Don't Tell Eve Page 3

  It was oddly light.

  The opening process, which was delayed while the woman nipped out to buy a new packet of cigarettes, revealed a very unusual object. She recognised it, of course, and appreciated more than most people its colours: her favourite football team wore black and yellow.

  Chapter 3

  In an ideal world Jess wouldn’t have been attending yet another book launch, and she certainly wouldn’t have been taking Zoë. But this time both the book and its author were irrelevant. The evening was all about Eve. Jess needed to see her – not speak to her, but see her. She also wanted Zoë to do a bit of Eve-watching because, against her better judgement, she had involved Zoë in her current project. Internationally successful fashion designer, championship flirt, world-class gossip, in that tiny amount of time she called spare, Zoë was Jess’s closest friend.

  As soon as they walked in it was obvious that someone had made a mistake with the location in what Jess recognised as a typical Papyrus way. The decor of the bar was Russian-inspired to tie in with the Cold War theme of the book to be launched. This was good. The decoration was in the spirit of Czarist Russia, rather than the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. This was bad. The author, as everyone knew, was a fastidious kind of man who’d notice – and comment.

  His publicist, the one who had chosen the place, appeared not to have been alerted. She had a drink in one hand and was smiling at herself in one of the many gilt-edged mirrors. Her unnaturally straight teeth gave off a distracting Tinsel-town glow.

  Jess approached her. ‘Love this place. What made you choose it?’

  ‘Well, I came here one night with some guy and I really loved the ambience.’ She waved at the ruby flock wallpaper, the sumptuous velvet curtains, the faux antique gilt furniture. ‘I remembered it when we were thinking about somewhere for this do – you know, we needed somewhere Russian. But, God, when did all these people get here? I should go.’

  ‘Right.’ Jess nodded and watched as the girl pulled herself away from her reflection and wafted off, air-kissing indiscriminately as she advanced through the crowd.

  ‘Lucky he didn’t take her to SubZero, or we’d be in parkas and surrounded by ice right now. “Siberia, you know, it’s Russian …”’ Jess mimicked the publicist with alarming accuracy.

  ‘Ugh.’ Zoë shuddered. ‘Parkas. Please don’t. They make me the size of a HOUSE. No, the size of an aircraft hangar. No, bigger. What’s that palace in St Petersburg? You know, Catherine the Great’s place? She was a nympho, you know, complete nypho, seem to remember some outrageous story about a goat, no, a donkey – or was it a horse?’

  ‘Hermitage and horse and successful smear campaign.’

  Zoë wasn’t entirely unreliable, thought Jess. She could always be relied on to bring the conversation back to sex.

  In the distance Jess’s colleague Ilona, sporting her new lingerie, to the knowledge of just one person in the room, arrived with the guest of honour. He was Papyrus’s most significant author, not in terms of sales – that was still Alex – but in terms of prestige. Ilona’s carefully shaped eyebrows rose as she glanced around quickly, but presumably deciding it was far too late to do anything about the venue, she whispered into the author’s ear something sweet enough to make him leer, before steering him towards an overflowing drinks tray.

  The author was a recent acquisition of Ilona’s. The industry rumour was that his defection from Zest & Co., Papyrus’s main competitor, had resulted in their fiction publisher collapsing in a company bathroom, to be found by a work-experience student, who was pleased that her time at university had prepared her so well for life in the real world. Upon sobering up, the publisher had issued a decree stating that the author’s name was never to be spoken in her presence again. However, as the author had ten books with them, this wasn’t really workable, so it was quickly amended. He was now simply known ‘the Traitor’. It wasn’t surprising that the publisher was upset, because while not perhaps as daring as his early work, or stylistically as challenging, the author’s new work was by far his most commercial yet.

  Ilona was gambling on it being not only commercial but that rare beast, a book loved by the critics, the public and the judges who chose the prize-winners. She’d paid a lot for the Traitor.

