Don't Tell Eve

  The piece continued in the same vein, questioning Eve’s taste, her motives, her background. By the time the plane landed hours later, Oliver had moved to the top of Eve’s hit list.

  While waiting for her luggage in the terminal, she checked her messages. There were several urgent ones from Hilary and another from her art consultant. All were from the last few days, and all could wait a bit longer. She did listen to the one from Todd which, instead of telling her he was on his way, informed her that he couldn’t collect her, but he looked forward to seeing her at home. Reluctantly, after leaving the customs area with bags in hand, Eve joined the taxi queue, along with the ordinary people she’d successfully avoided during the flight.

  Half an hour later she was finally on her own doorstep breathing a sigh of relief, which quickly progressed into a yawn. She needed some sleep. As she scratched around in her bag in search of her key, she wondered where Todd was, exactly. It was unlike him not to meet her in person.

  Inside the house, Todd was in the final stages of assembling the tableau, which sat on a new hall table bought especially for the dolls. They had only just arrived and he’d wanted them installed before Eve came home, hence his decision not to meet her.

  When Eve opened the front door he automatically sprang back. ‘Darling, you’re home.’

  ‘Yes – and no thanks to you. Why weren’t you at the airport? And what’s that smell? Don’t tell me you’ve been drinkin’? Is that the reason you didn’t collect me?’

  Todd ignored all but the first question. ‘I had things to do – in particular, install your …’ he thought quickly, ‘birthday present!’

  Eve dropped her bags in front of Reverse Garbage and approached the tableau. ‘Todd, honey, this is sweet of you, but it’s a little early for my birthday and you know that we don’t buy the art.’

  ‘Just look at it before you make up your mind.’

  ‘I don’t think —’

  ‘Just look.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist.’ Eve leaned forwards and examined the cocktail scene. ‘You know, I’d swear that …’

  In front of Eve stood, sat and lounged twelve dolls that while slightly abstract were still, unmistakably, twelve versions of herself. Each had on a different outfit, a miniature replica of one she owned.

  As she was examining the tableau her mobile rang. Without thinking, she answered it. ‘Yeah?’

  It was the CEO. ‘I wanted to let you know – I’ve made my decision about who will fill the new role.’

  Eve was only half listening to what her boss was saying, as it had just dawned on her that she no longer had any of the outfits the dolls were dressed in – all of them had been ruined as a result of accidents. And each doll carried its own different coloured pearl-headed pin, cleverly disguised, but once identified, unmistakable. There were necklace pins, bracelet pins, pins as broaches, clasps on bags, fasteners for coats …

  ‘Phil also told me about the auction. Not the kind of publicity we’re after. I looked at the website myself. It’s not flattering.’

  What colour there was slowly drained from Eve’s face as she grasped the significance of the CEO’s words. ‘Thank you, thank you for lettin’ me know,’ she said, and the landline began to ring in the kitchen. ‘Can I call you back?’

  Todd picked up. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ said Eve, from the hall.

  ‘Hilary,’ said Todd.

  ‘Then pass me the phone.’

  Todd handed it over, as though giving her a distasteful object. She sensed that somehow he was different.

  ‘There’s something you should know —’ began Hilary.

  ‘And you,’ interrupted Eve.

  When the conversation ended Eve took a long look at the tableau then retired to her bedroom and closed the door. From his position directly outside, Todd could hear the ping of her laptop springing to life.

  At the office, Hilary placed the receiver back in its cradle. Having belatedly studied the website and read the stories properly, and now confirmed everything with Eve, she thought she understood. It was impossible, unbelievable, but the evidence was in front of her. Thinking of the alcohol, the lighter and the tableau she felt a chill creep down her spine: what had she nearly done? The dolls in the stories on the website had only been injured, none had been destroyed.

  A little further down the corridor, Jess was on the phone to the dealer.

