The Book of Eve

by Julia Blake

  ‘Poetry through the ages and how it’s reflected upon the society in which it was written, giving us an insight into the hearts and minds of the age,’ he’d replied, and Annaliese had smiled at the fervour she saw in his eyes.

  ‘Poetry is obviously something you care very deeply for,’ she’d suggested gently, and the man had coloured again.

  ‘Yes, well all literature really, I lecture at Queens College, Cambridge...’ Annaliese started, hoped he hadn’t noticed her instinctive reaction to the discovery he lived so close to the Hall.

  ‘Tell me about your book,’ she’d pleaded. His eyes had lit up and he’d talked. Believing her to be a fellow struggling author, he’d explained the ideas and thinking behind his book and then got side-tracked into favourite poems and poets.

  Annaliese had listened, spellbound, caught up in his enthusiasm, thinking to herself how this man could talk to a group of inner city kids about Byron and hold them enraptured in the palm of his hand just by the power of his passion. His voice was rich, melodious, like plum cake or finest malt whisky, and Annaliese felt tears spring to her eyes as he finished the final line of the poem.

  ‘...and miles to go before I sleep...’

  ‘That was so beautiful,’ she’d breathed and laid a hand on his arm. ‘You must get your book published, you simply must.’ He’d dipped his head, obviously pleased.

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind. But what about you?’ he’d demanded. ‘I’ve spent all this time talking about myself and haven’t even asked you about your book.’

  ‘Oh,’ Annaliese had begun casually. ‘It’s nothing really, a silly little novel about how small women’s lives can be.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating,’ he’d replied. ‘Can you tell me more?’

  ‘I will,’ she’d promised, stood at the sound of Robert’s office door being opened. ‘But first you must go in there and sell your book, tell him all about it, exactly the way you told me.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Go on, now’s your chance,’ and she’d given him a gentle push. Robert turned from saying goodbye to his previous appointment, acknowledged his next and Annaliese had slipped quietly out the door. As he was ushered into the office, the man glanced back; feeling a pang of disappointment the vivacious and bright young woman he’d so enjoyed talking to was gone.

  That evening, Annaliese persuaded her husband to give him a chance. Unsure, but trusting his wife’s instincts and too much in love to refuse her anything, Robert finally agreed and Annaliese had rejoiced the young man, whom she insisted on calling her Miles-to-go-man, would finally be given the opportunity she firmly believed he deserved.

  Annaliese’s instincts, as usual, were correct. The large, beautifully illustrated coffee table book shot straight to the top of the Christmas bestsellers list, its author being invited onto a late night art show as a latter day champion of the dying art form of poetry.

  Impressed by his personable nature and charismatic way of speaking, a BBC2 producer invited him onto the panel of judges for Young Poet of the Year. Then, after receiving scores of letters from children expressing how much they’d enjoyed the way he’d talked about poetry, how he’d talked to them and not at them, he’d been invited to do a short programme about poetry in schools. It was a surprise hit and the young man’s career was launched. Still remaining true to his college though, he’d increased his appeal by limiting his TV appearances to one six part series of his Poetry In... programmes and maybe a couple of guest appearances per year.

  Thrilled by his new client’s success and urged on by Annaliese, Robert invited him to dinner, and the young man’s face had been a picture when he’d discovered his agent’s wife and bestselling author was his sweet little friend who’d encouraged him that day in Robert’s office. Annaliese had hugged him with delight, exclaiming she’d always known her Miles to go man would turn out to be a great success, and so another friendship was formed.

  Miles’s real name was William, yet somehow Miles suited him better and it was a name he’d decided to keep, happily joining Annaliese and Robert’s ever increasing circle of friends, his gentle good nature enabling him to get along with everyone.

  Right from the moment they’d met, though, his heart was lost to Mimi. Sadly, the passionate and forthright Frenchwoman never had an inkling that buried deep beneath Miles’s staid and buttoned up academic exterior, beat a true and abiding love for her. Desperately shy, constantly waiting for a sign of returned affection which never came, Miles resigned himself to forever being a friend, a much loved and appreciated one, but still, nonetheless, just a friend.

