Don't Tell Eve

by Airlie Lawson

  ‘Oh Christ, it’s not porn, is it?’

  ‘Please, give me some credit.’

  ‘Then just tell me.’

  ‘I have. It’s simple really – if someone needs to be taught a lesson, we can help, using the latest code-breaking technology.’

  ‘How do you mean “help”?’

  He leaned in closer still. ‘Want to have a little fun with someone’s bank account? Their credit rating? Maybe send a text that appears to have come from someone else’s phone? “Had a great time last night, big boy” might sound lame to you but it’s a top seller and works bloody well. I like to see myself as a service provider.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘It’s okay, there’s nothing to connect me to it. You could send the police round right now and they’d find nothing, so don’t worry, you’re not an accessory.’ He stepped away, voice returning to its normal level. ‘So, what are you up to? Art or books?’

  ‘Books, mostly.’

  ‘Really? I bought a piece recently from that place near The Beached Whale – bloody outrageous price I thought.’

  ‘Whose work was it?’

  ‘I thought I recognised the style immediately. Looked just like the kind of thing you used to do, but different, as though it had evolved, as you’d hope.’

  ‘I haven’t done that kind of work for a long time.’

  ‘You’ve always been a crap liar. Besides – “JJ”? There can’t be two of you. Come on! You could’ve tried a bit harder than that. Starting with using a different dealer and getting rid of the tag. But you’re an artist, aren’t you? You want to be found out, so it wouldn’t make sense if it were too difficult for people like me. Surprised it hasn’t come out yet though, since JJ’s moved on from notoriety to collectability.’

  ‘Why would I keep using a pseudonym?’

  ‘I asked myself that question too.’

  ‘What answer did you come up with?’

  ‘There’re lots of reasons a person might want anonymity. You’ve got legal – but that’s really more my area. Then you’ve got professional: you might want to keep your careers separate, or you might want to try a different style. It can be difficult when people have a preconceived notion of who you are, what you do. It makes it very uncomfortable for them when you climb out of your little box. I know from experience that people hate having to reconsider their opinions. Then there’s self-doubt, of course – you don’t think your work’s good enough and can’t deal with criticism. Or maybe you’re scared of upsetting someone. Bottom line, in my opinion, is that you’re either weak – or you’re slippery.’

  ‘Not great alternatives.’

  ‘There is one more option.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘It’s a game.’

  ‘Which do you think it is?’ Jess asked, with what appeared to be amusement.

  ‘Unless you’ve changed a huge amount —’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing.’

  ‘— and I doubt you have because people don’t really change, they just grow into themselves. The way I see it is you wouldn’t want to be inhibited by your day job – celebrities hate competition, don’t they? – and you’ve always been secretive, and the work is outspoken, so it’s got to be a combination of factors. The only one I’d dismiss these days is legal. So, am I right?’

  Before he’d dropped out of art school, Justin’s field had been electronic and temporal art, specialising in computer-generated work. This was before computer nerds had taken their revenge on the world and when only geeks sat in front of screens for hours. No wonder the man was glowing. He’d been able to fuse his two loves – computers and money.

  ‘Why would I tell you if you were? It’d defeat the purpose of having a pseudonym – which is different to remaining anonymous, by the way.’

  ‘Pedantic as ever, I’m pleased to see. If they’re all going for the price I paid, JJ must be very close to being able to give up her day job.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s just a day job?’

  ‘Oh come on, you have a boss, for God’s sake. You’re talking to me, honey. I know you. And I know your work.’

  Jess suddenly longed to tell him everything, particularly about the current project. More than most people, he’d appreciate all its aspects. But he was Justin – clever maybe, engaging certainly, but completely untrustworthy; she’d given away too much as it was.

  ‘So, where is the day job now?’

  ‘Papyrus.’

  ‘Oh, I know Papyrus. Went out for a bit with someone who works there now, not my type at all – anorexic philistine. Might have been fine in my smacked-out period.’ He lit a cigarette, causing a stir. Once he’d passed around the packet and lighter, he continued. ‘You won’t guess how I met her.’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘Okay, you remember my sister, who was locked up post-unsuccessful rehab a few years ago?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She shared a cell with this woman called Hilary.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Fraud, strictly white-collar stuff. Someone had ratted on her.’

  ‘And she was friends with Bunny?’

  ‘That’s not the word I’d use, but you know how Bunny talks and she must have mentioned me. When she got out Hilary got in touch. I’m still not sure why. Money, I guess.’

  ‘What, yours?’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, I’ve done okay for myself.’

  ‘So, Hilary?’

  ‘It didn’t work out. It wasn’t just that she didn’t eat, it was the whole S&M scene. I mean it’s fine for a laugh, but … Well, anyway, I don’t burn bridges – doesn’t make economic sense.’

  ‘You keep in touch?’

  ‘I’m useful, if you know what I mean.’

  Jess was very glad she’d not confided in Justin and they promised to keep in touch. He was, as he said, useful.

  As she drove home, it wasn’t Justin, or even Hilary, she was thinking about, although Justin’s story was illuminating. No, it was the dark-haired guy who’d been standing in the courtyard with Kate, watching her as she’d tried to leave.

