Don't Tell Eve (13 page)

An unfortunate aspect of their house, at least as far as Todd was concerned, was that it faced north. In theory this was a positive, bringing sun in the winter, and therefore passive heating as well as light. But. And this was a big but. As the house was on the harbour, the glare from the water meant he had to sit at his computer as though dressed for a day at the beach – sunglasses, sunscreen, hat. The alternative, pulling down the blind, Todd considered sacrilege.

His computer was the oldest electronic appliance in the place but it was his and on the whole it worked. While a slick new machine like Alex’s would have been better, it would have meant asking for it, and he knew how his wife would react. In her world, all spending had to be justified in terms of investment, need or strategy. A new computer for Todd would not fit into any of these categories, as far as she knew. And his website design course did not count, not to Eve. It’s not as if you do anything, he could hear her whine, in that Southern twang of hers, the one that she’d never quite bothered to lose.

Despite the light, Todd loved having a room of his own, a room that Eve liked to refer to, with what she considered irony,
as his ‘study’. He spent much more time here than anywhere else, a lot more than Eve realised. With his books, his photos and his huge white board – always covered in minute, indecipherable scribbles, arrows, circles and exclamation marks – it was the one place he felt like himself; almost, but not quite, his old self. Occasionally he left the door open but Eve invariably shuddered at the untidiness and shut it. For the same reason, she never went in and had never even considered turning on his computer or reading his emails.

He was sitting in this room and had just sent an email with a large attachment when the intercom buzzed. Courier delivery, came the disembodied voice.

‘Fragile’ was written all over the box: stuck on, printed on and typed across the accompanying paperwork. The reason was immediately obvious – it was Eve’s new art adviser’s latest purchase, contemporary art, like clothes and interior design, being part of the persona of ‘memorable’ Eve.

Muttering to himself, Todd began to open the box, more a large crate really, where it stood in the front hall. Whatever it contained, he didn’t think there was space for it to be displayed properly – that is, where other people could see it – despite the size of the house. He couldn’t understand why Eve didn’t put a dimension limit on these acquisitions. No bigger than a Smart car, no smaller than … actually, as small as she liked, but within reason. Nothing carved into a rice grain or sculptured into the eye of a needle, for instance. Not that she’d choose miniature, it wouldn’t suit her agenda. For an object to make a statement it needed to be able to be seen, and not just through a microscope.

At first, the piece seemed to be made entirely of bubble wrap, layers of which Todd peeled off and peeled off and peeled off until he experienced that awful tightening of the stomach muscles that always preceded an unpleasant realisation. What if the bubble wrap was part of the piece? Was the
piece? He calmed himself quickly. That wouldn’t make sense, the crate was unbelievably heavy. It was just well wrapped. Thankfully, he’d managed to confirm this when the phone rang.

‘Has it arrived?’ asked Eve.

‘Just unwrapping it now.’

‘Fantastic, perfect timing. Nice to have a new addition to show that reporter when he comes this afternoon.’

‘Er, do you know what it is?’

‘Does it matter? It’s new, it’s pricey and it’s mine! Just get everything organised – and make sure that we’ve got the right food. Maybe some of those caramel kisses from the deli.’ Along with alcohol, Eve had developed a passion for sweets; the higher the sugar and fat content the better. She shuddered, remembering her family’s insistence on the importance of moderation and denial. She couldn’t now understand what kind of God would invent caramel kisses and then expect a person not to eat them. It wasn’t just cruel but sadistic.

‘Sure. What time do you think you’ll be here?’

There was a weariness to Todd’s voice that Eve didn’t care to notice.

‘He’s due at 3.30, so I’ll try to be home by 2.30.’

‘Okay, see you then.’

