Don't Tell Eve (11 page)

Unemployment didn’t suit Kate.

One of the reasons she liked working was that it kept her away from the boys, and by boys she meant all the boys: the twins and her husband. While her husband had now left, the twins were definitely still around. Worse, in fact – the twins were back.

After a fortnight of silence, during which Kate had begun to feel a little more like a real person and a little less like a photocopy of one, her mother had announced – announcing rather than speaking being her preferred method of communication – that she was going on a garden tour and would be returning her darling grandsons.

Stopping mid-stride as she approached the front door, Kate’s mother had examined her rings for a minute before deciding, evidently, that even if she didn’t tell her, Kate would find out. ‘They’ve been suspended from school again. Don’t ask what for, I’ve already discussed it with them and the matter is closed. I told the principal that you were ill and your husband was away so I was in charge. I’ve had them working in the garden, not that they knew anything about plants, which they should at their age, but don’t worry, they
do now. They’re due back at school next Monday. Anyway, see you in a few weeks, darling, and do take care of yourself. And don’t forget, a dash of lipstick makes the world a brighter place for all of us.’

The door finally closed, leaving Kate to wonder whether nine was too early in the day for wine. After a moment’s thought she decided it was. Champagne, however, was considered by many an appropriate pre-lunch beverage. But there was none in the house. It would have to be coffee.

Sobriety wasn’t such a bad idea when the boys were around – difficult, but sensible nonetheless. They’d been back an hour at this point and were behaving unnervingly well. Kate knew it wouldn’t last – it couldn’t – but she simply didn’t know what to do about them. Boarding school had been the next option when she’d had a job, and a husband. But now it was no longer financially possible, and they weren’t scholarship material. They were both good at sport, though, despite her husband’s belief that a cricket bat wasn’t an object to be taken onto a pitch to be used to swipe at balls, but a weapon that belonged next to the bed to be used to swipe at intruders. Sport, he’d insist, while pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and squinting at her, was a waste of time. It bred insensitivity and aggression, he claimed, making it sound as though he exhibited neither of these qualities.

Having just discovered that the cricket bat was in fact missing, Kate was sitting in her now habitual position at the kitchen table, waiting to hear the sound of something breaking. Instead, the phone rang and without thinking she picked it up. ‘Hello, Kate speaking.’

‘I’m glad it’s you, not your machine. I was getting so bored with that thing. It talks, but you couldn’t call it a proper conversation. It doesn’t actually listen – mind you, a lot of people don’t consider listening a prerequisite to a conversation.’

‘My mother, for one. How are you anyway, Oliver? What news from the outside world?’

‘You want to know? That can only be a good sign.’

‘I guess, and at least I’m out of bed and dressed. But the boys are back and, as much as I love them —’

‘Of course you do.’

‘As much as I love them, the idea of having them at home for a whole week during term time is … I’m getting cabin fever just thinking about it.’

‘Suspended? Again? How many times is that?’

‘Don’t ask – and don’t ask what they did, I wasn’t privy to whatever the hell it was. It’s a secret between my mother, the principal and the boys.’

‘Oh well, nothing wrong with secrets – and I may know a way to keep them occupied. How about I drop round for lunch?’

‘Sure, and if it really does keep them occupied you’ve got my eternal gratitude.’

‘No need to go overboard – I’ll bring food; see you at one.’

A couple of hours later Oliver turned up, as promised with food and entertainment – specifically, meat pies and a large box.

The boys, who slid in their socks to the door to meet him, pounced on the box immediately. What was in it? Who was it for? Was it for them? Surely it was for them? They’d been very, very good – for almost a week now.

‘You’re going to have to wait until after lunch.’

‘So it
is
for us!’ they shouted in unison, skidding back down the hallway to tell their mother.

‘Oh, Oliver, they don’t need presents – they don’t deserve presents.’

‘Oh, but we do, and we like presents.’

‘We love presents.’

‘We need presents.’

‘We haven’t had any presents for, for … when did we last have a present?’

‘I’ve forgotten, it was so long ago.’

‘It was last month, for your birthday. Now go and wash your hands,’ said Kate, turning to Oliver. ‘I mean it, they don’t need to be spoiled – entertained but not spoiled.’

‘I told you I’d thought of a way to keep them occupied – what did you expect me to do? Turn up with some piece of sporting equipment? Or clay? Paint?’

‘I can’t see you getting your hands dirty somehow.’

‘You’d be surprised. Anyway, I’m not spoiling – just diverting, which should make you feel better, which is what this is all about.’

‘Well, when you put it that way, okay – what’s in the box, then?’

After checking to make sure the boys were still out of earshot, Oliver explained to Kate what he’d brought.

‘I’m not sure about that – I mean, it’s really kind of you, but I’m not sure. Remember what happened with the chemistry set?’

