Don't Tell Eve (21 page)

Standing on a chair in the kitchen and surveying the top of her refrigerator, Kate spotted the pile of unopened envelopes. Taking a deep breath, then coughing after inhaling a lungful of dust, she cautiously made her approach. It was time to attempt to regain control, and to do so she had to know how bad things really were.

Final reminders and their predecessors in hand, she stepped down.

Before she opened this mail, she would need a little strength. Rejecting the initial idea of alcohol, and the following one of caffeine, she chose her new crutch. The doll. Since its arrival, she’d found its presence oddly comforting. What it said was that someone else knew, someone cared and someone was prepared to act. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know who, or why they’d chosen this unusual way to help.

‘Oh my God, stop that, stop that NOW.’

Kate was furious; the boys perplexed.

‘But she’s the perfect size for the box,’ said one.

‘And we don’t have any dolls of our own,’ said the other, with the missing half finger, hoping that playing the deprived child would deflect his mother’s anger.

‘Of course you don’t have any dolls of your own – you’d do this to them,’ said Kate, grabbing the figure from its coffin-like resting place.

‘But Muuuuum …’

‘Don’t “but Mum” me.’

‘We have to practise our magic.’

Silently cursing Oliver and his damn magic set, Kate closed her eyes and counted to ten, intoning,
they weren’t to know, they weren’t to know, they weren’t to know.

‘Mum? Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine – you’ve gone a funny colour and your hands are shaking.’

‘Just go to your room and I’ll be in shortly.’

The twins shrugged their shoulders and picked up the rest of their equipment from the floor.

‘Please leave that knife with me.’

After handing it over, the boys slunk out.

Thankfully, the doll had only a few cuts to the clothes. Kate put it back in its box, wondering if it was like this for everyone. Were everyone’s children like this? Or had she just committed an unspeakably dire offence in a past life? She didn’t have the energy for an ‘other people’s things’ lecture, or even a ‘sharp objects’ lecture. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway, they’d still do what they wanted.

She wanted to lie down and cry, but instead she sat on the floor with the open box. As she stared at the doll, an idea came to her. There was one way she could take control of her situation.

She let the boys off with a serious-voiced general ‘watch yourselves’ type warning and took herself to the front room, still the only tidy room in the house, opened her desk
and switched on her laptop. An hour later, when the twins ventured down in search of food, she was still typing.

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

It was a long time since they’d seen her tip-tapping at the keyboard, and the ‘Mummy’, rather than ‘Mum’, suggested they were trying to be conciliatory.

‘I’m writing a story.’

‘A story? What about?’

‘Is it about us?’

Kate nodded. It was about them. More specifically, it was about how she’d like them to be. Phantom perfect twins that looked like these two, and sounded like these two, but used their powers for good, not evil. ‘Sort of.’

They tried to look at the screen.

‘Can we see it?

‘Can you read it to us?’

‘Now?’

‘No, not now,’ said Kate. ‘This evening when you go to bed – if you’re both good, I’ll read it to you then.’

‘We’ll be good,’ said one.

‘We’ll try to be good,’ said the other, the one with the partially missing finger. He was the more realistic of the pair.

Later that night, after Kate had tucked in the boys, for the first time since they had learned to read and thus decided that they didn’t need either of their parents to do it for them, she sat down on the lower bunk and began her story. It was about a pair of blond twins with a magic kit who solved mysteries. They pretended to be wicked, because it was a good cover, but really they weren’t. They were actually very good, and very clever, and they were always very nice to their mother, as long as no one was looking.

Writing the story was the perfect distraction for Kate who, in addition to worrying about the boys and money, was still lamenting her fling with Oliver. The more she tried to stop thinking about it, the more thoughts of it ricocheted around inside her head.

Like Kate, Chris couldn’t stop thinking about sex. But, unlike Kate, he didn’t regret what had happened. He only wished he had been more successful the first time, rather than during the second, farewell performance. He knew Zoë was the ideal woman – she just needed convincing that he was the ideal man; he wasn’t put off by knowing that he’d never convince himself of this. Instead he had concocted a plan.

What dictated his approach was Zoë’s bedroom; it was the room of a romantic. If he’d paid attention to the rest of her house he might have acted in a different way – and it didn’t help that Zoë had said how impressed her PA had been when David had quoted poetry to her.

It was this same PA who opened the first parcel when it arrived at Zoë’s studio two days after her party.

‘This is kinda groovy – what do you think it’s promoting?’ the PA asked, turning it over.

Absorbed on her computer, Zoë didn’t respond. Besides, her PA talked constantly and most of it didn’t require anything more significant than a nod, a ‘really’ or an ‘mmm’.

Ignoring Zoë’s silence as usual, her PA opened the small oblong silver box and found inside a ribbon encircling a parchment scroll. ‘Huh. Maybe it’s an invitation? That’s it, it’s bound to be – some splashy corporate do, probably.’ After scanning the neat if extravagant handwriting on the scroll, Zoë’s PA said, ‘I think you should hear this.’ She then proceeded to read aloud what was written, interrupting herself occasionally to giggle. When she finished she said to Zoë, ‘Well, it’s either a cryptic publicity stunt or – I hate to say it – a really crappy love poem. My guess is the latter – anything you want to tell me about your recent nocturnal activities, Zed?’