  ‘You’ve created quite a stir, my girl. We’ve now got several buyers for the rest of the dolls and everyone wants to know what else you’re working on. So, are you sure the owners will sell? And what are you working on?’

  ‘One thing at a time. The other dolls – well, you’ll have to check. They’re not mine anymore so I don’t have control of them. I can’t guarantee it, but I’m sure at least some of their owners will sell, if the price is right. What about you speak to them directly and find out?’

  After promising to email him a list of names and contact details, Jess also promised to keep him informed about her new work. She said she’d consider doing an interview, but just one – and she’d choose the journalist.

  ‘The guy who bought it was a friend of Jack’s, you know. Not someone we’ve dealt with before at the gallery. Todd —’

  ‘I know. Couldn’t have gone to a more deserving home.’

  For the next few hours the art dealer worked his way through the list Jess had supplied, explaining to the various Papyrus ex-employees about the sale and the resulting offers. Most did as Jess had imagined and immediately agreed to sell. After all, the secret was out. When asked, the dealer did as Jess had agreed and gave them her name.

  As a result, she spent a good deal of the afternoon on the phone. One after another they called her, with questions, thanking her, admitting they’d not taken any notice of the note, instead rushing out in search of pins. Most had chosen not to tell others about the existence of their doll, but all had agreed on its therapeutic quality.

  Daisy in particular couldn’t thank Jess enough.

  ‘How did you know?’ she said. ‘I just love dolls! Maybe more, no, just as much, as pugs. It was …’ She went on for another ten minutes. ‘Anyway, thank you, and guess what? I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘At a gallery.’

  ‘A gallery? Which one?’

  ‘Your dealer’s gallery! He wanted to know why I wasn’t going to sell, no matter how much I was offered, and we got talking. He needs a new assistant and he’s after someone organised with good people skills. That’s me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s you, Daisy. Very happy to give you a reference if you need one. I’ve known him for a long time.’

  As the afternoon light began to fade, Jess looked around her office at her books, at all the projects – other people’s projects – that she’d worked on over the years and she knew that the time had come. She wrote a short letter of resignation and placed a copy on Eve’s desk before making her way to Hilary’s office.

  ‘It’s time for me to go,’ she said simply. ‘I imagine you’ll be doing the same?’

  Hilary studied Jess’s composed, inscrutable expression. It was crazy, the idea was crazy. Yet there was evidence: the dolls, Eve’s accidents, the clothes, the website. Although all her instincts told her otherwise, Hilary believed it could mean only one thing. ‘Yes.’

  Chapter 53

  Oliver sat in the restaurant fiddling with his cufflinks, wondering who in the hell had thought the damn things were a good idea. The shirt he liked though – and he’d chosen it carefully. The fabric was unusual, the cut slim but not tight, it said the wearer appreciated style but didn’t follow trends. Jesus, he thought, he had to get a grip on himself.

  For the last couple of weeks he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything. It was Jess’s fault. She’d rushed off after the auction, effectively disappearing, leaving him not with answers but with questions. He knew she was JJ but she’d not yet admit
ted it; he knew someone had paid a huge amount of money for the tableau but not who or even why; and he suspected there was something else to the dolls, something that had occurred to him when he’d first seen the one with the bustier. After speaking to Kate he was almost convinced about it, but this was the twenty-first century – it was mad. There was also Jack.

  And now, just when Jess’d finally agreed to meet him, she was late. In a way he hoped she wasn’t going to show. It would make life simpler. He’d forget her, forget the story, walk away.

  On the other side of the harbour, known as the dark side to those who didn’t live there, Jess had kept a taxi waiting for half an hour as a result of a fashion crisis. Jeans and a t-shirt had suddenly seemed too casual, but she didn’t like skirts and she owned only one dress. Having scattered the contents of her wardrobe on the bed, then stuffed them back in, she’d decided on velvet pants, a fitted jacket, a translucent top and dangerously spiky boots. But then on her way downstairs, she’d changed her mind about the top and had rushed back to replace it with one that was less suggestive. Then before she’d made the front door she’d wavered again, this time giving in and calling Zoë, who happened to be sitting people-watching with Phil in Tasting Notes, a new wine bar.

