Don't Tell Eve

  ‘Fuck, Jess, why didn’t you say so earlier? You sent her one?’

  ‘For a smart guy, you can be very slow. I assumed you’d worked it out already, and that’s why she was here. I was wondering why she hadn’t said anything.’ Now Jess felt even more uncomfortable, and less proud of herself for feeling that way; what Oliver did in his private life wasn’t her business.

  Still, she followed him as he moved as quickly as possible through the well-watered, canapé-nibbling crowd.

  Chapter 51

  Kate was standing alone, staring at the tableau.

  ‘So, did it help?’ asked Jess, quietly.

  ‘Did it help?’ Kate considered the question. ‘You know, it did, in a strange way. But why do it? I don’t quite understand, I —’

  Before she could finish the sentence an announcement was made. The auction was about to begin.

  ‘We can talk about this later,’ Jess whispered.

  ‘Okay,’ Kate whispered back, still looking confused.

  As the three of them turned back to listen to the dealer, who had launched into his introductory spiel, a figure slithered in behind them and positioned herself next to the tableau.

  After contemplating it for a moment, she placed a cigarette and box of matches on the table, then pulled out a small silver hip flask, a sleek, streamlined object bought especially for the occasion. Checking that everyone’s attention was focused on the dealer at the front of the room, she began to pour alcohol over the dolls. Not being a drinker, she hadn’t calculated on the smell being quite so strong – strong enough to make Oliver turn around.

  Launching himself across the space between them, he managed to grab Hilary’s hand. She had already lit the match but not yet thrown it onto the tableau.

  ‘This is a non-smoking area,’ he said, coolly, blowing it out.

  ‘Why are you interfering?’ Hilary scowled at Oliver. She’d been right to be wary of those eyes.

  ‘If you knew the full story, you’d be glad I did,’ said Oliver, taking the matches and releasing Hilary’s wrist.

  Saying nothing more, Hilary disappeared into the crowd. What did he mean ‘full story’? What else was there to know?

  Oliver picked up the cigarettes and unexpectedly well-designed hip flask before rejoining Kate and Jess. Kate was caught up in her own thoughts, so she hadn’t noticed he’d even moved; Jess had seen exactly what had happened.

  ‘Fuck, that was close. I didn’t think she’d go as far as that. Where do you think she’s gone?’

  ‘Don’t know, to wherever she parked her broomstick?’

  ‘Shh!’ came the sound of a cross elderly female voice somewhere in front of them.

  An hour into the proceedings, after the work of several name artists had attracted frenzied bidding and several other pieces had been passed in, the lot number for the dolls came up. The tableau was moved carefully to the front of the room.

  The artist was described as having a wry appreciation of kitsch, folk art and design. The auctioneer also complimented her on her technique and mentioned the accompanying website, part of which could be glimpsed on the wall behind the figures, before commenting on the authentic cocktail party atmosphere of the piece. It wasn’t just the positions of the dolls, the groupings, but the smell, the distinct smell of alcohol that emanated from the piece.

  Hilary, who hadn’t left the building, felt her jaw muscles contract as the bidding opened. Identifying the artist would do no good. She just had to hope that it wouldn’t sell.

  At first nothing happened and Jess considered asking Oliver for the hip flask, only she wasn’t sure what Hilary had put in it. It was entirely possible it wasn’t brandy or whisky or something drinkable. It didn’t smell like turps, although turps would have had a certain ironic aptness, if Hilary’d been successful. But she doubted Hilary would have had the imagination.

  Then the first bid was made and as a whisper began to circulate, the figure quickly increased.

  The lilac-haired old woman had the gallery assistant reluctantly bidding on her behalf, but she’d set a relatively low limit, as she didn’t really believe in buying at auction. She felt that the prices were too often inflated. Besides, it still wasn’t officially the work of JJ. ‘Blast,’ she said, as her limit was passed.

  Close to her but not within earshot, David stood proudly with Zoë’s assistant. When his cousin had called him about the dolls, he’d given himself an early mark – Eve being out of the country and Hilary nowhere in sight – and had rushed to the gallery to inspect them.

  The dealer had implied that they were by not just a ‘known’ artist, but one that David himself knew. As soon as he’d seen the tableau, and visited the accompanying website, David knew this was true. And despite not being personally acquainted with Eve, his girlfriend – she had let him use the term – adored the tableau. As it was being sold anonymously, David had assumed it would go for a reasonably low price, so he was confident about his chances. He was a romantic, but careful with money, his not-inconsiderable inheritance not withstanding. He held up his paddle again as the bidding continued. ‘Damn.’ He turned to his girlfriend, ‘How much do you really want this?’