Zoë had tuned in to the second half of the embarrassingly tender poem and agreed with her PA’s assessment. ‘No, there isn’t. Just pass me the damn thing.’

There was no doubt that the piece of writing thrown onto her table was a love poem, and there was also no doubt that it was from someone who’d seen her naked. But infuriatingly it had no signature. Zoë tried to work out who the culprit might be. Phil? The hopeful thought was dismissed as quickly as it had sprung up; it wasn’t his style. What about Oliver? She doubted it – he didn’t strike her as sentimental. Anyway, both Phil and Oliver would want her to know if they’d sent an offering of any kind. This was from someone shy, someone literary … It was from Chris, Zoë was certain of it. Poor Chris.

Once Chris had made that first step, the rest was easy – it was just a matter of following the plan. He’d court Zoë in a very traditional way: first the poem, then flowers, then
chocolate, then more flowers, then another poem. He’d marked despatch dates on last year’s calendar. Consistency was what it was about, as well as subtlety. He didn’t, for instance, want to ask her out immediately. The gifts were meant to intrigue her, amuse her, introduce her to the idea of him as a creative, sensitive guy, a man different to all the others in her life.

He knew the plan had its flaws, and after the initial anonymous poem he decided that she really did need to know it was him, precisely because there were all those others in her life and the idea of inadvertently helping someone else into her bed was horrifying. So, after the second parcel, he began to sign the accompanying cards.

He also discovered a very pleasant side effect to his growing obsession with Zoë: it crowded out his doubts about his book and his abilities, and his humiliation about the way he’d been treated by Papyrus. By Eve.

Oliver sat in a café studying the photographs of the interiors of Eve’s house. The selection in front of him could describe the style of an eclectic individual with flair and bold confidence, or that of a truly tragic fashion victim with no identity but a lot of money. It was certainly a brave person who’d mix bamboo and floral wallpaper with modern Italian, classic Scandinavian and French antique furniture, contemporary art and kitsch knick-knacks. The question was: did it work?

The answer was clear.

Despite all the colour, he felt his piece was lacking somehow. He wanted this to be the centrepiece of a series that had bite – and this was where Jess came into the picture. Zoë had implied the dolls had something to do with Eve and reminded her of the work of JJ, the reason he’d originally pursued Jess, although spotting her at the party had given him another motive.

In line with rising asking prices, the speculation about the identity of the artist simply known as JJ had intensified recently. There were a number of theories around, but so far Oliver had subscribed to none of these, preferring to wait until there was more evidence, or a revelation. Now he felt
that he was very close to getting both. If his hunch was right, it would mean a very different piece – or possibly a whole separate feature article.

He dialled Jess’s number again, trying to picture what kind of environment she worked in, where she lived. What she was wearing.

The phone rang out for a few moments and just as he’d been preparing to leave a message Jess’s gravelly, cool voice answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Jess? It’s Oliver – please-don’t-hang-up, at least not until you’ve heard what I have to say. Where’s the harm in that?’ In an attempt to relieve the uncomfortable new feeling that he assumed must be anxiety, he jiggled his knee.

At the other end of the line he heard an intake of breath, but not an ominous click.

‘Okay, you have two minutes and your time starts now.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate this, I really do.’ Oliver heard himself grovelling and took a sip of his flat white in the hope that it might calm him. ‘Well, I’ve almost finished my piece on Eve and if you don’t want to comment then don’t, it’s not really important, but …’ He wasn’t sure how to continue. ‘But I do want to know about the dolls. We both know the ones I’m talking about. I hear they’re striking, and don’t worry, I understand the need for discretion.’ It was rare that Oliver had to do the chasing, but he’d do what was necessary in this case. Instinctively, he glanced around the café to make sure no one was listening.

At the table behind him was a slim, tense woman, so still that Oliver didn’t notice her.

‘I’m not going to talk about Eve – either on or off the record – I’ve told you that. And as to the dolls, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Although I’d be interested to know who mentioned these so-called dolls to you.’ Jess regretted that last
sentence at once. If she really knew nothing, why would she ask? And wouldn’t she just say ‘what dolls?’ Her excuse for her lack of mental agility was a hangover. The other project, the Alex-replacement project, really was going ahead now. Phil had developed a promising outline with Jack and Zoë and they’d all worked on refining and expanding it until very late the night before, with the aid of way, way too much alcohol.

‘I can’t tell you my source.’

‘Okay, we can take a different approach. You don’t happen to know Phil, do you?’

‘I know a lot of people. As to a Phil, I wouldn’t say I know him, but I’ve certainly met him – quite recently, at a Winter Solstice party.’

So, thought Jess, it was Phil. ‘A Winter Solstice party?’