  ‘Okay, I’m desperate. Which top: translucent or bold?’

  ‘Well, if you’re desperate there’s only one answer. But what are you trying to say?’

  ‘God, I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s interested – or committed elsewhere. He might hate me. The whole thing is ridiculous. I guess if he is free I’m trying to say “available but not easy; sexy but not obvious”. Actually, maybe “available and easy; sexy and obvious”.’

  ‘No question then: the translucent. Besides, a printed t-shirt, which is what I assume you’ve currently got on, is way too daytime, not to mention tomboyish.’

  Phil was listening. ‘Definitely see-through, always see-through – ask any bloke and if he says otherwise, he’s lying.’

  Zoë ignored him. ‘Not that it matters. The man is keen, for God’s sake. You could turn up in a boilersuit with your head shaved and he’d still be keen.’

  ‘No,’ said Phil, ‘he wouldn’t. That’d put me off and tell me I wasn’t in with any kind of chance.’

  ‘God, Phil! But okay, so it does matter, but not that much. You look cute in whatever you wear, that’s the annoying thing about stick insects. Besides, he knows.’

  ‘What do you mean he knows? Knows what?’

  ‘Must go, honey, Phil’s getting restless. Kiss, kiss.’ Zoë quickly turned off her phone.

  Eventually, Jess did manage to dress herself, and she arrived at the restaurant, a small Pacific fusion place, embarrassed about being late. She didn’t normally do late.

  When she spotted Oliver she hesitated, wondering whether it might be better to go before he saw her and not to put herself through this. What if he just wanted to talk about the dolls? Or whatever it was that Zoë had told him? Or the JJ business? What if he wasn’t interested in her at all? Or what if he was?

  But before she could retreat, he’d seen her and waved.

  Waving back, she walked carefully across to the table. The last thing she needed to do was trip over and make a spectacle of herself. ‘I’m so sorry, the batteries ran out on my mobile, otherwise I’d have called you.’ Starting with a lie wasn’t ideal, Jess knew that. She’d try to do better.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Oliver, relieved. She wasn’t being rude, she wasn’t playing games, she was just late. And she was there. He stood up and leaned forwards, planning to kiss her on the cheek, but accidently he found her mouth instead. He instantly pulled back.

  Jess suppressed a laugh: he was as nervous as she was, which was a sign of either guilt or intent. Or both. Either way, she was pleased that he was on the back foot.

  ‘A drink?’ said Oliver.

  ‘I think so: what are you having?’

  ‘A martini.’

  ‘Shaken or stirred?’

  ‘Give me a break.’ Oliver hadn’t meant to snap, but he wasn’t used to a woman refusing to take him seriously.

  Taken aback by his tone, and wondering if he was in fact more sensitive than he liked to suggest, Jess considered his request. ‘Oh, alright.’

  ‘So, what would you like?’

  ‘Martini. Definitely shaken, although I’m all for stirring as a general rule.’

  After summoning a waiter, Oliver turned his attention to Jess. For a few minutes they chatted about nothing in particular and then, inevitably, the conversation turned to the dolls.

  ‘But where did the idea come from?’ Oliver decided the JJ identity issue could wait and it was just conceivable that she hadn’t told him because she didn’t know whether she could trust him, not because she was trying to deceive him. But the dolls, they were a different matter.

  ‘The idea? A radical management book.’

  ‘A management book?’ Oliver knew she was lying. ‘I don’t understand – it told you to make voodoo dolls? Well, that is radical.’

