The Book of Eve

by Julia Blake

  Momentarily united, Scott and I exchange a bemused glance, looking at Ferdie as he slumps down into a chair, a stunned expression rendering his cheekily handsome face immobile.

  ‘And finally, we come to you, my precious Robert, most wonderful of husbands and best of companions. We’ve been together for so long, you and I, that there should have been no secrets between us. But there were, weren’t there, my love? I want to tell you, Robert, that I know, I think I’ve always known, maybe even before you did. Oh, I appreciate and understand why you felt you had to keep it from me, although you could have confided in me, my darling, somehow we’d have found a way to make it work.’

  The champagne glass slips unnoticed from Robert’s hand to crack in half on the tiled hearth, its contents fizzing as it came into contact with the hot grate. Seeing him sway, Ferdie leapt forward to steady Robert and help him to a chair.

  ‘She knew?’ I hear Robert mutter, his face ashen. ‘Oh my god, she knew? Annaliese...’ in desperation, he holds out a quavering hand to her perfect image.

  ‘My darling,’ stressed Annaliese, leaning forward urgently in her chair. ‘I know what you’re thinking and feeling right now, but it’s alright, truthfully and honestly, it’s alright. You have been the best of husbands, I want more than anything in the world for you to be happy, and know that I leave you in the very best of hands.’

  Ferdie’s hand tightened on Robert’s shoulder and Robert cast a quick, telling look up at him. Suddenly, everything made perfect, utter sense and I stare, we all stare, as the penny collectively drops. Ferdie glares at us, his expression defensive. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he states, his voice low and controlled. ‘It’s true, yet I swear to you we did nothing about it, we couldn’t, we’d both rather have died than cause her any pain at all.’

  ‘I have one last favour to ask of you, Robert,’ the flawless image went on. ‘You will know what it is when the time comes and what must be done. Do this one small thing for me and you will have my everlasting gratitude,’ she smiles gently.

  ‘And now, my friends,’ continues Annaliese. ‘Love one another and be happy. If you ever think of me, then remember how much I love you all and that we’ll see each other again soon.’

  It’s all too much for me, even though I probably deserve it, my exclusion from Annaliese’s message from beyond the grave has hurt more than I could ever have imagined. I stumble to my feet. I need air and space, I need to be away from them all, from their cosy little circle.

  ‘Eve,’ Scott says, but I ignore him, reach blindly for the door, pain pounding in my chest.

  ‘Please don’t go, Eve,’ her voice freezes me to the spot, my hand cold on the smooth white porcelain of the handle. ‘Please, Eve... stay...’ Slowly, I turn to gaze in disbelief at the screen where she stares back at me, her eyes locked onto mine. I feel the stunned looks of the others, hear Mimi mutter something under her breath in French but am oblivious to them all.

  In a dream, I walk to the television, kneel before her image and place my fingertips onto the screen. She seems to look straight at me. I see the love in her eyes.

  ‘My darling girl,’ she murmurs. ‘My little Evie...’

  And in a flash, I am back in that day, nearly a decade before, to page one, chapter one, of the book of my life with Annaliese.

  Chapter Two

  Genesis

  The day I met Annaliese, was first introduced into her magical golden world, started out much like any other. Mike, my boyfriend, was still in bed, grumbling and moaning as I stomped around the bedroom pulling on clothes, shooting him evil looks and making as much noise as one nineteen year old girl could possibly make and still be considered this side of inconsiderate.

  I wasn’t resentful, well not much, about the fact he’d lost yet another job that week, making me, once again, the sole breadwinner. But I was annoyed he seemed to be making no effort at all, or none that I could see, to find another.

  Muttering curses about shiftless, lazy arse men, I located my missing shoe under the ugly sagging sofa still bearing the aroma of last night’s chips, pulled a jacket over my shoulders and set off to work, taking great delight in letting the door bang really hard behind me.

  It was early summer in the year of 2004. I turned my face up to the clear blue sky, delighting in the warmth of the early morning sun, as it peeped coyly over the regiment of trees lining the road, where Mike and I were currently living in a small flat barely one step up from a squat. Frankly admitting to myself it was gross, I looked upon it as purely temporary, somewhere to live, for now, until I figured out exactly what it was I wanted to do with my life.

  And Mike? Well, a small, but persistent, voice inside was beginning to insist maybe he too was purely temporary. At school, he’d been the boy every girl wanted to go out with, moody, lazy and with serious attitude that had always been getting him into trouble. In short, he was every would-be rebel teenage girls dream. I’d thought all my Christmases had come at once when, out of all the girls in my year, he’d chosen me.

  We’d been together nearly three years now, had left school together, vowing to make a life together, stick together through thick and thin and somehow, together, achieve our joint dream of a marvellous, rich future together.

  But it hadn’t quite worked out that way. True, we’d both found jobs easily enough. I’d gone to work at the local newspaper, starting at the bottom of the ladder determined to work my way up to the dizzy heights of journalist. Mike had been taken on by a local building firm as an electrician’s apprentice, with the long term goal of one day running his own electrical company.