With Eve off the line, Todd was able to concentrate fully on the sculpture. He could see exactly what it was now, and he understood why the courier had used a trolley to wheel it in and had asked about the structural properties of the floor. The piece was just over half a metre high, at least that wide and was made of marble. There was no way he could move it, which meant it would have to remain sitting exactly where it was in the centre of the comparatively small front hall. At least for now, which meant that he wouldn’t have to move anything else to make way for it. Often these new arrivals involved a
day of serious juggling. On a good day fitting things in was a challenge, a jigsaw puzzle; on a bad day, he just dumped things in the garage. So far, Eve hadn’t noticed that a few key items were missing. Today, even if it had been possible to move the new arrival, there wasn’t time for a reshuffle.

As he tidied away the packaging, he walked around the work several times. There was something about it. Something definite, something solid – and it looked very real, even down to the little yellow tie. He was far from convinced that Eve would be quite so pleased with it, but who was he to judge? Art was, after all, subjective.

Just before three she stomped in, yelling into her phone. As she put her keys in the chunky resin bowl on the hall table, she automatically checked her hair, lipstick and general appearance in the mirror. It wasn’t easy, as the mirror wasn’t a practising mirror so much as a conversation piece but Eve, accustomed to admiring herself in any reflective surface, from spoons in restaurants to store windows to shiny book jackets, managed to get an impression.

Still talking, although at a lower volume, she turned and took a few steps, not noticing what looked like a large and very solid garbage bag full of bricks slouching in her way – until it was too late.

‘FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck! What the hell is this, Todd? And what the FUCK is it doin’ here? Todd? WHERE ARE YOU? Hilary,’ – into whose ear she was shouting – ‘I’ll call you back.’

Eve slumped down onto one of a pair of low African mating stools, currently used as receptors for handbags, rubbed her bruised shin and scowled. She was still there staring at the garbage bag with hatred when Todd arrived home with the shopping.

‘Oh, shit, sorry, that’s where the courier left it. It’s very heavy.’

‘And fuckin’ hard.’

‘Yes, I noticed that too. Marble is hard.’

Todd offered her his hand, which she grasped reluctantly as she stood up. As far as Eve was concerned, this was all Todd’s fault. ‘I hope you’re not planning to leave it here?’

That hadn’t been the plan, not long term, but the hostility in her voice made Todd change his mind. ‘Actually, yes. I think it’s the perfect place for it. It makes a real statement here. You don’t know if it’s on its way in or out, whether the builders have left some rubbish, or if it’s actually meant to be there. I wasn’t sure about it at first but it’s grown on me.’

Eve peered at her watch. Large and gold, there were no numbers on the face and the hands were translucent, so while it was charming, it wasn’t really a device for telling the time. ‘Well, you can’t do anything about it now anyway. I take it the house has been tidied?’

Todd chose to nod, rather than make a sarcastic remark.

‘Well then, I’ll get ready,’ said Eve as she approached their bedroom. ‘It’ll be better if you’re not here while the interview is goin’ on. Go and collect that cream pants suit from the drycleaners – I’ll be wantin’ it for later – then treat yourself to a coffee or somethin’ for an hour or two. I’ll call you when it’s done.’

After arranging the caramel kisses on a plate, Todd changed into his running gear and left the house, pausing only to pat the top of the new sculpture as if it were a well-behaved, much-loved family pet.

In the bedroom, Eve quickly regretted having despatched Todd so early – she liked another opinion to ignore, or not,
as she chose. But she didn’t want him around cramping her style so she’d have to make do alone, unless – unless she took a picture of herself and texted it to him. She was impressed at her own ingenuity.

The article was going to be important, would show how successful she had become in this antipodean ghetto, which meant what she wore was very important. On the way home she’d been to the salon, as organised by the magazine, so her make-up was done, her hair high, and her nails frightening.

It was just the clothes that were missing.

What would be the most eloquent? she wondered. What would spell success? Her walk-in wardrobe, which had originally been another bedroom, overflowed with outfits. Thanks to Todd, everything had been photographed, labelled, ironed and was in its place. Surveying the multitude of options she asked herself again: what? What would work?

