by Lorna Graham
• • •
The very next week, a new Hap list came out, this one expressing an interest in clichés. Or, as he put it, a preference for “tried-and-true expressions to which our audience immediately responds.” Eve promptly set about assembling an arsenal of trusty slogans she never used in real life but which now proved highly useful, such as “firestorm of controversy,” “a parent’s worst nightmare,” and the ever popular “unanswered questions.” Another device Hap currently enjoyed was alliteration, and thus “triumph and tragedy,” “spirit and sacrifice,” and “pain and perseverance” became among the most dependable arrows in her quiver.
Each morning, as Eve watched the show with Highball, Hap read these lines with zest. He never betrayed any sign that he’d heard, let alone uttered, the exact same phrases thousands of times before. He gave each his all with a guileless, almost childlike exuberance that Eve found touching. Because of him, people were listening to her. Even if they didn’t know it.
Then something even more exciting happened. Mark came into her office with a folder of research and, after they finished talking about her segment, he lingered for a few minutes making small talk, which, for him, was unusual.
Just as Eve was wondering if this was his version of flirting, Mark turned to go. He stepped out into the hall, then he turned back again, slowly. “Have you seen Transformers: Rise of the Barnyard Animals, or whatever the heck it’s called, yet? I’m way behind on my top ten movies, especially the ones aimed at teenagers.”
“I’m behind, too,” said Eve, trying to sound casual.
“Maybe we can cross that one off our list in the next couple of weeks?” asked Mark.
Eve nodded.
“Okay, then. See ya, Toulouse.” He winked at her and left. Finally! Eve thought. He does like me.
• • •
Late Friday night, she dragged herself up the stairs to her apartment, and down again to take Highball for her nightly constitutional. Poor Highball. She was alone an awful lot these days. Eve tried to give her a longer walk than usual, and was rewarded with another writer’s plaque, this one on MacDougal, marking a former home of Louisa May Alcott. When they got home, Eve engaged the dog in a game of fetch and poured herself a bourbon. She was always so revved up after a night at Smell; the adrenaline that kicked in from the interviews and writing coursed through her for hours after she left the office. In another life, she would have read herself to sleep, but with all the reading she was doing for work, she simply couldn’t face running her eyes over any more words, the spiky letters feeling as if they were practically pricking her eyeballs.
Eve changed into her peignoir and curled up on the settee, just big enough for one person. Everything in her apartment was big enough for just one person, she thought, as she sipped idly and looked out the window at the silhouette of the trees, swaying against the city-lightened sky.
Sometime later, Eve became aware of the phone ringing. This was rare and the noise, just for a moment, confused her. She looked at the clock on the plain wooden mantel and was startled by the time; it was almost 11 a.m. She’d slept the whole night on the couch.
“Hello?”
“Eve?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Dad?”
“My daughter’s alive.”
“I know, I know,” she said, wandering into the kitchen, where she leaned heavily against the small counter. “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
It was odd to think she hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, considering that before she moved to New York, her father had been practically her entire world. The month she’d graduated from college, his secretary had quit to get married. Eve’s two elder brothers were working as junior law associates in Columbus, the younger still in school. Somehow, it had been taken for granted that Eve would help out “old Dad” by answering phones and filing. At his request, she even moved in with him for a couple of years. She hadn’t been keen about any of this, but it was difficult to refuse Gin. After Penelope had died, he’d all but closed himself off from the world. He socialized often enough, especially after winning a case or a club tournament, but only in the most superficial ways. Eve doubted he opened up to anyone. She saw it as her duty to keep him company, at least for a while. “A while” had lasted more than a third of her life.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine. Out on the green for an early round. Waiting for Smith. He’s off settling a squabble between two caddies and left me here to cool my heels.” Smith Wainright was one of her father’s partners and had lost his own wife six months before Penelope died. Several weeks after Penelope’s funeral, he decided he was moving his family to Rolling Links, and Gin had promptly announced he would do the same. In short order, the Weldon family abandoned its three-story Victorian with blue shutters in town for a four-bedroom faux townhouse of a condominium, surrounded by prizewinning thornless roses and overlooking miles of tiny hills dotted with ponds shaped like kidney beans. Eve’s new room had come with a bird’s-eye view of the sixteenth hole and its men in green pants with little sweaters tied over their shoulders.
“I’m at the eighth hole. Your favorite,” Gin continued. “Remember?”
She certainly did. When Eve had been in the sixth grade, her friend Lucy Arbuckle had talked her into “borrowing” a golf cart from an ancient foursome engaged in putting practice. With Lucy behind the wheel, they’d careened around the green at breakneck speed till one side of the cart ran over the edge of a sand trap, momentarily tilting the entire cart at a forty-five-degree angle and throwing Eve overboard. She’d landed very hard on her palm and sprained her wrist. A small crowd gathered and began to shout. She was still in shock when her father arrived, plunked himself down in the sand in his new pants, and cradled her in his arms as if she were a newborn. He’d actually shaken off his usual haze and remained focused, all the way to the infirmary where she was iced and bandaged. He even fed her soup that night rather than make her eat with her left hand.