  ‘A lot,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him in what he saw as a charming parody of seduction.

  ‘More than, say …’ He held up the paddle again. ‘More than, say, a piece of jewellery?’

  ‘What kind of jewellery?’

  ‘Depends – what kind do you want?’

  ‘What are you offering?’

  He held up the paddle again. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A ring.’

  ‘From me?’ asked David, eyes fixed on the auctioneer, voice steady.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ said Zoë’s PA.

  ‘You’d rather that than the dolls?’

  ‘If it’s a choice, then, yeah.’

  When asked by the auctioneer if he wanted to continue, David shook his head. ‘It’s going to be a very nice ring.’

  Zoë’s PA kissed him. ‘I’m probably too old to play with dolls anyway. But I can’t believe what’s happening here.’ She glanced around. ‘Did I tell you about Zoë’s “fan”? He’s standing over there, she pointed him out to me earlier.’

  David followed the direction of his girlfriend’s eyes. ‘Over there? That’s poor Chris.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He was one of our authors, terrific writer.’

  ‘He’s been sending her poems, flowers, chocolates, you name it – and Zoë’s been getting me to send them on to Jess, who’s pissed off with her. Not sure why – Zoë hasn’t said, which means it’s her fault.’ She stopped. ‘She keeps the poems, but the poor guy, he doesn’t have a chance. Cute though. Amazing bone structure. Can’t believe I didn’t tell you this – but I guess we’ve had other things to do.’

  David gave Chris a friendly nod, then turned his attention back to the auction.

  There were just two bidders left, Justin and various others, including those who’d heard the rumour about the identity of ‘anonymous’, having now all dropped out. The remaining bidders were two gallery staff. One was bidding on behalf of someone on the other end of the phone, and the other on behalf of someone in the room. As the price continued to rise, the room fell silent and even those who had used the auction to catch up on news of family, house prices and corporate collapses stopped talking. All waited to see what would happen.

  Distracting herself by wiggling her toes and wondering what a pedicure would feel like, and thinking that maybe it was time to have one when this was all over as she really should pay more attention to herself and why not start at the bottom, at least the feet, Jess couldn’t believe what was happening.

  Her friends, meanwhile, were all trying – unsuccessfully – to locate the bidder. Only Jack saw the almost imperceptible nods Todd was making from time to time. When six figures were reached, one of the bidders pulled out and the tableau was sold.

  The rest of the auction proceeded wi
thout Oliver, Phil, Kate or Zoë noticing any of it: they were too busy trying to figure out what had just happened. Besides Jess, only Jack had an idea and when Todd went over to speak to the staff member who had been doing his bidding, he followed.

  ‘Decided it was you who needed the moral support, not Jess, although she’s certainly getting it from Mr Perfect.’

  ‘No one’s perfect – and the time I’ll really be needing support is when she comes home.’ Todd had a mischievious look that Jack hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Or sees her credit card bill.’

  ‘And sees her credit card bill,’ corrected Todd.

  After failing to destroy the dolls, and actually enhancing their ‘authenticity’, whatever that meant, Hilary was astounded at the level of the bidding. To her it was all a con – it wasn’t art. She wondered what people thought they were getting; who they thought had produced the work? She’d heard the rumour about that artist called JJ, but what if they knew it was just Jess? Her last chance was to discover the identity of the fool who now owned them.

  ‘It’s a private investor and I’m sorry, we don’t give out such details.’ The vile assistant answered Hilary’s query with what sounded like a rebuke.

  While momentarily frustrating, it suggested to Hilary the possibility that things might work out – that the dolls might just quietly disappear, ending a disastrous episode.

  As she moved towards the exit, exhausted, she noticed the art dealer talking to Jess. Out of habit, she positioned herself behind them.

  ‘I loved that final touch with the alcohol – what was it, by the way? And when did you do it, you naughty thing?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, sorry, can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t pry then.’ The art dealer smiled indulgently. ‘We do need to talk about this anonymous business. Everyone knows, darling, so you might as well just stick with JJ – and please do some interviews. You can’t engineer opportunities like this! And do you think we can get our hands on the other ones?’

  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.

  Chapter 52

  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.
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  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.