Eve swung her legs off the arm of the chair and sat up. She could hear the disdain in Meg’s voice. Keep house.
‘Of course not. I’m going to work, but not just now. I don’t have any skills in life other than playing a bloody cello. Sometimes, that doesn’t get you far in life, Meg. I need to learn a few other things and put them all together. What’s wrong with that? You make me sound like some kind of mass murderer because I might want to make a nice house, better myself, for my husband and baby and me.’
‘You’re making yourself sound like some … some … Eve, you don’t have a baby or husband yet. Richard surely doesn’t want you to give up what you love. To not be working, earning money? Eve, are you sure you’ve thought this through?’
Eve knew it; she knew Meg would do this. She pictured Meg with that grimace on her face. Biting her bottom lip. Her face pulled sideways in concern that Eve was getting it wrong, and then her eyes fixed with resolve to set her straight. Meg, who would never have watched an episode of High Maintenance Kids in her life. Meg, who pushed through everything, handled everything, except men who weren’t her father. Meg, who didn’t go from one extreme to another in a heartbeat like she did.
Eve became brighter than sunshine. ‘Meg, I’m not giving anything up. I’m just learning new things. It’s time for me to learn new things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like home-made pasta.’ Eve had tried to make the words ‘home-made pasta’ sound like heart-bypass surgery. What was she going to tell her: she had mastered folding fitted sheets this week while Meg had stopped three Aboriginal children from going deaf due to middle-ear infections? It was true what Richard said – Eve played, she didn’t do – and it was time to take a break and work out what she was going to ‘do’ with her life.
‘You’re good at things now. Playing the cello, that’s you. Moving and swaying like a moron as you play, that’s you. From what you told me, I didn’t think Richard was the type of guy who would want you to give it all up. He’s your biggest supporter. What does he say?’
It wasn’t the time to tell Meg she had stopped working nearly three months ago, in June. She and Richard had decided that summer was a great time to finish up with the orchestra. They could enjoy the longer, warmer days together, go away on the weekends, spend more time together as a couple and not have to consult Eve’s work schedule once. They may have mentioned babies, but that was down the track. Richard had a busy year ahead at work, and that was their focus. It wasn’t the right time to tell Meg it all seemed very logical at the time and now Eve could tell her every crack in the wall and every mark on the skirting board and how to make the perfect sponge cake and that she didn’t have a clue how she got here. That sometimes her entire day was spent walking from room to room in this flat, and other days were filled with shopping and the gym and cooking dinner and collapsing from exhaustion at the end. Full of stuff and empty. So important, with nothing to do.
‘Eve. God. You don’t want to become a Stepford wife. That’s not the kind of person you want to be.’
Eve banged the phone against her head. The word ‘Stepford’ struck her in the face, and both hits jolted her thoughts from doubt to conviction. Again, in a heartbeat. She was sitting in a beautiful flat in London, waiting for her beautiful, successful boyfriend to come home, and Meg was talking to her about relationships. ‘It’s not weak to want to give to a man, Meg. To do things for a man. To compromise. You should try it some time. I think it’s a bit rich you giving me advice about being in a relationship. I mean, when was the last time you were in a relationship for longer than six months?’ Eve laughed into the silence. It was the laugh, not the words, that Eve knew would bite most.
‘Jesus, Eve,’ Meg said. ‘Listen to yourself.’
‘No, seriously, when, Meg? If you’re going to pull my choices apart and question them, why can’t I question yours?’
A sigh came down the phone line from tomorrow, from 17,000 kilometres away. ‘I know more than anybody, Eve, that I fail at that. I fail with men. I’ve always failed. I’ll add it to my list, shall I?’ Meg paused before continuing. ‘Look, I’ve obviously upset you. I’m just saying I think giving up playing the cello is more than giving up work. It’s giving up part of your life – a part that makes you who you are. I can’t even imagine you not playing. I’ve never known you not playing. And I know, whatever you say, you love it. You must miss it. Don’t give it up, that’s all I’m saying. It’s yours. Eve?’