Everyone in the street knew what had happened with the chemistry set. It had led to a way to tell the difference between the boys, for a start. Kate’s ex-husband, in the belief that it was educational, had given them a chemistry set the previous Christmas. It was educational – they all learned what could go wrong when two small boys tried to make their own fireworks. One of the twins had lost part of his left index finger. It could have been much worse, but the incident had shown exactly what damage they had the potential to inflict, given the right tools. Kate also knew what they could do when they had no tools. As did Oliver, and he pointed this out.

‘Okay, they can have it – and I know you’re right, I’m way too jumpy and it’s getting worse. It’s not having anything else to concentrate on except the boys and money, or the lack thereof. But you don’t want to know about that.’

Before Oliver could answer, the boys tumbled back into the room, comparatively clean and ravenous. After lunch, they were allowed to open the box, which they did quickly and expertly, ripping off the wrapping paper and throwing it to the floor.

‘It’s a magic set.’

‘Wow, this is great.’

‘What do you say, boys?’ said Kate.

‘Thank you, Oliver,’ said the twins, in unison.

‘That’s quite alright. Now, do you want a demonstration?’

Kate was surprised by this. Somehow, his appearance made it easy to misjudge Oliver: he was far too attractive to be either kind or interesting, although she knew he was both. As he juggled, made balls disappear then reappear out of the boys’ ears, made a rope knot, unknot, change length and then disappear as well, she was just as entranced as the boys.

When the show was over, the twins rushed out of the room to attempt to emulate the tricks themselves.

‘I would have thought you were too cool for um … magic,’ Kate said afterwards, thinking at the same time that he was also too cool for her.

‘Too cool? Why can’t a person be able to do a few magic tricks and be cool as well?

‘Um, I guess I associate magic with children, circuses and blokes in black capes throwing swords at simpering female assistants dressed in spangly knickers.’

‘None of which you consider cool?’

Kate thought about it for less than half a second. ‘No, except for the spangly knickers and the capes.’

Oliver ignored the last comment. ‘Did you ever consider magic cool?’

‘Well, when I was a child myself, obviously.’

‘Ah, so the definition changes according to how old you are – you’re saying it’s a relative concept?’

‘Yeah, I guess, but where are you going with this?’

‘Here’s the thing: if it changes according to how old, or who you are, where you are, when you’re there – these factors all make a difference, they all relate to how you perceive things. And what do you think magic is about?’

‘I don’t know. Tricking people?’

‘It’s about perception.’

‘Oh.’

‘And deception, of course.’

[site name donttell]/thedolls/exhibit-g

While the girl slept, dreaming of a man with ever-changing facial hair, her small dog lay awake, staring at her shelf of dolls.

A new arrival had toppled over and its feet hung over the edge; dangling, taunting him, teasing him, tempting him. It was inevitable that he’d give in. In the words of his long-haired, long-dead literary hero, this little dog knew he could resist anything but temptation. So he pattered carefully over the slippery apricot bedspread and reached up.

He had it in his teeth. All he needed to do was give it a slight tug. Just so. The doll was his. As it tumbled down the girl stirred but didn’t wake, and the dog was able to drag its prey safely to the ground.

Just as he’d imagined, it was soft and chewy, but sadly it didn’t prove robust. After only a few minutes of fun, the little dog abandoned the doll, leaving it on the kitchen floor, the soft layers of its beautifully made outfit ruined.

The interior of Zoë’s house wasn’t so much minimalist as resolutely mid-century modernist, with a touch of twenty-first century Zen.

All but her bedroom.

Central to the dusty rose-coloured room, though not in the centre, was her bed: vast, cloud-like and impossible to say no to. Surrounded by books, clothes, flowers, candles and muslin curtains, she liked to think of it as an island of soothing femininity. It was here Zoë liked to entertain.

Ghastly and entirely emasculating was Oliver’s take on the room as he lay naked in the twilight, letting Zoë sketch him. He wondered, lazily, if she sketched all her conquests. It was certainly better than having your picture taken.

Oliver had first seen Zoë in the flesh a few weeks earlier at a Russian bar he’d been writing about and had been struck by her confidence. All the other striking women he knew – and Zoë was striking, if in an unconventional way – were an exhausting mixture of vanity and insecurity, a combination
Oliver found difficult in the long term; in the short term it didn’t pose a problem. Zoë wasn’t like that – she believed in herself. Not that he planned to fall for Zoë. For a start, she seemed alarmingly fecund, with hips made for popping out a football team, and then there was the openness that accompanied the confidence. What he wanted was someone who held back – someone more like him. He was aware that this was a little narcissistic, but he didn’t care.

What he did care about was escaping, and his most pressing problem was how to let Zoë down gently. This was always the part he hated. The regularity with which he did it didn’t make it any easier – or perhaps it did, he thought, as he was so accustomed to ejecting women from his life that it was probably easier to do that than to hold onto them. It was an idea he wasn’t interested in examining too closely. After all, he was busy. There were always hotels to assess, nightclubs to weigh up, restaurants to review, and this was the way he preferred it. A man didn’t want to have to deal with relationships. He glanced at Zoë again, just to make sure. Nope, she really wasn’t for him.

