Eve (13 page)

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“Oh, he knows me.” She tapped ash into her empty coffee cup .”He knows what I’m like. I’m always getting into tempers. I’ve no time for anyone who hasn’t a temper . . . have you?”

“I like a peaceful life.”

She shook her head. “When Jack gets wild . . .” she threw up her hands and laughed.

I found she was quite willing to talk about her husband. In fact, she seemed anxious and pleased to have someone who would listen. By asking her a few leading questions and by letting her talk, I pieced together much of her background.

I knew by now, that she was a skilful liar, but some of the things she told me I felt must be true.

She had been married for ten years. Before her marriage I gathered she had been pretty wild. She met Jack at a party and they took one look at each other and that was enough. It must have been one of those rare violent physical clashes that left no doubt that they were meant for each other. They were married almost immediately.

At that time, she had money of her own. She did not say how much she had, but she must have been fairly well off. Jack was a mining engineer whose work took him to many distant countries — places where a woman could not go. The first four years of their married life must have been dull and lonely for a woman like Eve. She was, of course, neurotic and highly strung. She had extravagant tastes and Jack was not making big money. That did not matter at the time because she kept her independence and refused to accept any of his money. He knew she was comfortably off and the arrangement suited him. But Eve was a gambler. She admitted that both Jack and she were born gamblers. She played the races while he concentrated on poker for big stakes. Because he was an expert player he made a little more than he lost.

While he was in West Africa — this would be some six years ago — she got in with a fast set and she began to drink heavily and to plunge recklessly on horses. She had continued bad luck, but it did not stop her. Always at the back of her mind, she believed that she could recoup her losses. Then one morning, she discovered that she had worked through every nickel of her capital and was high and dry. She knew Jack would be furious with her, so she did not tell him. She was popular with men and it only needed this financial pressure to make her what she was now.

She had been living on men for the past six years. The unsuspecting Jack still thought that she had her comfortable income and she kept up the illusion.

“I suppose some day he’ll find out . . . then I don’t know what’ll happen,” she concluded with a fatalistic shrug of her shoulders.

“Why don’t you give it up?” I asked, lighting my tenth cigarette.

“I must have money . . . and besides what shall I do with myself all day? It’s lonely enough as it is.”

“Lonely? Are you lonely?”

“I have no one . . . except Marty. She goes about seven o’clock and I’m here by myself until she comes the following morning.”

“But you have friends . . . surely?”

“I’ve no one,” she repeated flatly; “and I don’t want anyone.”

“Not even now that you know me?”

She twisted round in bed so she could look at me. “I wonder just what your game is,” she said. “You’re up to something. If you’re not in love with me . . . then what is it?”

“I’ve told you. I like you. You interest me and I want to be your friend.”

“No man’s my friend,” she said.

I stubbed out my cigarette and slid my arm round her, pulling her close to me. “Don’t be so suspicious,” I said. “Everyone needs a friend some time or other. I might be able to help you.”

She relaxed against me. “How? I don’t need any help. The only trouble I might have is from the police. I have a judge who would take care of that.”

She was right of course, apart from money there was nothing I could really do for her.

“You might be ill . . .” I began, but she just laughed at me.

“I’ve never been ill and if I was no one would care. That’s a time when men always leave a woman. She’s no use to them when she’s ill.”

“You’re a hell of a cynic, aren’t you?”

“So would you be if you’d lived my life.”

I rested my face against her hair. “Do you like me, Eve?”

“You’re all right,” she returned indifferently; “and don’t fish, Clive.”

I laughed. “Where shall we lunch?”

“Anywhere . . . I don’t mind.”

“Shall we take a movie in tonight?”

“All right.”

“That’s fixed then.” I looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was after twelve. “You know I could do with a drink.”

“And I must have a bath.” She slid away from me and got out of bed. “Make the bed, Clive. That’s one thing I can never do.”

“All right,” I said, watching her fuss before the mirror.

I got up and made the bed. Then I went into the other room and telephoned the
Barbecue
Restaurant and reserved a sofa table against the wall.