She closed her eyes, pictured the woman she most admired, and made her decision. Once dressed, Eve stepped back to admire her reflection in the mirror – a green satin shirt, velvet suit, scarlet stilettos. It was very Madonna, in her Gucci phase.

Todd responded to the picture she sent with three smiley faces. In fact, Todd has always liked the satin-lined, plum-coloured velvet suit and had tried it on once or twice, just to see, while Eve had been at work. It was a little too big. He and Eve were the same height but not width, especially not now, not since Eve had discovered food and drink. It was as though she believed that her exile was like being on holiday, when the calories don’t count. Todd had so far refrained from mentioning either wearing the suit or the weight. Despite appearances, he wasn’t a masochist.

A slash more lipstick, then Eve poured herself a relaxing vodkatini and took it into her sitting room. While sipping slowly and admiring the space, she told herself it was just
another interview. Just another puff piece for yet another aspirational glossy. It was nothing to be nervous about. She’d paid a lot of money for the furniture, for the art, and for her clothes. Photographers were always taking her picture and often ordinary people stopped in the street just to marvel at her. Todd’s original advice had been right: what was important was being noticed. Good taste was for amateurs.

At half past three the buzzer beeped, causing Eve to rush back to her dressing room and simper at her reflection, just once more. Satisfied, she sauntered to the hallway intercom. ‘Who is it?’

‘Oliver from —,’ Oliver named the magazine for which he was doing the story.

‘Great, come on up.’ She liked his accent, whatever it was. There was nothing nasal about it, so it wasn’t local.

The three men in her doorway would have been at home inside an issue of
Wallpaper
*; Eve congratulated herself for banishing Todd.

The one with dark hair and a familiar face held out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Oliver.’

As she stepped aside to let him in, Eve saw Oliver’s extraordinary green eyes literally light up. Until then, she’d assumed it was just an expression.

‘Oh my God,
Reverse Garbage
. I wondered who’d bought it – and what a great place to put it.’

‘Well, it seemed like the only place really. I’m all about encouragin’ conversation, gettin’ people to think, bein’ subversive – a
little bit dangerous. You know what I mean …’ Eve giggled coquettishly, creating a moment of awkwardness.

‘Mmm. Would you get this, Ant?’ Oliver said to the photographer, whom he then introduced as Ant. Ant then introduced his assistant as his assistant. The assistant nodded, as though used to remaining nameless.

‘Okay, pics first, then the interview. That way Ant doesn’t have to hang around all afternoon.’

‘Wonderful idea,’ Eve breathed, thinking Oliver was exactly the tall, dark handsome stranger that fortune-tellers lied would litter every young girl’s future. What he was doing hiding in her little corner of hell she wasn’t sure. Nor was she sure how to get him to take those gorgeous clothes off. Eve had no qualms about seducing him at home, but it would mean getting Todd to stay out a little longer. There were some things she didn’t like to hurry. If only Todd were like other people’s husbands and went to work when it was still dark and came home too late to eat and too tired to speak. The way he used to so often, just before that damn breakdown. What sort of a man had a breakdown, anyway? she asked herself. He’d only worked with numbers, not people – Eve just didn’t see how it could have happened. He’d certainly never explained it properly. If he didn’t get his act together his days were numbered, especially now that she’d learned all she could from him. There were so many other men out there. The one standing in front of her nonchalantly exuding virility was an excellent example.

Ant-the-photographer spent the next hour ordering his young assistant around, fiddling with lighting, moving furniture and ignoring Eve.

Then, just when she thought she was going to pass out with boredom, he spoke to her. ‘I’d like you on the beanbag.’

‘The beanbag? What about the chaise?’ Eve said.

‘Too predictable, I don’t see you as predictable – trust me, the beanbag’ll work.’

Eve was not pleased: no one could appear seductive and in control while lying in a beanbag, no matter how cripplingly expensive that beanbag might have been.