Eve had been listening, but the knowing from Meg, with her unequivocal tone, her calmness, her surety, made Eve burn, made her bottom jaw move from side to side. She was not that girl. She had been living away from Australia most of her adult life, and she was not that girl any more. Eve wiped the sweat from her palms on the checked tea towel slung over her right shoulder and pushed herself out of the oversized armchair before she responded. ‘I think you’re jealous, Meg. I think finally I have something you don’t. I have a man who loves me, who wants to look after me, who spoils me and who I love back, want to look after, want to spoil, and you don’t have that. Any of that.’
There was a silence on the phone, and Eve knew that Richard was right. She needed to control her tongue. It got her into all sorts of trouble. Eve looked at her reflection in the hall mirror and pushed an earring through her lobe. It was shimmery and long and shaped like a tear. She saw the tea towel over her shoulder. She could hear Meg breathing. Meg wasn’t talking. She tried to pick up the other earring, but her fingers couldn’t grip it. They pushed the pretty little thing around the table. Nothing was working. She felt dizzy and gripped the side table, easing herself onto the floor.
‘God, Meg. Meg?’ Eve said, sitting cross-legged on the floor like a schoolgirl. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Meg? I’m sorry. It’s not true. Of course it’s not true. You know me. Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t. That I don’t mean. They just come out.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Since when?’ Meg asked plainly.
‘Since? I don’t know. I just do. Say things I shouldn’t. Meg? I’m sorry. Are you there?’
‘I’m here.’
Eve stayed hunched over, but with Meg’s words she took a full breath. ‘I just got angry because, because, maybe you’re right. Maybe I miss playing. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m really tired and grumpy at the moment, saying stupid things. I’m sorry, Meg, you’ve just had bad luck. It’s just bad luck! … Shit, Meg? Say something. Please.’
Meg spoke, and her tone was too fine. Too okay. But Eve took the pretence. It was more comforting than silence. ‘You’re right. I have a radar for losers. I seem to have a thing for dickheads. What can I say? I shouldn’t be allowed to pick a man on my own. I’m swearing off them. There are other things in life.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Meg. Of course you can pick a man. I said something I didn’t mean. It’s not true. I’ve had a really full-on day and I’m cranky. Seriously, Meg, are we okay? Do you forgive me?’
‘Eve, it’s your life. But, just so you have it straight, I’m not jealous.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said it. Meg, I want to do this. I’m happy, Meg, believe me. I’m happy.’ Eve picked up the other earring and pulled the phone away from her ear to slide it through the tiny hole. ‘Enough about me being a Stepford wife?’
There was a long silence, and Eve could imagine the cogs in Meg’s head ticking over and deciding to file Eve’s new plans about change, about giving up work, and monitor them. ‘I know you’d never be that.’ There was a deep breath down the line. ‘Maybe it is time for a breather. Give yourself a break. Recharge the batteries, as they say, and get back into it.’
‘Yes, exactly. Just a break.’ Eve closed the shutters with a crack as Meg began to discuss plans of coming over to London in two months and meeting Richard, spending some time with Eve.
‘I really want to see you,’ Meg said. ‘We haven’t seen each other in two ye
ars. I’ve never met Richard. I need to see you, Eve.’
Eve put the last dish in the dishwasher, turned it on and told Meg it would be lovely to catch up in a few months but they were going to Spain with Richard’s business in November. It was seamless. ‘Then it’s Christmas and New Year. I really want to catch up but don’t know where we will be. Richard’s talking of taking some time off and travelling, going to Russia, so maybe after that.’ Richard was talking about the exact opposite. About recommitting to work and shaking things up, about getting results, but the words came out softly and surely.
‘Eve? I really want to …’
Eve’s mobile began ringing, getting louder and louder. ‘I have to go, Meg. I’ll call you soon, and we’ll work out when to get together. I can’t wait to see you. Love you.’ Eve was getting good at this.
‘Let’s set a date next time,’ Meg said, racing against the mobile ring.
‘Yes, let’s,’ Eve replied.