Eve had come down by then.

“The water’s running,” she called. “What shall I wear?”

“Oh, a dress, I think,” I said. “Although I liked that costume last night.”

“Costumes suit me better than a dress.” She came to the door as I was going upstairs. She put her hands on her flat chest. “They suit my figure,” she added and giggled.

“All right,” I returned, “you please yourself.”

The rest of the day passed too quickly for me. I seemed to have gained her complete confidence and she talked about her experiences with men and her husband was never far from her conversation. We enjoyed ourselves. But I had a feeling that I could only get so far. There was still this invisible wall which every now and then I came up against. She would not tell me how much she earned. When I asked her if she saved money, she said, “Every Monday I go to the bank and deposit one half of what I’ve made. I never touch that.”

This came out so glibly that I did not believe her. I knew how careless and extravagant this kind of woman always is. I was willing to bet that she had not saved a nickel, although of course, I could not give her the lie.

I tried to persuade her to take out an endowment policy. “It’ll be something when you are old and when you’ll be glad of the money,” I explained.

But she wasn’t interested. I doubt if she even listened. “I can’t be bothered,” she said. “I’m saving money . . . besides what business is it of yours?”

One thing she said, pleased me. It was after we had seen Bogart’s latest picture and we were driving back to Laurel Canyon Drive. We had both been drinking heavily and she had slipped low down in the cushioned seat of the car with her head back and her eyes closed. “Marty said I’d be bored with you,” she said. “She thought I was crazy to spend a whole weekend with you. She’ll be surprised when she hears I didn’t throw you out.”

I put my hand over hers. “Would you have thrown me out?”

“I would have if you bored me.”

“So you’ve enjoyed the week-end?”

“Mmmmm . . . very much.”

Well, that was something.

We lay in the dark and talked far into the night. I do not think she had talked with such complete freedom to anyone for a long time. It was as if she had opened the gates of a dam and words came from her at first haltingly and then in an uninterrupted flow. I cannot remember everything she said. Although most of it was about Jack. Their life seemed to be made up of endless quarrels and wildly exciting reunions. From what she told me, his relations with her were based on a kind of brutal affection which appealed to her odd, complexed nature. The fact that he occasionally beat her made no difference so long as he was faithful to her. Of this, she was sure. She told me how one evening they had come home from a party and she had slipped and fallen in the street. She had turned her ankle which immediately swelled up. Jack had laughed at her and had left her sitting on the curb. He was tired and he wanted his bed. When she did finally limp home, she found him asleep and the following morning, he drove her out of bed, when she could hardly walk, to bring him coffee. She seemed to admire him the more for this kind of treatment.

This defeated me. It was so outside my normal relations with women that I could not understand it.

“Are you telling me that you don’t like considerate treatment?” I asked her.

I felt her shoulders lift. “I hate weakness, Clive. Jack’s strong. He knows what he wants and nothing will stop him.”

“Well, if you like to be treated like that . . .” I gave up.

When she talked about the men who came to see her, she did not mention names. I admired her for her discretion. At least, it meant that she would not talk about me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I REACHED my apartment around noon. As I entered the elevator the boy gave me one of those it’s-six-months-to-Christmas smiles. “Good morning, Mr. Thurston.”

“Morning,” I said and experienced the inevitable lift in my stomach as the elevator raced between floors.

“Did you see about the two guys who killed themselves last night outside Manola’s?” The elevator boy asked as I left the cage.

“No.”

“Sure thing. They got fighting over a dame and they fell off the sidewalk, bang under the wheels of a truck. One of the guys had his face stove in.”

“That should give him a new outlook,” I said and opened my apartment door.

Russell was in the lobby. “Good morning, Mr. Clive,” he said in a voice that told me he thought it was anything but a good morning.

“Hello.” I was about to go to my bedroom when I caught his eye. I stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Miss Carol’s waiting in the lounge,” he said reproachfully. His whole body, his face, his eyebrows oozed reproach.

“Miss Carol?” I stared at him. “What’s she want?” Why isn’t she at the Studio?”