“Of course I remember,” said Eve, padding back out to the living room with a hot cup of tea and sitting on the deep windowsill. And then in a small voice, “I didn’t think you did.”
There was a short silence on the other end. “So you’re still in the Big Apple. That … place.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Vadis taking good care of you?”
“She sure is.”
“Because you can come back, anytime you want.”
“I can?”
“Of course. I’ve found some help. She’s good, but she’s no you.”
“Thanks.”
There was a little cough. “I was thinking maybe I didn’t tell you often enough how much I appreciated your work. And if that’s why you left, well … perhaps I could do better on that score.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” Eve ruminated on the fact that she’d never heard from Alex, and on Donald’s incessant needling. Compared to them, her father proved to be surprisingly sensitive.
They chatted a bit about her brothers and Gin seemed impressed that Eve could now talk with some authority about both sports and politics, things he enjoyed that she’d never known much about.
“… Well, we’ll see if you’re right about the Yankees’ front office. I’m still skeptical,” he said.
“You bet.”
They were silent for a moment and Eve sensed Gin was struggling with what to say. “Still not sure about you—there,” he said, finally. “I just can’t see you as a New Yorker, honey. I know your mother enjoyed it, but to me it’s a strange place. Cold.”
“It does seem that way sometimes. But I think things could change,” she said, thinking of how Mark had finally asked her out.
After they hung up, Eve went back into the kitchen to dump out her now-cold tea and make a fresh pot. As she poured milk into the bottom of the cup, she considered what exactly made someone a New Yorker anyway. A certain salary? A particular address? A table full of friends,
perhaps. Or maybe it was being able to order a complicated sandwich at warp speed and having your money ready for the deli man so you didn’t cause those behind you to wait one millisecond longer than absolutely necessary. That was probably the most likely.
• • •
“What a jerk.”
“Who?”
“That father of yours,” said Donald. “Trying to quash your life’s journey to make his own more comfortable. Trying to lure you from your destiny so that you can serve his interests.”
“That’s not fair,” she said. “He misses me and wants me home. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if it were true. But you and I both know the moment he got you back he’d try to bribe you into being a lawyer again. He wants cheap help.”
“Which is exactly what you want. Me, as your unpaid servant.”
“It is absurd to compare filing for your father to the chance to apprentice with a revolutionary artist. In fact—”
The front door slammed satisfyingly behind her. Too late, she realized she was in the hallway without her shoes. She sank down on the top step of the landing, ready to wait it out until Donald disappeared. As she sat there, examining the chipped polish on her toes, she found herself thinking about her dad. Maybe he just wanted “cheap help” or maybe he really missed her. Either way, it was nice to know she had options.
Chapter 7
Matthias Klieg’s atelier took up the bottom floor of his home, a baroque townhouse on the Upper East Side. Eve stood in the foyer, craning her neck. Since the gala some weeks ago, she and Klieg’s people had been trying to work out a time when they could pick up the underdress she’d worn with “Deep Blue See.” Finally she’d offered to deliver it herself.
Klieg’s chief of staff, Maxine, a tall, stately woman in a pencil skirt and flats, smiled as she accepted the box. She put it on a small table and considered Eve. “Mr. Klieg is at work in the studio. Would you like to say hello?”
Eve was surprised. Hadn’t Klieg famously stopped designing years ago? She followed Maxine into a spacious, neutral-hued room. Antique chairs and settees sat in small clusters, a chandelier hung on a velvet rope, and floor-to-ceiling windows let in sparkling shafts of light. Eve perched on a tufted ottoman and accepted a cup of mint tea offered by a valet.
Klieg strolled around a platform, chin in hand, considering a model draped in champagne organza with a bored expression on her face. So far, it didn’t look like much. Two assistants kept several paces behind Klieg, trying to anticipate his needs for pins and sticky tape. This process continued for some seven or eight minutes before the designer spoke.
“At the shoulder or the hip?” he asked, stopping to hold a rosette up to the dress.
No one answered.
“Miss Eve. Shoulder or hip?”
Eve clattered the cup back in its saucer. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
“Yes, you do. Any girl who can pair an Yves Saint Laurent shift with, what is that, a Ben Reig bolero, can’t be completely hopeless.” He did not look at her as he said this.
Eve approached the platform. She tried to read Klieg’s expression to determine which option he preferred, but his face betrayed nothing. She took the rosette he held out and stood on tiptoe to hold it against the model’s shoulder. Then she brought it down to the hip. She went back and forth several times, suppressing a smile when she caught Klieg turning his head this way and that, following her movements. He looked comically earnest.
“Here’s the thing,” she began. “If the dress were only for this model, I’d put it at the hip, because she’s so slender. For another woman, the shoulder might be better, because it could balance a delicate jaw. On another woman, the waist might be best.”
Klieg nodded. They stood silently, staring at the nascent creation.
“Forgive me if this is an obtuse suggestion, but could the rosette be detachable? Perhaps each woman could decide for herself how to wear it,” said Eve.
“Interactive fashion?” Klieg raised one white eyebrow.
“I think any woman would feel honored to have a hand in something you created.”