  Andrew was next to come along, Annaliese meeting him at a charity dinner she and Robert attended in London. Bored rigid with never ending after dinner speeches, feeling her fixed smile beginning to waver, Annaliese had silently slipped, unnoticed, out of the function room and into the beautiful courtyard garden of the luxury hotel in which the event was being held.

  Sighing with relief, believing herself alone, Annaliese had thankfully pulled her shoes off, let her poor cramped toes stretch out in reprieve on the cool red brick pathway and sunk gracefully onto a low bench, letting the peace of the evening, the harmony of the garden, wash over her.

  ‘Feel better?’ a deeply amused voice had enquired in a rumbling Scottish burr. Annaliese had started in surprise, turning to peer into the darkness as a tall, burly red-headed man sauntered into view, clutching a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘Much, thank you,’ she’d replied, equally amused as he perched himself on the bench beside her. ‘Although I will pay good money for a swig of that,’ she’d continued, tapping his bottle with an elegantly manicured nail.

  ‘Lovely lady, you may have some for free,’ he’d gallantly replied, holding out the bottle. Annaliese had gulped it down, not even flinching as the neat alcohol hit the back of her throat. Andrew would later comment it was this single act which made him realise they were going to be the best of friends. Annaliese handed him back the bottle with a sigh of relief and wiped her hand across her mouth, feeling the burn in the back of her throat.

  ‘My word, that’s better,’ she’d gasped, and in the moonlight he’d beamed at her.

  ‘You’re a lady after my own heart,’ he’d exclaimed. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Annaliese, Annaliese Macleod.’

  ‘Ahh, the writer lady?’ he’d enquired, and at Annaliese’s nod of confirmation had smiled. ‘My mother loves your books, but I’m afraid I’ve never read them.’

  ‘That’s ok,’ she’d shrugged carelessly, ‘Probably not your thing.’

  ‘No,’ he’d agreed and taken another pull at the bottle, handing it to Annaliese when he’d finished, watching in amused admiration as she matched him, swallow for swallow.

  ‘So,’ she’d gasped, handing it back to him. ‘I’ve told you who I am, are you going to tell me exactly who it is I’m sharing whiskey with?’

  ‘That depends,’ he’d replied obscurely.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you want me to tell you my real name, or the name my friends know me as, because, believe me, my real name is one I’d rather forget.’

  ‘Ok,’ replied Annaliese slowly. ‘I’m sure it can’t be that bad, why don’t you tell me both?’

  ‘Well, my surname is Oates, which is bad enough, given that the only other Oates in history is the South Pole guy who decided to go for a walk in the snow, also, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m Scottish...’

  ‘No?’ interrupted Annaliese, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he’d continued. ‘So, no jokes about porridge oat eating Scots please, because I’ve more or less heard them all.’

  ‘Alright,’ agreed Annaliese. ‘So the surname is not great, it’s not the worst I’ve ever heard, but it’s not the best either, you gonna hit me with the fi
rst name?’

  ‘Hamish Malcolm Macduff.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Annaliese in sympathy, and patted his arm reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry; I’m sure your parents loved you really. So, what do your friend’s call you?’

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘Andrew?’ at his nod she’d shrugged. ‘Ok, boringly normal compared to that lovely trio, any particular reason why Andrew?’

  ‘Because I live in St Andrew’s.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Annaliese had agreed, taking another slug of whiskey. ‘So, what are you doing so far away from home, Andrew?’

  ‘I’ve been staying with a friend, my best friend actually, for a couple of weeks and his godmother had tickets for this do and asked us to accompany her. She’s a real character, we both enjoy her company so said we’d come. In fact, I was hoping it would take my mind off the fact I’ve gotta go back home tomorrow.’

  ‘Why don’t you want to go back? Don’t you like your home?’

  ‘I love it, it’s just... well, my father’s a solicitor and it’s always been his dream I’d become one too and go into partnership with him, you know, Oates & Oates, that sort of thing. So, I’ve done all my legal training, put in the time, learnt what I needed to know, because, at the time, I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do, knew it would mean the world to him and wanted to please him, so, I did it... but now...’