  ‘That’s where the money is, Mel,’ he’d insisted, as we’d toasted our success with cheap lager. ‘Being self-employed, making other suckers do the work whilst I make all the money.’

  The job with the building firm lasted all of two months, which, bearing in mind the twelve other jobs which had come and gone over the years, proved to be something of a record, as Mike ricocheted from job to job, trying out everything possible, but never quite finding one that fitted.

  As for me, well, I was still with the newspaper, but was becoming increasingly convinced I’d made the wrong choice, that, much as I loved the written word, the dreary restrictive world of a small town reporter was clearly not the fun and interesting life I’d imagined it to be.

  And so we’d drifted through another year. Looking back, I felt my teeth gritting at the sheer waste of time. This wasn’t what I’d planned, I didn’t want to keep sitting around waiting for my life to begin, I wanted it all and I wanted it now.

  This impatience, coupled with the real financial hole Mike’s latest unemployment had landed us in, was the reason I’d been moonlighting evenings and weekends. Trying out other career options from the safety of a regular wage slip, despising myself for not being as brave, or was that as foolhardy as Mike, to take the plunge and leave a job I was beginning to really detest. Instead, tentatively dipping my toe, afraid of jumping, telling myself one of us had to be sensible, that we wouldn’t survive if both of us were floating around, belly up, in the unemployed pond.

  Of course, I could at any time give up and move back with mum and dad. Knew they’d welcome me with open arms, especially if I arrived bearing glad tidings I was no longer with Mike and, my mum’s especial fear, wasn’t pregnant. My parents despised Mike but were very careful to hide it. They feared, probably correctly, if I was forced to make a choice, then sheer teenage bloody mindedness would prevail and they would lose me to him and all he represented.

  I guess I come from what you would call a middle middle-class upbringing. My parents are school teachers so earn respectable wages. They live in a nice comfortable house on the nice side of town; they have nice neighbours and get invited round for nice dinner parties and barbecues. I went to a nice school, not the one my parents taught at, they’d felt that that wouldn’t have been fair to me,
but still a very good state school, where I did very well and got good grades.

  Mike was the anomaly; he could in no way be described as nice. He was my rebellion against my upbringing, my stage I was going through and my parents very sensibly treated him as such. Always unfailingly polite to him, they invited him to tea, attempted to converse with him and outwardly were the very epitome of modern, tolerant parents. But I saw the exchanged glances every time Mike grunted a monosyllabic reply, every time he lost another job, every time he drank just a little too much of my dad’s best beer, every time he demonstrated to my parents he wasn’t looking after their little girl in the manner to which she was accustomed.

  I saw the pained looks, squirmed inside, deeply embarrassed because I knew what they thought of him, was angry at them for being snobs, and angrier still with myself because, deep down, I agreed with them.

  When I moved in with him and we started living together in a series of damply depressing and squalid abodes, the pained looks became more obvious. Dad even daring to tentatively query if I was sure this was what I wanted, at which point I’d snapped at him, punishing them both by not going round for two weeks. Mainly because I was annoyed at what I saw as interference in my life, also because I’d wanted to throw myself into his sheltering arms and sob, no, this was not what I wanted at all, daddy please make it all alright.

  My parents aren’t my real parents; I mean they’re not my birth parents. They adopted me when I was a year old, so as far as love and commitment and memory go, they are my mum and dad, and I’m perfectly ok with it all. I’ve known for as long as I can remember I’m very special, that mummy and daddy couldn’t have a little girl of their own so were lucky enough to be able to choose one and to their great delight and joy got me.

  I know some adopted children have a burning ambition to find their real mum, but not me. As far as I’m concerned, she’d given me up, she’d lost any rights over me then and my loyalties were firmly with my real mum and dad, the people who’d brought me up, loved me and always been there for me.

  ‘Hey, Mel!’ Jolted out of my daydream, I looked up as Ally jerked her car to a stop, waving frantically out of the open window. ‘Come on, get in,’ she ordered, ‘We’re late.’

  Obediently, I wrenched open the door of her old, rusty Ford Escort, marvelling the thing was still going given the way Ally treated it. Seeming to run on fumes and a prayer, fuel gauge permanently hovering a shadow above red, I don’t recall Ally ever buying petrol. I suppose she must have done, but being as permanently broke as the rest of us, assumed she put in only the barest minimum, enough to keep it rattling from her parents’ home in one of the villages, to the various part-time and temporary jobs Ally filled her days with.

  She stamped her foot to the floor. Dutifully, the little car lurched and shook its way down the road, brakes squealing as she slung us round the corner. Used to Ally’s driving I unconsciously braced myself, too grateful for the lift to object.

  Today being a Saturday I wasn’t at work, instead I was going with Ally to earn some much needed cash. The dregs of our money had been blown last night on chips and lager so Ally’s phone call two days earlier, asking if I wanted to go with her Saturday up to the posh Hall to do a spot of waitressing couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Of course, being a waitress was not on my to-do list, but if I wanted to eat that night, and I did, I had to earn some pennies and fast. Ally glanced over at me, noting the neat black skirt and white blouse which she’d dropped off the night before. ‘Clothes fit ok?’ she asked, expertly managing to change gear, take a corner and light a cigarette, all at the same time.