  Eve didn’t mention this detail in what was her first launch speech, a speech she leaped into with her trademark gusto, managing to give an excellent impression of a person convinced of the book’s power, stature and longevity. In fact, the words were Hilary’s, as Eve didn’t read – not books, anyway. She was up to date with all the local glossy magazines and tabloids, however, as she liked to keep an eye on the competition – not other publishing houses but other celebrities: Eve saw herself as a celebrity, which wasn’t so far from the truth. She’d now lunged in front of enough photographers at enough events and worn enough unforgettable clothes and made enough pithy, bitchy, loud remarks to have earned a place on the country’s small social circuit. And Hilary had a clippings folder to prove it.

  As soon as Eve had finished her superlative-laden speech, she knocked back three vodka shots.

  ‘You know,’ said Zoë, watching her, ‘she really is impressive. I mean, besides that gutsy show with the voddies, just look at what she’s wearing – brave, brave, brave. I reckon she’s got a stylist hidden away. You just wouldn’t wear that unless someone told you it was a good idea, you know, image-wise.’

  Jess knew of old to be careful when talking to Zoë. ‘Well, I know she has an interior decorator and an art consultant, so a stylist is possible, but I just can’t imagine any professional suggesting that she should wear that.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe you’re right. That whole yellow base with black horizontal stripes thing she’s got going does shout giant bumble bee.’

  ‘Maybe wasp is more the look she’s going for?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Zoë squinted at Eve. It would have helped to have been wearing her glasses, but as far as she was concerned they didn’t do a girl any favours. Whatever they said in Europe, in her book frames did not equal fashion, although she did put them on to drive or watch movies.

  Jess, on the other hand, liked the layer of protection they gave. She also liked being able to see.

  ‘That would make sense, psychologically – if what you say about her is true,’ said Zoë.

  ‘Of course it’s true, why would I make it up?’

  ‘I don’t know, but then I have no idea why you do a whole lotta things. Jack, for instance. No sane woman would kick him out of bed, and yet I hear that’s what you’ve done.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Not officially. Officially, we’re still in bed until Alex recovers from his hissy fit and comes home and writes his bloody book.’

  ‘How does Jack feel about that?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve told him that if he wants to jump into bed with someone else I’m not going to stop him, he just has to be discreet.’

  ‘Sounds like it might make the bed a bit crowded.’

  ‘Very droll. But let’s focus on the reason you’re here. Can you see Eve’s feet?’

  ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were developing a foot fetish. Not that there’s anything wrong with that – hey, suck my big toe and I’m yours – but no, I can’t see them. Can’t we get a bit closer?’

  ‘Just not so close that we have to speak to her.’

  Settling into a suitable vantage point a couple of metres away from Eve, in addition to being able to study her, they found they were able to listen to her drawling insincerely to the significant author’s agent, who, if the way he kept taking baby steps backwards was any indication, wasn’t enjoying the experience.

  ‘What I really love is the energy of creative people – that’s why I got into this business,’ Eve was saying.

  The agent was a man used to intimidating people – in fact he was a man who took pleasure in intimidating people. Bullish and brutish, he didn’t read but demolished books. Eve was doing well to make him squirm. But he wasn’t
simply squirming. Like everyone else, he was confused about her. He couldn’t work out why someone so seemingly ditzy should be sent halfway around the world to run a place like Papyrus. He’d heard a number of theories – the most popular being that someone wanted her out of the way, which made sense as she was neither qualified nor did she appear to want to be there. But the agent couldn’t believe it was possible to be quite so gauche and ignorant – which meant it had to be an act designed to make people underestimate her.

  Whatever it was, he didn’t trust her and he hadn’t supported his author’s move to Papyrus. Instead he’d done all he could to get the author not to move. However, the author had listened, he’d nodded and he’d then told the agent he didn’t give a fuck what he thought. It was only later that the agent heard about the author’s affair with Ilona. This was probably about the same time as most people heard, and from the same person. There was a reason Phil was such a popular lunch date and the agent regretted not having spoken to him sooner, as he’d have used completely different arguments and wouldn’t be in the position he was now in: specifically, leaning back with Eve unsteadily hovering over him.

  ‘I’ve always felt the same way. To me it’s not about the money,’ said the agent with a straight face, in his booming, gravelly voice.