Eve stood above the old answering machine, picked a messy piece of lint from the sleeve of her cashmere dress and deleted Meg’s third message in a row. The machine finally stopped blinking. She couldn’t let Meg meet Richard. She would know. Meg would know.
Eve began composing an email in her head to Meg. She could tell her they were away for the winter. With Richard’s business. Eve was helping out. Somewhere far away. It wasn’t as if Meg was going to come knocking on her door to check the story out. She could say she was planning on visiting Australia soon anyway. Then she looked at the kitchen and the oven and the clock and remembered where she was. It was 7.45 pm. Richard would be home soon.
She sprinted from the hall to the kitchen and emptied the bin, leaning it against the bench so its contents didn’t spill over the floor. She needed to replace the liner. Her fingers couldn’t grasp the white plastic liner off the roll. She pulled and pulled. Then she wet her fingertips, pushed down hard and got it. She put her foot on the pedal of the bin, opening up its jaws, pushing down the bin liner. She couldn’t hide the white. She couldn’t hide the white. Her breaths became smaller. Her breaths became smaller.
Eve stood barefoot on the carpet in her walk-in robe and let her eyes wander across the row of pretty dresses. She snapped wooden coathangers to the side, looking for a lightweight dress that was sombre or at least having a dark moment. One that didn’t have lilac florals, wasn’t acidic yellow with royal-blue doves flying across the chest or didn’t turn see-through as soon as one weak English sunbeam fell across it.
When she reached the second-last dress on the rack reserved for dresses, she found it. Navy with Indian-inspired embroidery around the hem. Dark and yet cool enough to wear in an Australian summer at an Australian funeral. She then occupied herself with what else she needed to pack, being extremely specific and detail-focused so that her mind was drowned or at least sloshing around in useless information regarding toothbrushes and sandal heights, sunscreens and sleeping pills, volume of liquids allowed on international flights, hiring cars in Sydney, reading material.
Her mother had started with the words, ‘I have some terrible, terrible news, Evie.’
Eve thought her dad had finally been diagnosed with bowel cancer. It apparently ran in the family, and every year her dad would go into great detail over the phone about his annual colonoscopy. When her mother started talking about Meg, Eve took a while to register it and then had to rewind the call in her head to work out what she was saying. She counted back in her head. It was January, and she had not had a proper conversation with Meg since August– the longest they had ever gone without contact. Her mum started crying. Eve comforted her. She was doing what had to be done, and the right set of emotions would come later – probably when she was on the plane, exposed, next to a stranger who had a moustache from the red wine.
‘What rotten bloody luck that family has had. It’s not fair,’ Hillary said.
‘I’m coming back, Mum. For the funeral. I’ll organise a flight today and be back in time for the funeral.’
‘Eve, can you afford it?’
‘Mum, it’s fine.’
‘Of course. Of course. Shall we meet you at the airport and we can all drive to Tallow together?’
Eve bent forwards and smelt the white lilies on the kitchen bench. She didn’t want to sit in the back seat of a car with her parents for half a day to get to the funeral. She shuddered as the sweet smell flew up her nose.
‘Mum, do you mind if I go by myself? It’s important I do this by myself.’
‘Really? We should be there, Eve.’
‘Mum.’ Eve inhaled. ‘I’m asking you. Please. I need to do this by myself.’
‘Oh, oh, of course. If that’s what you want. If you change your mind, you know where we are. Anyway, we’ll be here when it’s over.’
Richard was due home in half an hour at seven to take her to Heathrow Airport. She sat on the bed, staring at her half-full red suitcase, wondering what was the best policy for side zip pockets. She always forgot she had stashed things in there at the packing stage and marvelled at people who knew what to do with them and remembered exactly what they had packed there. Maybe they were for underwear?
Eve didn’t need the extra space. She only had two bras now, as she hadn’t had the time to replace the ones Richard had cut into pieces on the weekend. He hated seeing a woman’s bra. The straps escaping a shirt; show-through under sheer fabric; via the cleavage; coming out the sides of singlet tops; across the back of a backless dress: any way it happened, he didn’t like seeing a bra. It was repugnant and cheap, he would say when they walked past an offender on the street. That’s why it was called underwear. Eve had made the mistake of wearing a silk blouse to a dinner party that was cut in a deep V at the front, so that curls of lace from her bra popped out whenever she reached forwards.
