Don't Tell Eve (29 page)

The other ones?
Hilary repeated to herself.
Jess
was JJ? The artist? As she tried to grasp the implications of all this, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

‘Overheard anything useful?’ Oliver said, loudly enough for Jess to turn around. He certainly had.

Catching Jess’s eye, Hilary bared her teeth before sliding back into the thinning crowd, passing, but not recognising, a downcast Chris.

‘Look, it’s just not worth it,’ Zoë’s PA was saying to him.

‘I know, I know, especially as she’s obviously with that p-p-publisher bloke – what’s his name?’

‘Phil?’ said David, not surprised to hear Phil was involved.

‘That’s it. I saw them earlier on, just as I was finally about to ask her out. In fact, it was when I heard her lecturing some poor girl about s-s-stalking and how deluded it was to obsess about s-s-someone who wasn’t interested in you.’

‘At least one awkward moment was avoided then.’ Zoë’s PA did a good Pollyanna impersonation.

‘She could have told me.’

‘About Phil? Why? It’s not as though you’ve been speaking to her, is it? Besides, I don’t think she knew,’ said Zoë’s PA, realising too late that this was just the kind of information Chris wouldn’t want to hear.

‘Why don’t we get out of here and find some food?’ said David to change the subject. Telling Chris their news would also change the subject, but now wasn’t the time. The man needed cheering up after all.

Unable to attend the auction, due to a prior commitment involving a monthly poker game, Eve’s art consultant also needed cheering up. As his discretionary budget did not reach six figures, and he was unable to get hold of Eve to tell her about the auction – and the dolls – there was nothing he could do. But he knew contacting Eve early wouldn’t have made any difference – there was no way he could have predicted that the dolls would go for the price they had. In fact, not being able to make that prediction would have made Eve question his judgement, so perhaps it was all for the best. If the truth be known, he was rather frightened of his client.

Eve sat on the plane, swilling champagne and reviewing her recent meetings.

To her delight the CEO had continued to be extremely enthusiastic about the idea of the new food and fashion project. She’d also had a very agreeable lunch with the company’s illustrated books publisher, in which they’d discussed the potential for an international edition. The woman had adored the idea and predicted big sales. She’d then asked about Alex, whose books she’d been publishing for several years. Eve took the opportunity to explain the situation and to blame Jess for the fact that they were being told so late. When she returned to the island, the first thing she was going to do was sort out Alex – and Jess. She wasn’t going to let a profitable author disappear from her list, not now. Alex
would
write another book.

What really worried Eve was that the CEO wasn’t nearly as impressed as she should have been by how Eve was running Papyrus, and she’d referred far too often to the radical management book that Eve had still not read. From what Eve gathered it wasn’t even a proper business book, more a bizarre blend of pop psychology, stories and aphorisms. It
was certainly not a book to which someone who was in charge of such a large, important company as MaxMedia should be paying any attention. Unfortunately, the CEO was taking the book very seriously.

In the first meeting, Eve had attempted to discuss her return. It hadn’t worked. The CEO had acknowledged her financial success and then said that she already had plans for the company. Eve didn’t learn what these were for several days, so she spent the intervening hours sulking, not returning calls, not checking emails and imagining the worst. Then the worst actually happened, or what she thought was the worst.

On Eve’s last morning the CEO explained that she was going to restructure the company: a Pacific CEO was to be appointed and the managing director of Papyrus would report to this position. While Eve was sure she was the only candidate for the new position and that when offered it she would have to accept, it was a poisoned chalice; it was a promotion that would extend her exile.

What concerned Eve was who would be chosen as the new MD. The CEO had indicated, disappointingly, that Eve would not have complete control over this decision, merely the chance to recommend someone. What Eve wanted was someone sympathetic, someone discreet, someone malleable, someone loyal: Hilary was the only person for the job. They just had to convince the CEO, and the most effective way to do this was for Hilary herself to concoct a plan – it was what she did best. In fact, as Eve had sent her a quick email from the departure lounge outlining the situation, she had no doubt that Hilary would have come up with a brilliant idea by the time the plane landed.

Which meant she should just relax.

‘Another glass, madam?’

‘Sure, why not?’

As the flight attendant poured, the plane hit some turbulence and the champagne sloshed over Eve.

‘I’m terribly sorry. Please, let me.’ The attendant made an attempt to blot the alcohol.

‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Eve snarled, then delved into her bag for a replacement outfit. Why did she have so many goddamn accidents these days? She was always ruining some piece of clothing or other.

After changing into something fresh, Eve put work out of her mind in order to enjoy the opportunity to read a selection of the latest international glossy magazines, for free. When she’d boarded she’d picked up as many as she was able to carry. As she began to flick, one caught her eye – a style magazine. In fact, the very magazine in which her house – in which she – was featured.

In a rare attempt to control herself, she turned first to the contents page and then slowly, slowly, to the article. There she was, looking stunning. She was a sexy, beautiful woman; Todd was a lucky man. As for the photographs of the house, they were wonderful – sharp, clear, light-filled and they featured the most expensive of her purchases, including
Reverse Garbage
.

As an afterthought she began skimming the article itself. It was quite long, she noticed, but she persevered.

The Empress’s New Clothes

What strikes the first-time visitor upon entering this harbourside home is the view. It’s magnificent – and expensive. But why shouldn’t it be? The house is owned by the handsomely paid managing director of the prestigious publishing company Papyrus Press, once a proud independent, now part of Max Media’s ever-expanding global empire.