  ‘Don’t be silly – they’re not really voodoo dolls. Those website entries might have been inspired by real events, but essentially they were made up; they were part of the installation to give the figures context. No, the book got me thinking about the notion of using ridicule as a tool of empowerment, for one thing. It’s pretty common really, though I know it sounds wanky. But what about you? When does the piece come out on Eve?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I have, but what else do you want to know?’ She should have told him about JJ before the auction, after he’d seen her dealer – that would have been fair. But he so clearly had his own agenda that she hadn’t been ready to trust him then, and his agenda was making itself clear now. It seemed that this was an interview, that’s why he was nervous. She was thankful she’d ignored Zoë – and Phil – and chosen a t-shirt rather than a flimsy top. If he wanted a story, she’d give him one.

  ‘Why dolls? Why the secrecy?’

  ‘Ah. That.’

  ‘Ah, that.’

  ‘Okay, but I don’t want you to laugh.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Okay, here’s the thing. My parents were – are – a bit alternative.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my mother was a tax lawyer.’

  Once she’d digested this piece of information, Jess continued. ‘Basically, they were against stereotypical role models for children, so they didn’t let me play with dolls, or my brothers with guns or trucks, for that matter.’

  ‘Poor deprived children.’

  ‘Weren’t we? Though I can’t say I was particularly scarred, and besides, I found a doll once and took it home. Whenever my parents and brothers weren’t around – which wasn’t very often – I’d get it out. I’d talk to it, tell it what annoyed me, who annoyed me, pretend it was certain people, you know, kids’ stuff. It was very therapeutic.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘My brothers discovered it and that was the end. She was destroyed.’

  ‘Brothers are like that, even if they don’t get guns they still destroy things. It’s not conditioning, it’s genetic programming.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Anyway, I went back to the usual things – sport, studying, going out – and forgot about it until years later, when I read that management book. But back to you – tell me about the piece on Eve.’

  Experience told Oliver it was time to stop asking direct questions. They would get back to the dolls and he would find out the truth, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. ‘It’s just come out.’

  ‘Really? I’d love to read it. Do you have a copy?’

  ‘Actually, I do.’ Reaching into the satchel that hung on the back of his chair, Oliver fished out a magazine. ‘Here you go.’

  Jess flicked through it. ‘But this is a style magazine.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I write about. What kind of article did you think it was going to be?’

&
nbsp; ‘I thought you were a different kind of journalist.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Gossip? Investigative? You asked about Eve and the dolls, and you didn’t ever say who you worked for. I’ve had a bad experience with a journalist recently and I made an assumption.’

  ‘Shit. I did try to tell you but you kept cutting me off. Mind you, if you thought that, it explains quite a bit.’

  ‘It does. So, style then?’

  ‘Yep, well, design in a very broad sense – I write about art, fashion, architecture and food for anyone who’ll pay me. I studied architecture for a bit but pretty quickly found out I enjoyed criticism more than creation.’ He named a selection of magazines and journals for which he’d written.

  ‘Of course, I thought I recognised your name from somewhere.’ Jess couldn’t believe she’d managed to misjudge him quite so much. But there were still some issues that needed to be cleared up, regardless of what kind of material he wrote. ‘So, tell me, what’s the deal with Kate?’

  ‘Well,’ said Oliver slowly, not sure what she meant.

  ‘So, it’s true?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He nodded. These things happened, Jess would understand.

  ‘So, when were you planning to tell me? Before dinner, after, later still —’ she stopped. He didn’t need to know her thought processes.

  Women, thought Oliver to himself, he just didn’t get them. What had Kate told her? ‘I don’t see it’s an issue.’

  Men, thought Jess. There was nothing else to say about them. ‘How could it not be an issue?’

  ‘Just because you know her?’

  ‘I just wanted clarification. Forget I said anything, it doesn’t matter anyway. Your personal life isn’t relevant. After all, we’re here to talk about work, aren’t we?’

  ‘But I’m not seeing anyone!’

  ‘What about Kate?’

  ‘What about Kate? I slept with her once, it was a mistake.’