  ‘Of course it’s about the money, it’s always about the money, vanity just makes us pretend otherwise,’ whispered Jess to Zoë.

  Unaware that someone was doubting his own sincerity, the agent continued. ‘Though I always do my best for my authors – don’t make any mistake about that – for me it’s about the power of good, imaginative writing. As for tonight, I have no doubt this is his most powerful, provocative work yet.’ He continued for approximately ever about how the author had captured the Zeitgeist, the atmosphere of insecurity, mistrust and sense of impending doom.

  ‘Just like work,’ said Jess to Zoë.

  Eve, his target, was assessing those assembled. For a reason not immediately apparent to the onlookers, she was watching David, who was standing in a corner slightly away from everyone else, uncomfortable in yet another ill-advised black poloneck jumper. When he moved forwards, the reason for Eve’s interest in that particular corner of the room became clear.

  ‘Oh. My. God. Just look at that – cheekbones, eyes, body … Surely he’s at the wrong party?’ Zoë fanned herself.

  She was referring to her long-running joke about the geekiness of people who worked with books. The first time Zoë had made the joke was about ten years earlier. She and Jess had been at a charity event for a book to raise funds for health scares involving native animals – koalas with chlamydia had generated the most interest, certainly in the media. That day Jess had agreed Zoë was pretty close to the mark. Comfortable shoes, flannelette shirts, baggy stone-washed jeans and unwashed hair: the overriding effect wasn’t high fashion. But that was then. They were now at an inappropriate inner-city bar, David was doing a tolerable impression of a chubby Beat poet and his boss was dressed as a stinging insect.

  ‘Nope, then he wouldn’t be talking to David. The man’s pathologically shy. Put it this way, meeting new authors is one of the aspects of the job he hates most, even if he’s passionate about their writing.’

  ‘So who is young Cheekbones then?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but we could easily find out.’

  Unfortunately, as they edged towards David and Cheekbones, Eve did the same, only she didn’t edge. In a surprisingly swift and effective move, she kissed the agent – encountering actual flesh – mentioned doing lunch, and was gone before he’d finished his sentence, let alone his lecture.

  In engineering her vault across the room, Eve managed to ignore Roger, who quickly pretended he wasn’t planning to speak to her anyway and instead joined a gaggle of sleek publicists, who immediately fell silent.

  ‘Damn,’ said Zoë, realising they were too late. ‘How did she do that?’

  ‘Practice? Desperation? I’m sure she won’t be long.’

  The reason for Jess’s confidence was that Cheekbones was staring, bunny-caught-in-headlights, at Zoë. This reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, since what Zoë had decided to wear to a casual after-work literary book launch was a skintight silver catsuit, zip undone almost to the navel. But somehow she managed to make dressing like an extra from Star Trek seem both fashionable and appropriate – even desirable.

  She winked at Cheekbones. ‘You’re right. Let’s stay. We might learn something.’

  ‘So,’ Eve was saying, drawing out the word and ending it in a w. ‘Who have we here?’

  David, alarmed by this sudden interest, began to explain. ‘Chris, Chris —’

  Jess immediately recognised the surname. He was indeed one of theirs, one of David’s to be precise. Which explained what he was doing there, with David.

  Eve recognised the name too, and held her head a little higher. ‘But, of course – heck, the author photo just doesn’t do you justice.’

  Turning to David, she said, ‘We’ve talked before about photos and authors.’

  David flinched.

  Eve continued. ‘We’re all delighted to have you on board. You know, I read those sample chapters of your novel and loved them. Loved them.’ Hilary had briefed Eve on the contents of the five sample chapters that had been provided. ‘David tells me the rest is just as good and of course I trust his judgement completely. He really does have an ear for fresh young voices.’

  She put her arm around an increasingly uncomfortable David and gave him a squeeze, before returning to the author. Chris’s lean, boyish face, slogan t-shirt and badly ironed cargo pants made him seem no more than twenty-eight. He was in fact on the side of forty at which many people are inclined to assess their progress, and find it wanting.