Since Eve’s arrival on our quiet shores late last year, she’s made quite an impression on the local scene with her distinctive
sartorial style – a clever ironic homage to bad taste through the recent past – her enthusiastic embracing of any event where a camera might lurk, and her oft-mentioned interest in our contemporary artists. Keen to discover more about what motivates and inspires this self-made corporate playgirl, I visited her on a sparkling late winter afternoon.

When I was at last able to pull myself away from the window, I was met with a steady, penetrating gaze of undeniable power, and a charisma created solely by extreme personal confidence. Dressed in a velvet pants suit and satin body shirt, and with a blonde cloud of hair designed to make Dolly Parton’s wig-maker jealous, Eve, in person, isn’t at all what people normally consider corporate. She is, however, memorable. Her accent is Southern-lite, that much is clear, but apart from that there is very little one can discover about this woman beyond the brief biographies that appear on the official company websites. In fact, she’s someone who appears to have sprung from nowhere, fully formed, shoulder pads and all.

In her way, she’s her own work of art, carefully constructed to make a statement. But just what is this statement? If I were to read it through the interior of her home, the words would be: ‘Look at me.’ Not ‘Love me,’ not ‘Copy me,’ not ‘Cherish me,’ but ‘Look at me.’ The enormous, hyper-real photographs of her dominating the room say it all.

The piece continued in the same vein, questioning Eve’s taste, her motives, her background. By the time the plane landed hours later, Oliver had moved to the top of Eve’s hit list.

While waiting for her luggage in the terminal, she checked her messages. There were several urgent ones from Hilary and another from her art consultant. All were from the last few days, and all could wait a bit longer. She did listen to the one from Todd which, instead of telling her he was on his way,
informed her that he couldn’t collect her, but he looked forward to seeing her at home. Reluctantly, after leaving the customs area with bags in hand, Eve joined the taxi queue, along with the ordinary people she’d successfully avoided during the flight.

Half an hour later she was finally on her own doorstep breathing a sigh of relief, which quickly progressed into a yawn. She needed some sleep. As she scratched around in her bag in search of her key, she wondered where Todd was, exactly. It was unlike him not to meet her in person.

Inside the house, Todd was in the final stages of assembling the tableau, which sat on a new hall table bought especially for the dolls. They had only just arrived and he’d wanted them installed before Eve came home, hence his decision not to meet her.

When Eve opened the front door he automatically sprang back. ‘Darling, you’re home.’

‘Yes – and no thanks to you. Why weren’t you at the airport? And what’s that smell? Don’t tell me you’ve been drinkin’? Is that the reason you didn’t collect me?’

Todd ignored all but the first question. ‘I had things to do – in particular, install your …’ he thought quickly, ‘birthday present!’

Eve dropped her bags in front of
Reverse Garbage
and approached the tableau. ‘Todd, honey, this is sweet of you, but it’s a little early for my birthday and you know that
we
don’t buy the art.’

‘Just look at it before you make up your mind.’

‘I don’t think —’

‘Just look.’

‘Okay, if you insist.’ Eve leaned forwards and examined the cocktail scene. ‘You know, I’d swear that …’

In front of Eve stood, sat and lounged twelve dolls that while slightly abstract were still, unmistakably, twelve versions of herself. Each had on a different outfit, a miniature replica of one she owned.

As she was examining the tableau her mobile rang. Without thinking, she answered it. ‘Yeah?’

It was the CEO. ‘I wanted to let you know – I’ve made my decision about who will fill the new role.’

Eve was only half listening to what her boss was saying, as it had just dawned on her that she no longer had any of the outfits the dolls were dressed in – all of them had been ruined as a result of accidents. And each doll carried its own different coloured pearl-headed pin, cleverly disguised, but once identified, unmistakable. There were necklace pins, bracelet pins, pins as broaches, clasps on bags, fasteners for coats …

‘Phil also told me about the auction. Not the kind of publicity we’re after. I looked at the website myself. It’s not flattering.’

What colour there was slowly drained from Eve’s face as she grasped the significance of the CEO’s words. ‘Thank you, thank you for lettin’ me know,’ she said, and the landline began to ring in the kitchen. ‘Can I call you back?’

Todd picked up. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Who is it?’ said Eve, from the hall.

‘Hilary,’ said Todd.

‘Then pass me the phone.’

Todd handed it over, as though giving her a distasteful object. She sensed that somehow he was different.

‘There’s something you should know —’ began Hilary.

‘And you,’ interrupted Eve.

When the conversation ended Eve took a long look at the tableau then retired to her bedroom and closed the door.
From his position directly outside, Todd could hear the ping of her laptop springing to life.

At the office, Hilary placed the receiver back in its cradle. Having belatedly studied the website and read the stories properly, and now confirmed everything with Eve, she thought she understood. It was impossible, unbelievable, but the evidence was in front of her. Thinking of the alcohol, the lighter and the tableau she felt a chill creep down her spine: what had she nearly done? The dolls in the stories on the website had only been injured, none had been destroyed.

A little further down the corridor, Jess was on the phone to the dealer.

‘You’ve created quite a stir, my girl. We’ve now got several buyers for the rest of the dolls and everyone wants to know what else you’re working on. So, are you sure the owners will sell? And what are you working on?’

‘One thing at a time. The other dolls – well, you’ll have to check. They’re not mine anymore so I don’t have control of them. I can’t guarantee it, but I’m sure at least some of their owners will sell, if the price is right. What about you speak to them directly and find out?’

After promising to email him a list of names and contact details, Jess also promised to keep him informed about her new work. She said she’d consider doing an interview, but just one – and she’d choose the journalist.

‘The guy who bought it was a friend of Jack’s, you know. Not someone we’ve dealt with before at the gallery. Todd —’

‘I know. Couldn’t have gone to a more deserving home.’