“Hmm.” Klieg walked around the model twice more, seeming to disappear into a private world. In the end, he said he would take the rosette idea under advisement. As the model stepped off the platform and headed behind a screen to change, he approached. Eve slowly, squinting at her with the same pained, quizzical expression as he had at the gala, just before they’d parted company. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Eve.” He shook her hand.
Eve knew the encounter was already far more than she had a right to, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Klieg. This was a remarkable experience.” She turned and walked slowly toward the foyer, trying to squeeze every ounce out of the moment.
Maxine poked her head in and said something to Klieg. She was either irritated or German was always spoken with a slight hiss. The designer grunted and they seemed to bicker briefly. Eve reached the threshold.
“Miss Eve?” said Klieg at last. “I’m afraid I forget my manners. You’ve come all this way to return my garment. May I offer you lunch on the patio?”
• • •
They sat at a small wrought-iron table on wide paving stones overlooking a tiny English garden. It was pleasantly cool compared to the streets on this unexpectedly warm day. The cook, Marie, brought out omelets aux fines herbes, a baguette, and a chilled Riesling. Eve accepted a piece of bread and spread it with beautiful, pale butter.
Klieg said nothing, but after a few sips of wine, Eve thought she might risk a question she hoped wouldn’t sound impertinent. “Why did you stop designing the installation dresses? Not that what you’re doing now isn’t beautiful. I just wondered, why the change?”
Klieg put down his glass. “I had an epiphany.”
“About what?”
“First you have to tell me something.”
“All right.”
“And you must be honest.”
“Of course.” Eve put down her fork and looked at him.
“How did you find wearing ‘Deep Blue See’?”
“I loved it.” Klieg said nothing but continued eating his omelet. Eve tried to dial up the enthusiasm. “It was incredible. Every eye was on me. I felt like a princess.” Klieg put down his own fork and cocked his head. She had the unnerving feeling that he was looking into a secret room inside of her that she’d never told anyone about. “Well,” she said finally. “I—I guess I wasn’t all that comfortable?” She coughed. “Physically.” Small bonfires erupted on her cheeks.
“Ah.”
“You’re not surprised.”
“Not at all. In fact, this is the answer to your question.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I designed those pieces, I was thinking of myself. My art, the statement I wanted to make. Getting the world to notice me. I did not care anything for the woman who’d have to wear them. How she’d hold a drink, flirt with a man. Or visit the loo, if you don’t mind me bringing up something so vulgar over lunch.”
Eve smiled. “And then?”
“In my latter career, I designed for the woman: what would make her look good. Feel good.”
“It sounds like you regret your early work.”
“Heavens, no.” He sat back and looked at the square of sky above the patio. “How can I explain? I had to do that work. It was in me and it had to come out. It was, if I may say, a significant contribution to the art form, and my early pieces advanced the notion of what wearable design could be. But they were of a particular moment in my life. They could only have been done by a young man.”
“What do you mean?”
“As we age—and you can’t know this yet. But as we age, we start to care about too many things.” He took a sip of wine. “It all seems so precious. Every little thing. That tiny purple flower there, bending over the brick. You see it? Or the way the sun makes your hair look wet.” Reflexively, Eve put a hand to her he
ad. “Everything we see feels so significant, yet so fragile,” Klieg continued. “We become acutely aware of everything we have lost, and our longing for it only increases over time. When we care so much about so much, passion is diluted. I could never focus the way I did when I was young and free. I could be bold then because I had more … room. You see?”
“I think so.” Eve glimpsed Maxine watching them from the kitchen window. When their eyes met, Maxine looked away.
“It is part of development,” said Klieg. “That feeling of being immortal, it lets you take the chances you will no longer take when you have a husband and children and a legacy. So my advice to you, Miss Eve, is this: Be bold while you are young.”
Klieg asked her about Smell the Coffee and whom else she’d interviewed. As with Alex, the topic brought the storyteller out in Eve. The more she worked, the more entertaining stories she had, especially about celebrities. She didn’t get to talk to big stars; usually it was just “movie of the week” folk, but even they constituted a minor brush with notoriety. The famous behaved differently in phone interviews; they were far more relaxed than on television. There was a “just between us” feel that arose from the meeting of two disembodied voices, and Eve had used that to lure some interesting tidbits from her subjects. She told Klieg about an up-and-coming actor she’d interviewed who had met his wife on a movie set. Unfortunately, she was engaged to the director and the entire shoot had taken on a cloak-and-dagger feel as the two actors tried to steal time together without the director knowing. By the end of the story, Klieg had stopped eating and was actually leaning forward in his chair.
“Fascinating,” he said. “Though they sound like a very ill-bred pair, making a mockery of the woman’s fiancé. Discretion used to be customary in such matters.”
“Were you ever married?” asked Eve, wondering idly if he might be gay but also picturing him with any of the dozens of beauties he’d dressed in his time.
Klieg leaned back again, folded his napkin, and placed it on the table. “Yes.” A cloud passed over their little patch of sky and threw the patio into momentary dimness. Klieg looked at his watch. “Do you mind? I have some calls to make.” He scraped his chair back with a bit more force than necessary. They stood and faced each other and Maxine hurried out with a furrowed brow.