  ‘But now you’ve realised you don’t want to be a solicitor after all?’ guessed Annaliese, and Andrew nodded mournfully. ‘So, what do you want to do?’

  ‘That’s just it, I don’t know, I mean, it’s crazy isn’t it, I’ve done all the training and have a guaranteed job and top whack salary waiting for me, but the thought of being a solicitor for the rest of my life is making me feel physically sick. I don’t know what else I want to be, I only know what I don’t want to be, and that’s a solicitor,’ he’d paused and pulled on the bottle.

  ‘I know if I tell the old man it’s gonna break his heart, so I don’t know what to do now. These past couple of weeks were supposed to help me get things clear in my head, but, if anything they’ve just made things worse.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Annaliese gently, as he’d passed the bottle back to her and she’d tipped it elegantly to her mouth. He’d glanced at her, noticing the way the moonlight reflected off the slim white column of her throat and set her golden hair aglow. Christ, he’d thought blearily, she sure was a looker. He wondered how old she was, certainly not many years older than him.

  ‘Well, I’ve been staying with a friend. He’s stuck in a job he hates too, working for an auction house. I know he’s miserable in London where he doesn’t know anyone. He, well, doesn’t make friends easily, finds it very hard to talk to people, they tend to think he’s arrogant and aloof, but he’s not, not really, he’s just a very deep and reserved person. I see him struggling on, day after day, gritting his teeth, getting on with it and wonder if I should do the same. But then, I keep thinking there must be more to life than that, putting up with shit because you can’t see a way out, there has to be more.’

  ‘There is more to life than that,’ agreed Annaliese, putting her small white hand over his large capable one. ‘Don’t stop believing, Andrew, something will come along when you least expect, and it’ll be right and you’ll know it’s right. As for your father, well, all any parent really wants is for their child to be happy. Talk to him, Andrew, explain your feelings to him, give him a chance to understand. He may surprise you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Andrew uncertainly, and they’d both looked up as the sound of prolonged applause suddenly erupted from inside the hotel. ‘I suppose we’d better get back inside.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Annaliese with obvious reluctance and handed him back the bottle. ‘Give me your number, Andrew, I’d like to stay in touch if that’s all right.’

  ‘Sure,’ confirmed Andrew and watched as she’d programmed it into her phone.

  ‘I’d better go,’ murmured Annaliese, pressed a quick kiss onto his cheek. ‘It was wonderful meeting you, Andrew. You’ll see, things will get better for you.’

  ‘Yeah, right, thanks Annaliese, you take care of yourself,’ and he’d watched as she quickly slipped her heeled evening shoes back on and floated into the hotel. Realising, after she’d gone, she’d made no attempt to give him her number, wondering if he’d ever hear from her again.

  But he did, three weeks later, after he’d returned home and faced the music, finding courage from somewhere to tell his father his dreams of a brass plaque stating Oates & Oates practiced here were not to be. To his surprise, his father merely gave him a long dour look, remarked dryly it’d taken him long enough to realise what he’d suspected years ago and what the bloody hell did he want to do with his life now he’d wasted years of it training to be a solicitor?

  Stunned, Andrew had mumbled how sorry he was to let him down, to which his father’s expression had softened. He’d told him not to be so bloody daft, that all he’d ever wanted was for Andrew to be happy. Of course, if Andrew had decided he truly wanted to be a solicitor his father would have been delighted, but, as he’d decided he wasn’t cut out for it, he needed to get off his arse and decide what it was that would make him happy.

  Andrew couldn’t help thinking of Annaliese, wished he had some way to get in touch with her to tell her what he’d done. A fortnight later, his phone rang and it was her. Giddy with exciting news, her local wine merchant was retiring, was looking to sell his business as a going concern and she’d wondered, was he interested?