“I don’t know, sir. She’s been waiting more’n a half an hour.”

I gave him my bag. “Put that in my bedroom,” I said, and walked across the lobby to the lounge.

Carol was by the window as I entered. She did not turn although she must have heard me. I admired her slim back and the cool white and red check frock she was wearing. “Hello,” I said, closing the door.

She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and swung round on her heels. She looked steadily at me and my eyes gave ground. “Aren’t you working this morning?” I went on, crossing the room and standing by her side.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Swell.” I waved to the settee. “Sit down.”

As she walked to the settee, I said, “Nothing wrong,is there?”

She sat down. “I don’t know yet.” She reached for another cigarette, fitted it in her holder and lit up.

I suddenly felt a little tired and not in the mood to be lectured. I stood over her. “Look here, Carol . . .” I began, but she held up her hand.

“It’s not going to be a “Look here . . .” kind of conversation,” she said sharply.

“I’m sorry, Carol, but I’m on edge this morning.” I didn’t want to quarrel with her. “There’s something wrong. You’d better give it to me straight.”

“I met Merle Bensinger this morning. She’s worried about you.”

“If Merle Bensinger’s been discussing my affairs with you,” I said coldly, “she’s forgetting she’s my paid agent.”

“Merle likes you, Clive. She thought we were engaged.”

I sat down slowly in an armchair away from Carol. “Even if we were married, it’s still not Merle’s business to talk about my affairs,” I said, cold fury tripping my words.

“She didn’t talk about your affairs,” Carol said quietly. “She asked me to try to persuade you to work.”

I lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the empty fireplace. “But I
am
working,” I said. “If she’s worried about her goddam commission, why doesn’t she say so?”

“All right, Clive, if that’s the way you feel about it.”

“That’s just the way I do feel about it. For God’s sake, Carol, no writer can be bullied into writing. You know that. It’s either there or it isn’t. Merle wanted me to do a cockeyed article for the
Digest.
I just didn’t feel like it. That’s why she’s sore.”

“She didn’t say anything about the
Digest
, but never mind about Merle then.” She crossed her slim ankles. “About Bernstien, Clive.”

“What about him?”

“You know he came round to my place on Saturday?”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“I did what I could. I read him parts of your play. I even persuaded him to take it away with him.”

I stared at her. “You gave him a copy of the play?” I repeated. “Where did you get the script from?”

“Oh, I got it,” she said, a little impatiently. “That doesn’t matter. I did so hope . . .” She broke off with a gesture of despair. Then she said, “If you had been there, it would have made all the difference. I’m afraid you’ve missed a great chance, Clive.”

I dragged down a lungful of smoke. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “If Bernstien was all that anxious to do “Rain Check”, he’d have done it. A guy who has to be talked into buying a story doesn’t stay hot. He cools off after making a lot of promises. Don’t tell me Imgram had to talk Gold into buying his story.”

“There’s a big difference between “Rain Check” and “The Land is Barren”,” Carol said sharply. Then as I shifted impatiently, she went on, “I’m sorry, Clive. I didn’t mean it in that way. You can’t compare . . . I mean . . .”

“All right, all right,” I said angrily. “You don’t have to handle me with kid gloves. You mean my stuff isn’t good enough to stand up by itself. It needs you and Jerry Highams and me to slop over Bernstien before he’ll even look at it.”

She bit her lip nervously, but she didn’t say anything.

“Well, that’s not the way I want to sell my stuff. When I do sell it, I’ll sell it because it’s worth selling. I won’t need to peddle it like a street salesman. So to hell with Bernstien.”

“All right, Clive, to hell with Bernstien. But, you’re not getting anywhere, are you?”

“I’m all right. Can’t you lay off worrying about me? Now, look here, Carol, let’s get this straight. When I want anyone’s help, I’ll let you know. There’re too many people taking an interest in me. It embarrasses me.” So as not to hurt her feelings, I added, “Of course, I am grateful, but, after all, it is my business, I’m getting along fine.”