  ‘David’s great,’ he said quietly. ‘I consider myself p-p-privileged to be able to work with him.’

  David blushed, shuffled a bit, then offered to get them all more to drink.

  ‘Yeah, you do that.’ Eve thrust David into the throng. ‘So, Chris, this book of yours,’ she lowered her voice, ‘is it autobiographical?’

  Her voice wasn’t quite so low that Zoë and Jess couldn’t hear it.

  ‘Zed, hon,’ said Jess. ‘I’ve read his book. Time to exit stage left right now and find a drink ourselves.’

  ‘Not so fast. What’s it about?’

  ‘Oh, you know, this and that. Sex, mostly.’

  ‘Well, why the fuck would we want to move now? Are you crazy? This could be a hoot.’

  ‘Or just excruciatingly embarrassing – for all of us.’ Jess was feeling squeamish already.

  ‘Come on, I want to see how he deals with her – don’t you?’

  ‘In a way, but to be honest I’m more interested to see how she deals with him. It would be useful to know what she’s like outside the office. I know a bit, but this …’

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘N-n-no, it’s not,’ Chris stammered.

  ‘I’m not sure that he’s going to do so well.’ Jess kept her voice down.

  ‘Oh, I think he’ll bounce back. Indie-boy-band appeal plus authorship of a book on sex? Of course he can handle her.’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Eve continued. ‘It’s just that I know how common it is for authors to draw on their own experiences, particularly in their early writin’.’ As she said this, she touched his arm gently.

  Ugh, Jess and Zoë thought simultaneously.

  Chris made an apparently casual sidelong glance in Zoë’s direction. ‘I’ve heard that, but if I’d wanted to use my own experiences I’d have written a m-m-memoir. There’s a lot m-m-more money in it, especially if it’s graphic and all about how b-b-bloody awful things were. Why are people so keen to read about other people’s m-m-misery? Does it give them a vicarious thrill? Or is it “there but for the grace of God”, et cetera? Or do they just like triumph over adversity? Whatever, my book is pure fiction: m-m-made up, imagined.’ He smiled, the kind of heart-melt
ing smile few straight women could resist.

  Zoë elbowed Jess. ‘See? He’s good.’

  ‘What? No, he’s not, he’s naïve. That’s just going to encourage her.’

  ‘But where do you get your ideas from?’ Eve didn’t wait for Chris to answer. ‘You know, the reason I got into this business is that I’m fascinated by the creative process and creative people. They’re what it’s all about. But it’s not just writers I admire: it’s all artists. I collect contemp’ry art, you know – there’s such lively work here.’ She moved her chest in closer. ‘I find creativity so invigoratin’, so inspirin’, so challengin’, so … stimulatin’.’

  Jess rolled her eyes.

  Eve continued, unaware of the discomfort she was causing. ‘I really pity people who can’t appreciate it – life must be so dull.’ She giggled in a way that was meant to sound coquettish rather than simpering.

  Zoë and Jess looked at each other.

  Chris didn’t seem to know where to look. There was no mistaking it, Eve was hitting on him. His publisher, or rather his publisher’s boss, was hitting on him. His eyes darted about the room in the desperate hope of seeing David. David, who was perennially dowdy, no matter how much he spent on clothes, shoes and glasses. David with an armful of drinks and an expression that said, Don’t worry, I wasn’t really going to leave you.

  But there was no David, as David, while dowdy, wasn’t silly, and was hiding in the men’s bathrooms, the one place Eve wouldn’t find him.

  Jess and Zoë were the only ones close enough for Chris to appeal to, but they weren’t silly either, so they were walking away, or more specifically Jess had grasped Zoë’s arm and was dragging her away.

  ‘I’m beginning to think I had book launches all wrong. I mean, this has been very entertaining and there’s free vodka. Hell, another drink and I might even buy the book. What’s it called again? And remind me, what’s it about? Airport thriller, murder mystery, chicklit, dicklit, chooklit, aga-saga or a genre-defying-work-of-eye-popping-brilliance?’ Zoë asked smugly. She liked to prove that occasionally she did listen to what Jess said.