  Chapter 29

  Jess’s stonewalling forced Oliver to try another approach. ‘The thing is,’ he tried to explain, far too early the morning after Zoë’s party, ‘the thing is that I’m writing an article on Eve and I wondered if you’d mind having a chat. It can be off the record – whatever you like.’

  There was no way Jess was going to speak to this pushy journalist about Eve, and everyone knew that ‘off the record’ was a phrase that meant nothing anymore. Besides, he’d already indicated that Eve wasn’t the only thing he was investigating. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that. By the way, have you spoken to anyone else at Papyrus?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Eve.’

  ‘Right, well, that’s the main thing. Good luck with your article and if you need to speak to anyone else here, you should go through our publicity director.’ Jess put down the receiver. While a number of people knew about the dolls, only four could connect them to her. Unfortunately those four included Zoë and Phil. As Zoë knew how Jess felt about journalists, this meant Phil had to be the culprit.

  She went to find him.

  With evident reluctance, Phil stopped cruising the net and wearily raised his bloodshot eyes in Jess’s direction.

  ‘So what do you know about the piece on Eve?’ she asked.

  ‘What piece?’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Phil. It has to be you who’s been speaking to that journo and telling him about, you know, what you’ve seen.’

  ‘What I’ve seen? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken to any journalists recently, except a guy I met last night, and he does stuff about design anyway. And what did I see? I don’t remember seeing anything, certainly not any dolls …’ Phil leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.

  In an attempt to regain the upper hand, Jess asked the question that had also been bothering Phil’s
assistant all morning. ‘What is that on your chin?’

  ‘Oh, that? It’s a jazz dot. Do you like it? I was sick of the stripe. It’s kind of cool, isn’t it? Anyway, we could talk all day about my facial hair, but I’d much rather discuss what the hell you’re up to.’

  After Jess had walked out, Phil stood up and moved towards his new window with just one thought: women really were impossible. This thought was still occupying him when the phone rang.

  ‘Phil.’

  ‘Jack. How’re you holding up?’

  ‘Been better.’

  ‘Ditto – and you won’t believe what happened when I got home this morning.’

  Jack was used to Phil’s stories. ‘Try me.’

  ‘The soap actress – or actor, as she wants to be called now, because it sounds more serious – had broken into my house and fed my fish.’

  While Phil’s adventures sometimes did involve actresses, feeding fish didn’t normally come into it. ‘Er, yes?’

  ‘She was sitting on the sofa, watching as they ate, cold-blooded cow.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Use your brain, mate. She was murdering my collection and, like a psychopath, enjoying it. Overfed fish die.’

  ‘Oh, right, I see.’ Jack tried not to sound as though he believed that the only appropriate places for fish were oceans, rivers or plates. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Rescued them – well, scooped off the excess sprinkles just in time.’

  ‘What about the actress – sorry – actor?’

  There was a brief pause before Phil answered. ‘Well, she was upset.’

  ‘About your fish?’

  ‘No, she didn’t seem to care much about them.’

  ‘What was she upset about then?’

  ‘Me, apparently. “Apparently” I’d treated her badly. I mean, Jess had already lectured me on how I should have handled things – I tell you, never share a taxi with that woman, but then you probably know that – so anyway, that bit didn’t come as a total shock, and neither did seeing her, I guess. But the fish business? Jesus.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well, she was upset.’

  ‘Bloody hell Phil, you didn’t?’

  ‘It was two in the morning, I wasn’t thinking straight, I was drunk and I just wanted her to stop crying.’

  ‘Sex is not the solution to every problem.’

  ‘Ha! That’s what you say – she stopped crying.’

  ‘Yeah right, until you dump her again.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I explained clearly this morning that there’s someone else, so it can’t work. I even used terms she could understand.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It was brilliant. I said that she should think of my house as the Big Brother house, and should consider herself evicted.’

  ‘For a smart guy, you’re surprisingly stupid sometimes.’

  ‘Well, she left and the fish lived, so it was a happy ending. But you didn’t ring to talk about me, I’m guessing.’

  ‘I’d factored it in but, yeah … That book, were you serious? And who else?’

  ‘I’m working on it. And I was – am – very serious. What about a meeting tomorrow, with Zoë? We need to get this moving quickly if it’s going to happen.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re on to it.’

  ‘Excellent. See you tomorrow then.’

  Phil began making notes.

  An hour and a half later, his assistant found him. ‘You’re needed at a meeting. They rang you a few times but you haven’t been answering.’

  Phil stared at her. Had he really been so absorbed in his work? It was an impression he didn’t want to give, he’d been trying – with success – to convey the opposite for months. He was going to have to work on this book in secret, in case people began to think he cared.

  Chapter 30

  By late morning Zoë had consumed three espressos and had a very long conversation with Jack, who’d called disgustingly early to discuss the potential book. For someone who should have been hungover he was annoyingly upbeat and full of ideas and, as Zoë discovered to her surprise, so was she. There were so many possibilities. Not that she was convinced Phil had been serious; he was difficult to judge that way. He was difficult to judge full stop, but this wasn’t the time to think about Phil.

