelry.

All that was left of Mark Blair was cremated one incongruously sunny morning. Eve hadn't gone to the funeral, which was attended by his grown-up children. His bedridden wife, who had been "dying" for the past ten years of some mysterious illness, hadn't attended, either. Mark had died of a heart attack, playing tennis.

Two years. Eve hadn't cried over Mark since he'd died, but now the tears came slipping far too easily down her face. Was she crying for Mark and the love and safety and security he'd given her, or for David? Or were they tears of self-pity, for Eve Mason who was young and beautiful and bright, and had everything— and nothing?

"Peter pet, I
tried everything—Yoga, stream of consciousness, reminiscing over past mistakes—I can t exorcise him."

Why, Eve wondered, did she tend to talk like Peter whenever she was with him?

She looked at him expectantly. Waiting for the rabbit to be pulled out of the hat; waiting for him to snap his fingers and tell her it was okay to wake up now—the breakup with David had been nothing but a nightmare.

They lingered over Saturday night dinner at Peter's favorite restaurant, one of those "in" places where everything was lousy but the food.

Peter sighed theatrically, shaking his head at her, but underneath the table Eve could feel his hand searching for her knee, moving upward to rest on her thigh. Peter liked touching, especially in public—and most of the time she let him because it gave her a strange, exciting feeling.

"I told you, Eve darling—I charge for analyzing you, but I screw you for free. Now, which is it going to be?"

"Stop giving me ideas, Peter—maybe I should start charging you. Wouldn't you like to use me as a case history?
I
'll talk into your little tape recorder in my best little-girl voice and use all the dirtiest words I know— it should make a best-seller."

He leaned over the table, pretending to look into her eyes, but she had felt his hand tighten on her thigh, and now his fingers probed delicately, carefully, until she rewarded his persistence with a tiny sigh—a relaxing of her muscles.

"Clever Eve. You always say exactly the right thing, don't you? Let's skip the cafe royale and go to my place so we can fuck."

"Mm-hmm. And I get to talk afterward?"

"Fuck first, darling. Talk later."

That night, Eve made the first of what she was to call the "Peter Tapes." She rationalized that she was doing it for herself because she needed help and Peter was a psychiatrist—normally she would never have been able to afford Peter. Whatever her subconscious reasons were, she had to admit to herself that having their lovemaking taped gave her the same sexy-dirty feeling that Peter's hands groping up her skirts under restaurant tables did.

Peter didn't like her to call it screwing.

"Screw is such a mechanical word, my sweet. You're not a machine; I'm not a machine. Fucking is so much more human, more personal, don't you think?"

Peter was good in bed, very efficient, even considerate —making sure she got hers. But he wanted her to talk dirty. All the other times she had refused, why should she put herself, her voice, her moans on one of his tapes?

At least he had been honest enough to tell her about his collection of porno tapes and to ask her if she'd mind having the tape recorder running while they fucked.

"But what do you do with them, Peter? Do you play them back when you're alone? Do you play with yourself while you listen?"

"I'm the analyst, Eve," he had said reprovingly. He had explained that one day he was going to make up a kind of tape collage that included the voices of all the women he had ever fucked. "Everybody has some secret ambition, luv—that's mine." She had not been able to help laughing. In a way, she really liked Peter. He was honest, he didn't bother to play games; and because she was not one of his society patients, he didn't bother to be tactful with her.

Tonight, Eve was going to play Peter's game. Why not? Maybe he'd play the tape for David sometime; it might even make David jealous. Somehow, she knew David was still jealous, still cared what she did.

And after she had put herself on tape to Peter, he'd let her keep talking, putting herself on tape for herself. It was supposed to help her understand her own hangups better when he played it back for her the next time. Therapy, Petrie-style.

the first tape:

The damn thing is running. Peter, how do I start? What do I say? (Sigh.)

Eve, you were
very
good tonight, and I'm very sleepy. You just talk—just say anything you can think of. That tape's good for a whole hour more, and it's all yours.

Oh—shit!

No more dirty words, angel, or you'll get me aroused again. And do try to make any questions you might have rhetorical, would you, please? I'm going to take a nap.

Peter, you really are a cold fish. No—I take that back. You're not too bad, really. For a man. I can see you shrugging in the dark. Don't you like it when I say something nice about you for a change? Oops, sorry, purely a rhetorical question.

You know, this is really a strange feeling. Sitting up in bed talking to myself. At least, it seems like that. I know you're there somewhere, tape recorder, but I can't see you. I should talk to myself more often; it really is kind of fun.'

What am I going to talk about? David, naturally. That's why I'm here. You're going to have to answer some questions later, Peter, dear. Maybe when you play this back. After all, I'm here courtesy of David, aren't IP Does he do this often? Do you tell him what happens between us? Oh, damn, I wish I could have the answers right now, but there you are, pretending to be asleep.

Ml right. Back to David. I don't understand him. Do you, Peter? I suppose I never did understand David, even while I was falling in love with him. I thought I did, of course. I thought I knew everything about him—the way he thought, the way he could turn me on without even
touching
me. God! Here I was, thinking he'd turn out to be just another guy, looking for some fault, something about him I'd begin to hate. And suddenly it hit me, out of the blue.

I love David. My God, I'm really in love. That's a big moment for any woman—sort of like losing your virginity, only better—more scary, too. Isn't there a song that goes "I've never been in love before"? Well, I haven't. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever feel that way about a man after Mark, whether I'd ever find another man, one I could really trust. And then, without even realizing it, I was in love with David.

He didn't call. That's when I knew. He used to call me every day, from the first time we met. It was like—like something to look forward to each day. At first I thought it was kind of amusing— David didn't seem the romantic type at all; he seemed very prosaic, very straight. But as I got to know him, I felt as if he was opening up his real self, letting me in, and it was a very private thing— I was the first, the only woman. He made me feel that way.

Anyhow, David would call me. At least once a day. Every day. I started to look forward to his call, you know! I used to unwind while I talked to him, he's—he
was,
I mean—he seemed to understand. He even let me talk shop, tell him about my aching feet—oh, I begin to see something already. This is an aside to you, Peter; you really are clever. I guess David was my very own tape recorder, only not quite; a tape recorder can't fuck and make you feel like you're the only woman in the world—that's another little knack David had. He would
concentrate
on me; he made me feel—unique.