With that, Oliver knew he’d said too much. He should have just said party. Why did he give her details? People could use details. If he admitted he knew Zoë, it might mean that Jess opened up to him, but she’d then know it was Zoë who’d told him about the dolls and he’d promised to keep her name out of it. And if he knew about the dolls then realistically he had to have slept with Zoë – what else but pillow talk would have led to her sharing such a secret? Plus, he liked the look of Jess and if she really refused to have anything to do with Zoë’s ‘leftovers’ – as she’d put it – it would prove a significant obstacle to anything eventuating. However, there was a way around most things. ‘A friend asked me to that one Zoë held.’ He didn’t have to say the friend was Zoë herself, so there was no actual lying involved, for once.

‘Right, I was there.’

Had her tone changed? Oliver couldn’t quite tell. ‘We can keep this between us – your name doesn’t have to be involved. In fact, I imagine you wouldn’t want it mentioned.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’ve got to go. Please don’t call me again – on any number.’

After putting down the receiver Jess stared at the phone. He was threatening her. His tone may have said one thing but his words were clear. What she couldn’t understand was why Phil had talked to a journalist instead of saying something at work. What was the point?

In the café Oliver ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, to the waitresses’ communal joy. He could understand why Jess didn’t want to speak to him, so, short of making a specific threat, which would put her offside completely, there wasn’t much else he could do. The answer was to get around her – and she’d given him the answer herself: Phil. As Jess had asked about him specifically he must be somehow in the loop and Jess didn’t sound like she trusted him, which indicated he might well be useful. He also remembered Kate’s comments about a colleague called Phil. How many Phils could there be in one company?

Rifling through his wallet, Oliver found Phil’s business card and rang his number.

‘Phil.’

Always on the lookout for an excuse to leave the office, Phil agreed to meet Oliver in person. So Oliver, now feeling as though he was making progress, ordered another coffee and settled down to read the paper before Kate arrived.

At the table behind him, Hilary ordered another skinny double decaff latte and allowed herself a twitch of the rarely exercised muscles surrounding her mouth. The week so far had been difficult as Eve had been very unhappy at having not been advised of the apparent value of the management book, so Hilary had given herself a little treat at a new café, close to the office. And she’d been right to do so because the day was starting uncommonly well.

Although not for Kate, who’d agreed to meet Oliver because he’d insisted they had to talk. She’d been reluctant – as far as she was concerned there was nothing more to say. They’d slept together and she’d been able to add embarrassment to her list of woes. Why did Oliver think she’d want to talk about it? A woman could only take so much.

As the boys were known to read Kate’s emails and would certainly listen to any phone messages, Oliver’s intention had been to tell her not to be embarrassed, that he’d had fun and that it wasn’t her fault it wasn’t destined to go anywhere. Kate knew, or he’d assumed she knew because they’d talked about it before they’d hopped into bed and things had become strained, that Oliver didn’t do relationships. But, like so many women, she seemed to have developed a form of post-coital irrational optimism relating to where sex might lead.

After she’d sat down, Kate’s thoughts came out jumbled and mumbled – if only she’d had a one-night stand before, that might have helped, or if it hadn’t been him, or if life wasn’t the way it was, or if, or if. When she’d finished subjecting Oliver to her stream-of-consciousness reasoning, her hands became strangely fascinating – first her palms, then her fingernails. Next she began glancing around the café, in a way that she hoped seemed casual and relaxed. Her aim was to avoid Oliver’s eyes, the sympathetic gaze that was bound to say, ‘You’re a crazy lunatic’, as well as ‘I feel very sorry for you’, which would make her feel ill, not just desperate, with desire. That was the tragedy of it all and the one thing she didn’t tell him: the encounter had led to her accidently rediscovering her sex drive, only to find she had nowhere to take it.

But if there was one thing that could dampen it, she found it sitting on the table behind them. ‘Oh my.’ She quickly looked back at Oliver.

‘What?’ He was very glad of the change in Kate’s tone. As she’d been speaking, he’d been trying to work out the
best way to calm her down – and to convince her that he didn’t think she was mad, without saying that, as it was a word best not used around women in this kind of situation, he’d discovered.

‘Don’t turn around,’ Kate whispered.

Immediately Oliver turned around, but the only person he could see was absorbed in her newspaper.

Kate shook her head. ‘I said —’

‘I know. Who is she, anyway? I assume it was her you were asking me not to look at?’

‘It was – and that’s Hilary.’

‘Who’s Hilary when she’s at home?’

‘Excellent question. At work she’s Eve’s sidekick; the other person in the room when —’

‘When what?’

Kate focused on the table.

‘When what?’

‘I can’t tell you, not here.’

‘Why not here?’ said Oliver, intrigued by her sudden reticence.

‘I promised.’

‘Promised what? To whom?’

‘That, I, that —’ Kate stumbled.

‘It’s not my place, I know, but you should tell me – or someone – as it’s obviously worrying you. Better out than in, and all that kind of rubbish.’

Kate leaned over to Oliver and whispered, ‘Okay, I will tell you soon, and you’re right, it has been worrying me.’ While trying to ignore his distinctive freshly laundered smell, she told herself she was an idiot, idiot, idiot, and asked herself why she’d slept with him, why —

Her internal criticism stopped immediately upon sensing a looming presence.

‘Hello, Kate, I hope you’re well?’ Hilary nodded to Oliver, and was gone.