  Instead, while opening the fuchsia silk curtains in her bed room, she addressed the man in her bed. ‘Can I get you something – water perhaps, or maybe a Berocca? Nothing like a serious dose of vitamin B after a big night. Or coffee, maybe?’

  Chris blinked. The light hurt and it felt as if someone had stomped on his head. ‘Water, B-b-berocca, coffee, yes. Please.’ As he lay there, details of the previous evening began to emerge from the abyss. It had been going well, really well and then … He pulled a pillow over his head.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,’ said Zoë. ‘It happens to men all the time. Especially those who drink and are, I see in this light, not in their twenties anymore.’

  From under the pillow came Chris’s muffled voice. ‘It’s never happened to m-m-me before.’

  ‘Well, c’est la vie. Now, can I get you some toast as well? Might make you feel better.’

  Nothing would make him ever feel better again, Chris was sure of it. ‘Okay, with Vegemite, dabbed, not s-s-spread. Thanks.’

  A few minutes later Zoë was back with a breakfast tray, relieved that the cleaning fairies had done their job. Apart from a faint smoky odour detectable under the overpowering scent of Pine-O-Cleen, there was no sign of the previous evening’s event. ‘So, did you have a good time?’

  Chris wondered if she was trying to humiliate him.

  ‘I meant the party,’ said Zoë.

  ‘From what I can remember.’

  ‘The mojitos were pretty lethal, weren’t they? If it’s any consolation you weren’t the only one to get completely trolleyed.’

  Images floated up in front of Chris’s eyes, making him feel even more queasy. Belly dancing, had someone been belly dancing? And hadn’t there been a screening of some weird film somewhere? And David. ‘What happened to David?’

  ‘How could you not have noticed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was almost indecent to watch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was with my PA.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘You would have. Door bitch. Leather. Gorgeous Asian girl, hair down to her arse.’

  ‘With D-d-david?’

  ‘I know, it seems unlikely at first.’

  ‘At first?’

  ‘She has this thing for musicians – who’d have thought he’d have been a closet oboist or oboe player or whatever they call themselves. She was getting sick of edgy blokes whose memories were so shot they could hardly remember their own name, let alone hers, so when he recited some long seventeenth-century love poem, that was it. She’s a flowers-and-choccy romantic at heart, though you wouldn’t know it to look at her. Appearances, huh?’

  Chris made a mental note about the poetry being the clincher. ‘Well, g-g-good for him.’ The sustenance and caffeine were leading him to hope that he might make it home without throwing up on the train.

  ‘So I hear,’ said Zoë, thinking how appealingly crumpled Chris was. But, sadly, he was no longer appealing in other ways and as she thought this she felt a sharp unfamiliar stitch-like pain in her chest. Was this what regret felt like? she asked herself. This had been a beginner’s mistake, a tactical error. The man she’d wanted had left the party without even saying goodbye, so she’d settled for Chris, who was objectively desirable, apparently well-informed about a wide range of sexual practices, and, most importantly, to hand. That he’d been too trashed to perform hadn’t worried her the previous evening, but it did now. If she kicked him out, he’d think she was holding it against him, and maybe get some kind of complex. There was only one thing to do, to stop this happening again.

  Dropping her kimono onto the
floor, Zoë got back into bed.

  [site name donttell]/thedolls/exhibit-b

  While the recipient of the doll had followed the instructions that had come with it, keeping it out of the way of children and animals, and resisting the urge to play with pins, it still wasn’t safe.

  It had been placed next to an upstairs window, one that had been opened that morning to let fresh air into the room. It was a window the owner had forgotten to close as she cleaned. Cleaning was an activity she currently pursued with the same vigour she’d once devoted to her career. A career that was now over. She preferred not to think about how that had happened, as she didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense.

  She was not thinking about her career when she hit the doll with her multi-coloured feather duster, nor was she as she watched, unable to save it as it toppled, then fell, its white shirt billowing in the wind on the way down to the swimming pool below.

  When, moments later, there was a splash and the woman leaned out of the window and saw the doll bobbing up and down in the water, it had her full attention. She knew she had to act quickly and she ran down the four flights of stairs, located a pool-cleaning pole, and scooped it out.

  She was aware that it wasn’t rational to care so much about a doll, but rational seemed to be an out-of-date concept: the world, she’d recently discovered, was neither a rational nor a fair place.

  Chapter 31

  In the last five years Jack had read no more than twenty books – possibly closer to ten – and all except one had had pictures, most recipes as well. As to writing, he didn’t even bother having his own email address, he just used Jess’s or Alex’s or the business one.

  Zoë occasionally used full sentences in emails and her reading material, when it didn’t contain pictures, involved naïve yet feisty servant girls being taken in hay sheds, fields, attics and pretty much anywhere but a bedroom by the handsome lord, count or duke of the manor, castle or court.

  Apparently this didn’t matter. Phil told them that all he needed was ideas and Papyrus would do the rest.