From the instant she saw him Zoë had wanted Oliver. The thick wavy black hair, beginning to grey at the temples, the slight creases around the eyes, the nonchalance, the slick, understated dress sense: in her mind it all added up to a kind of smudged perfection, really the only kind worth acquiring, as real perfection now had the artificial air of a spray-on tan or a luxury brand bag bought for $10 on a street corner.

When he’d turned up to interview her for the ‘Designing Women’ feature, she’d recognised his face immediately, but it had taken a little while to remember from where, exactly. And she hadn’t planned to lure him upstairs, but in the end, after he’d asked so many sensitive and astute questions, it had seemed inevitable – rude – not to at least suggest continuing the conversation off the record and in the bedroom. Like most, he’d put up only a cursory show of resistance.

Pity it’s a no-go, she thought, while shading in his torso with her pencil. He had charm, wit, beauty – it wasn’t as though he was a bad prospect, but he wasn’t for her. He was too, too – was the word suave? She thought it was. Her taste was less classic James Bond and more Clint Eastwood in his early gun-slinging days – grit and swagger definitely won out over polish and manners.

Best to get it over with then, she said to herself before saying to Oliver, ‘I know someone who’d be perfect for you.’

Oliver pulled a sheet over his lower half and tried to hide his amusement. He couldn’t have done it better himself. However, in case it was a trap of some catty sort, he responded with the noncommittal, all purpose, eternally useful, ‘Mmm?’

‘A friend of mine – my best friend, you could say. She’s in publishing, does lifestyle books.’

Oliver didn’t immediately ask for this best friend’s phone number. In the first place, it would have seemed insensitive; in the second, he was without pen or paper; and besides, he didn’t want to be set up with Zoë’s best friend. Especially if she was like Zoë, and there was a strong possibility that this was the case. ‘Lifestyle – that’s a very broad term. Do you mean high-concept design or fad diets?’

‘Do I detect a hint of derision?’

‘Do I detect a hint of evasion?’

‘She does both.’

‘Derision and evasion, she might well be for me then.’

Zoë ignored his facetious tone. ‘Actually, she mostly does books that sell in bucket-loads these days, and they’re pretty much always food-rather than art-related. She’s not big on diets either – she likes food.’

Ah, fat then, was Oliver’s instinctive response, his politically correct conscience immediately adding the established sit-com rejoinder of not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that. ‘Right, so why else would she be perfect?’

Zoë thought about it. Somehow, ‘she just would’ didn’t have a convincing ring to it, particularly as Oliver evidently was not taking her seriously. Saying Jess was pretty probably won’t help either; Oliver was clearly the type of man who was able to find pretty all by himself.

But she did believe he’d be ideal for Jess, to get her back in the saddle, which was an undeniable necessity. There was the fact that Jess didn’t like Zoë’s leftovers to overcome, but as no one knew about this afternoon, that was surmountable. What she couldn’t work out was how to make Jess sound irresistible to someone like Oliver. ‘Um, well, for a start, her background isn’t like mine at all. I mean, my parents were ridiculously strict, unbelievably so …’ For the next ten minutes Zoë talked about the difficulties of dating during her teenage years until she remembered that the conversation was supposed to be about Jess. ‘Jess, on the other hand, had a mother who made pot cakes for birthdays and once sculptured their letterbox into the shape of a giant penis …’

Oliver smiled but it was an indulgent smile, nothing more.

Her plan wasn’t working and Zoë mentally kicked herself. Of course he wasn’t the type of man to go after a hippy chick, he was the type of man to — She stopped. In fact, she had no idea what type of man he was. All she had to go on was his appearance. This meant taking a risk, and Zoë knew that if Jess found out about this risk, she’d be in serious trouble. This knowledge didn’t stop her though, as she didn’t see why Jess should find out. Oliver
looked
trustworthy, after all. ‘I mean, don’t get the wrong idea, she’s not a hippy chick – far from it – but she is, well, she is working on a project that might interest you. Especially in light of your current series, and the fact that her boss is going to be one of your subjects. You can’t tell her that I told you though.’

When Zoë had finished, Oliver asked if Jess had done anything like it before. Zoë said no, then corrected herself. ‘Well, she did once tell me a spooky story about running over a doll as a kid and there being an accident the day afterwards, and I did
wonder
—’

‘I meant artistically.’

‘Oh, right, no, not that I know of. I mean, we studied together and stuff but she hasn’t done anything since then. But you know what? There is this artist who does work that sort of reminds me of Jess’s project. I mean, not exactly, but there’s something about it – unsettling …’

Oliver, finally, asked for Jess’s number.