‘What were you thinking?’ Richard asked when they arrived home early from the party at 11.30 pm.
Eve had spoilt the evening, and acting as though she knew the answer to his question would have spoilt it even more.
‘Take it off. Give it to me.’
He put his hand out with its palm up and waited. They had just closed the front door, and Eve was standing in the hallway. She slipped off her blouse and hung onto it with her right hand. Then she unfastened her bra and handed it to him. She stood in front of him in a pair of black trousers and high, red patent heels.
‘Don’t cover your tits like that, Eve. I’ve fucked you, for god’s sake.’
She should have known. He marched to the drawer in the hall table clutching her black, lacy bra and pulled out a pair of scissors. He cut and cut and cut. Dainty pieces of lace fell softly to the floor of the hallway, making no sound, like black snowflakes. He reminded Eve about her vulgar obviousness, that she was too good to behave like that. Eve’s eyes began to sting, so she played Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor in her head with a tenderness she could never quite get right in life.
‘It’s so fucking cheap and nasty, Eve. It’s beneath you. It’s for hookers and forty-year-old desperate mummies with sagging tits who are so delusional they think they’re twenty-two. What’s wrong with you? You don’t have to do anything, anything, all day other than get yourself ready, and you fuck that up.’
Eve watched the back of his black Converse sneakers run up the stairs like a little boy. By the time she reached him, he had cut up seven of her bras – white, black, green, lavender, navy-striped – and they lay in a pool at the foot of her drawers. She bent over, still naked from the waist up, the red from her shoes poking out beneath her trousers, picked up the remnants, went downstairs and put them in the bin. There was no point in trying to explain that she hadn’t known it would poke out when she leant across the dining table at a twenty-degree angle. She had checked herself before in the mirror, leaning forwards and feeling relieved when she couldn’t see her bra, but she obviously hadn’t rehearsed the full range of movements required at a dinner party.
Standing in the kitchen afterwards, she knew
that Richard wouldn’t talk to her until he came home from work the next night. She knew she would have to find a way to make it up to him. She picked up the potato peeler from the washing rack by the sink and ran it up the outside of her arm, hard. A chunk of skin, like potato peel, came off, and Eve put her hand over it to cover the bleeding. She washed the peeler. Her arm didn’t bleed for too long.
After toiletries were packed, Eve picked up some apricot-scented hand cream from her bedside table and rubbed it into her hands.
‘Hello, tots.’
Richard was home. She hadn’t heard him come in. ‘You’re early.’
‘I thought you might need me. Are you okay?’ He put his briefcase into the walk-in robe and went over to the bed to kiss her on the forehead.
‘Yeah. I’m okay.’
‘You look so small, all curled up there on the bed.’
‘None of this is normal.’
‘It’s not meant to be normal.’
‘I mean I’m not being normal about this.’
Richard sat on the bed and squeezed Eve around the shoulders. He kissed her gently on the back of the neck. ‘How about a cup of tea?’
‘Great.’
He disappeared, and Eve continued folding and smoothing and replaying her last conversation with Meg in August. She also replayed the beeps from the answering machine. Occasionally, she caught a whiff of her cheap hand cream, and the smell felt good.
‘There you go.’ He placed the mug on the bedside table and sat down next to her on the bed.
‘Thanks.’
‘What am I going to do without you for two weeks?’
‘No doubt enjoy your space.’
‘Bollocks. I’ll miss you. Every minute, I’ll miss you.’ Richard put the folded T-shirts on the bed into the suitcase one by one. ‘I like this dress on you.’ He folded that carefully and packed it too. Then he leant over to Eve and kissed her gently on the mouth. She kissed him back and pulled away, pretending to look for something on the bed. Richard reached out his hand, turned her chin towards him and kissed her again. Eve pulled away and snapped some hairbands onto the bottom of a brush.
Under the Influence Page 28