‘Okay, just lie back, chill – I don’t want posing.’

Eve was evidently confused.

‘Natural’s what we’re after.’

Natural, she thought, natural? How did a person look natural in front of a camera? It was a contradiction in terms. If a person knew a camera was there, they couldn’t – and shouldn’t – look natural. Chin down, chest out, she directed her heavily mascaraed eyelashes and pout towards the photographer.

‘For a different kind of shoot that would be perfect, honey, perfect, but I’m trying to capture the real Eve.’

The real Eve? Who was she? Certainly not the mousy, insecure woman she’d once been, the one who’d been frightened of everything, especially herself. Not that Eve. Encouraged by her family, that Eve had enrolled in teachers’ college. Her parents had insisted that life was about sacrifice; that as a person – an individual – she didn’t matter. They’d brought her up to believe she’d been born to breed, not to lead. That it wasn’t about her. Always somehow uncomfortable with this idea, yet not knowing anything different, she remembered the exact moment when she’d first thought, with a clarity that surprised and invigorated her: fuck that.

She had identified her escape route the first time she’d seen Todd. He was speaking at a conference about management in education. The subject bored her, but she’d fallen for his orange cord trousers, his turquoise paisley scarf and his complete confidence. He’d been mesmerising, and having been brought up to worship, she’d easily transferred her
allegiance to him. It had taken time, but ultimately Todd hadn’t stood a chance and she knew he’d been happy at first, corrupting her, as he’d called it.

When would he realise, she asked herself now, that he hadn’t corrupted her at all: she’d been ready; he’d been there.

The real Eve was the woman standing before the camera. She’d arrived, at last.

‘I want relaxed, yet strong, I want to see that innate confidence coming through. Tell you what, try facing away from the camera, towards pretty boy Oliver over there.’

It was an easy order to obey. Mentally, Eve started to undress pretty, dark-haired Oliver, quickly forgetting where she was.

‘Much better, darling, perfect, great, great, excellent.’ Click, click, click. Multiple pictures were taken from various angles.

Before she realised it, the shoot was over.

‘Okay babe, you’ve been a trooper.’

At this point, Eve attempted to struggle to her feet, the three men watching her with bemused interest, until it occurred to Oliver that one of them should offer to help. She took his hand, her thoughts moving from how undignified she must seem to what the rest of Oliver’s body must feel like.

‘Thank you, Oliver, you’re so kind.’

‘We’ll show ourselves out,’ said Ant-the-photographer, walking towards the front door.

‘No, no, let me,’ said Eve. ‘And thanks so much. I’m sure the pictures will be fabulous, just fabulous.’

After they’d gone, she turned to Oliver. ‘Now, what can I get you? Coffee, perhaps? Tea? Or maybe somethin’ a bit stronger? Whatever you want, I’ll do it – oops – have it.’

‘Well …’ Oliver hesitated. He’d seen an Atomic on the kitchen bench but it was unlikely that Eve was the one who knew how to use the classic machine, not with those nails. Someone else in the house was the coffee snob. ‘Tea would be
great – black, thanks, just the ordinary sort – you know, with caffeine.’

‘That, honey, I can manage. You just sit down and make yourself at home. I’ll be back before you’ve even noticed I’m gone.’ With that she left.

There was a lot that could be said about the sitting room, and indeed the rest of the house, as Oliver’s notes attested:

Settling, with disappointing discomfort, onto Mae West’s lips, Oliver waited for Eve. How difficult could it be to make a cup of tea?

Harder than he’d thought, he discovered after Eve had returned with a milky, sugary drink that might have had a used teabag wafted over the top. He was also made to eat a caramel biscuit, which would have been heaven, had he liked sweet food. On finishing it, he moved from small talk to the interview proper.

‘You’ve got an excellent selection of statement pieces and contemporary classics, as well as other
objets d’art
. Tell me about all this, tell me about the first piece you bought and what got you started.’