  Taken aback, becoming a wine merchant was not something Andrew had ever considered, he’d thought about it, feeling a frisson of excitement as she’d talked to him about the business and the area. Was interested enough to fly down, staying with Annaliese and Robert at the Hall for a few days, meeting with the wine merchant, a close personal friend of Annaliese’s, looking around the business, spending long hours checking out the small market town in which it was based, hiring a car and exploring the surrounding countryside, pouring over the wine merchant’s books, spending a day in the small shop attached to the business which sold wines and spirits, realising it was already a good small steady business, but had potential to be so much more.

  Raising the money to buy the business had been surprisingly easy, his savings, a loan from his father, who’d also flown down to fully investigate the business into which his son was asking him to invest, and a small investment from Annaliese had been enough to secure himself a new career as a wine merchant.

  From the start business was good, with Andrew taking great care to offer existing clients the same excellent care they’d become accustomed to, as well as seeking out new clients and constantly looking for ways to improve and expand on the services he offered. Business grew, until finally he went to see Annaliese one day and told her he was thinking of taking on a partner.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ she’d enthused. ‘Who did you have in mind?’

  So Andrew told her about his friend. They’d met the first day at university, had sat next to each other in their first class. Andrew had nodded and said a friendly hello to the classically handsome young man sitting next to him, only to be dismissed with a curt nod and blank expression. Well, sod you then, Andrew had thought angrily, just trying to be friendly mate, and had concentrated on what the teacher was saying, amazed when he was actually called upon to answer a question and even more amazed that he got it right, the teacher nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, that’s an interesting point... I’m sorry, first day of term, I haven’t had a chance to get familiar with everyone’s names.’

  ‘It’s Oates, sir,’ Andrew had replied, and there was a small snigger in the class.

  ‘Oates, eh?’ enquired the lecturer, then glanced at the chisel jawed stony countenance of his neighbour. ‘So if he’s Oates, I guess you must be Scott?�
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  The class had erupted into good natured laughter. Andrew saw the flush that briefly stained the young man’s face, the panicked look that flashed into his eyes, realised he wasn’t the arrogant prick Andrew had dismissed him as but instead seemed cripplingly shy. Andrew felt a twinge of sympathy and a pang of interest. Was interested enough that after the lecture he’d invited Scott for coffee, had refused to take no for an answer and so the deep and abiding partnership of Oates and Scott had been born.

  Scott’s difficult to get to know, he’d explained to Annaliese, concerned she might not like his friend, but worth the effort, because once you got to know him and he decided to trust you, then you had a friend for life, one who was constant and loyal and would do anything for a friend.

  And so Scott had come for a visit. Achingly unhappy with his life in London and missing his friend more than he’d liked to admit, even to himself, Scott had taken one look at what Andrew was offering, half share in a business which intrigued him, which Scott could see would be more fun than work, a relaxed lifestyle in a small friendly town surrounded by beautiful countryside and, of course, the daily companionship of his best friend, his only friend, if Scott was brutally honest with himself. Add the fact his godmother only lived an hour’s drive away and Scott was half way to agreeing on the first day of his visit.

  Then Andrew took him to meet Annaliese. They’d driven through the tall ornate gates, Scott’s eyes impenetrable and unreadable as he’d looked at the great imposing Hall, its windows flashing gold in the morning sun. They’d parked, wandered around the back, found Annaliese curled up on a swing, one small bare foot flat on the ground giving an idle push now and again to set it swaying, her long golden hair flowing over her face, a glass of fresh lemonade cold in her hand, beads of condensation misting its frosted surface. She’d looked up at their approach, the sun shining directly into her eyes and setting them on fire like flaming sapphires.

  ‘Darling,’ she’d exclaimed, jumping to her feet and hugging Andrew, before turning to examine Scott with interest, tilting her head to look up at his superior height; noting the proud lift to his chin, the supercilious lift of his eyebrow. But her keen eye also noted the slight tic at the corner of his mouth, the brief flash of anxious anticipation in his eyes, the fact his hands were ever so slightly shaking. Instantly, she saw what it had taken Andrew many months of patient hard digging to discover. This was a man who didn’t trust easily or open up to people lightly, yet was one who craved human contact and companionship. She wondered what had happened to make him so mistrustful of people.