Four giant hyper-real prints of Eve in various poses watched them from the facing wall. It was a set originally commissioned
for her office but she’d liked it so much she’d brought it home. It was the only art she’d ever bought herself – and even then it was her decorator who’d suggested it and contacted an art consultant, who’d found the printmaker. After that she’d taken on the consultant privately in order to build her own collection.

The question really applied to the first piece Todd had bought; it was the kind of seminal experience he’d once liked to talk about. She stared at Oliver, struggling to remember, before realising that he was sitting on it.

‘I have two words for you: creativity and passion. These are the words that rule my life – my public life and my private life.’ She proceeded to tell the story of Todd’s purchase of the Dalí-designed sofa. He’d had no money, an empty flat and no other furniture at the time, it had just been him and Mae – only in Eve’s version it became her and Mae. While Oliver made notes, Eve chewed a caramel kiss and experienced a brief moment of intense revelation: sugar, alcohol and sex; it was the way to make exile manageable. She knew to be careful around journalists – the Alex business had shown her their power – but this one was so handsome, the caramel kiss so delectable, and the second vodka she’d had in the kitchen so warming, that she couldn’t help trusting him. And wanting him. Or trusting him because she wanted him. She wondered if he was single, not that it mattered.

Sticking to the task at hand, and dismissing Eve’s increasingly flirtatious behaviour, Oliver asked more questions about the collection, her life, where she liked to shop, the difference between life on the island and at home and how long she planned to stay.

At the last question, she shuddered momentarily, before saying as graciously as she could, ‘Long enough. Now, you haven’t asked about Papyrus yet.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She did, and sounded convincing.

‘Now I want to know about Eve.’

‘There’s so little to say really. I studied, married, worked hard and now I’m in the privileged position of being the managing director of a prestigious, dynamic publishin’ company.’

Eve was known to be particularly evasive about her past, the pre- and early-Todd days in particular. Oliver had Googled her, but he could only find an official biography on the Papyrus and MaxMedia sites. There were references to her in media articles, and quotes in which she made the same statements, over and over. The only thing he noticed was that she’d had a serious makeover. In the oldest of the articles she was plain, the sort of person you wouldn’t notice and who doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. The person sitting in front of him was not the same woman. He’d love to know what had happened and wondered how he’d get her to tell him; bed, this time, didn’t appeal. He tried another approach. ‘So, did you grow up with art?’

Wriggling in her seat and sipping her lukewarm tea, Eve knew she was in difficult territory. Where was Todd when she needed him? Why did he always do what she said these days? The interview wasn’t going in the direction she’d hoped. It was supposed to be
Hello!
style – brief, vague, with lots of lovely shots of her looking glamorous in a home readers would envy. It was her assistant’s fault; she hadn’t briefed her properly. The girl would never make that mistake again, she’d learn that there were consequences when you placed your boss in embarrassing situations.

‘Well, ever since the day I first picked up a crayon,’ Eve tried to sound convincing, ‘I knew art was important.’ She had, in fact, only discovered that art was important when she’d started seeing Todd and met his colleagues and clients.
They’d talked about artists she’d never heard of with the kind of reverence that she’d always reserved for movie stars.

When she ran out of lies, Oliver interrupted. ‘That’s all great, really great, thank you so much. There’s tons more we could talk about, but I’ve just realised I’m going to be late for another appointment, so I really have to go.’ He stood up.

‘Oh, cancel it, honey – it’s after five, for God’s sake, quittin’ time. I for one am ready for a proper drink.’ She stood too, and placed her hand on his arm, stroking it.

‘No, really, I have to go. But thanks for giving up so much of your valuable time, I really appreciate it.’ The stroking didn’t work for Oliver, but he could see, objectively, how a lot of men – and women, he imagined – might succumb to Eve. ‘I’ll email you to check some details in a week or so. Thanks again.’ He removed her hand from his arm.