  ‘Yes thanks,’ I replied, smoothing down the skirt. I’m a good three inches taller than Ally, so the skirt, which on her was decent and staid, on me barely reached mid-thigh. Beggars, however, can’t be choosers, and as I’d had nothing even vaguely suitable in my wardrobe I’d been very grateful for Ally’s offer of a loan.

  ‘Not sure how comfortable you’re gonna be in those shoes, though,’ she continued, looking down at my spiked heels and pulling a face. ‘We’re on our feet all day; flats would probably have been a better idea.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I reassured her hastily, not wanting to admit the only other black shoes I had were so scuffed and down at the heel, I would have been too embarrassed to wear them. She shrugged, turning her attention back to the road, not speaking again until we slowed and turned left. We drove through large ornate gates standing open to admit a steady stream of traffic, gravel crunching under four bald tyres, we followed a gleaming Mercedes until the driveway split in two. The expensive car, obviously carrying guests, went one way and the mere hired help, us, drove around to the back of the Hall, scrunching to a halt outside the kitchen door.

  Quickly, Ally hustled me out of the car, muttering under her breath at our lateness. Ally quite often helped out at the Hall when they had one of their many parties, coming back with tales of the beauty and magnificence of the place, of the rich and famous people she saw whilst handing round champagne and canapés. But, most of all, she talked about the owner of the Hall, the renowned and beautiful author, Annaliese.

  I’d read all her books, of course, I mean, who hadn’t? We’d done them at school, they were considered modern classics and my teacher, who’d actually met her, was so besotted with her it had been easy to waste a whole lesson by getting him talking on the subject of Annaliese.

  So, when Ally asked if I wanted to come up to the Hall and help out at a party to celebrate her thirty fifth birthday, I’d jumped at the chance, not only to earn some much needed cash, but also to satisfy my curiosity about a woman I’d heard so much about, have a look at the place where she’d lived for over fifteen years, with her husband and agent, Robert Macleod.

  Ally talked often about the Hall and its occupants, so I knew Annaliese and her husband lived alone, having no children or any other family. I also knew Annaliese’s assistant, the apparently formidable Caroline O’Donnell, lived in the gatehouse, yet also had a room at the Hall where she more often than not stayed. There was a large circle of friends, Ally had told me, and it was a rare night that none of them were staying over. Annaliese was a very sociable person, she informed me knowledgeably, and had many friends. All of this information she’d gained from Annaliese’s housekeeper, Mrs Briggs, who’d become very fond of Ally over the two years she’d been helping out whenever necessary.

  So now, as we rushed down a long stone flagged corridor and into a large, bright and modern kitchen, I guessed the motherly soul who bustled over to us, flourishing white aprons and exclaiming at our lateness, was none other than the indomitable Mrs Briggs.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs B,’ gasped Ally, flipping the apron round her waist and expertly tying it into a neat and precise bow with an ease which came from much practice. ‘This is Melissa, the one I told you about.’

  Mrs Briggs shot me a look and pursed her lips, no doubt at my somewhat dishevelled appearance and I found my hands automatically flying up to try and tame my wild riotous curls. I guessed I was looking even more uncultivated than normal, due to Ally’s race to get us here and the open car window. Ally quickly tied the apron round my waist, flashing me a silently supportive smile, sensing my unease and sudden fit of nerves.

  ‘Well, no matter, you’re here now,’ said Mrs Briggs, and gestured at trays already loaded with beautiful crystal champagne flutes, all precisely filled with sparkling golden liquid. ‘Take these through to the entrance hall,’ she ordered. ‘The guests are arriving and Robert wants everyone to have a glass of champagne to wish Annaliese a very happy birthday.’

  I was, I must confess, surprised at the familiar and easy way she used their first names, almost as if they were family or close friends. Perhaps, subconsciously, I’d been expecting her to be subservient, my knowledge of domestic help limited to period dramas on the telly and the way my mother treated her cleaner – a
n odd mixture of relief someone else was tackling the housework and middle class guilt another woman was cleaning her house. Later, I would learn Mrs Briggs had been Robert’s housekeeper for twenty years, so considered she was family and allowed herself certain privileges. However, should any other lesser member of staff attempt such familiarity, then her matronly bosom would heave with righteous indignation and the saucy young upstart would be left in no doubt as to the impropriety of their actions.

  Picking up a tray of glasses, I wobbled slightly, feet already throbbing in too tight, unfamiliar heeled shoes, and a flicker of concern crossed Mrs Brigg’s kindly face.

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you, dear?’ she insisted, and I did my best to give her my most reassuring smile.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I assured her, and followed Ally as she expertly sashayed out of the kitchen, through a swing door and into the large entrance hall.

  What were my first impressions of the place that would later become my home? Gold and sunshine; early summer light streaming through great double doors thrown open to their full width. The guests were entering with cries of joyful recognition and seemingly genuine pleasure, as they greeted, kissed and hugged one another. The wallpaper was a beautiful brocaded stripe the colour of old fashioned guineas, which the light seemed to turn into cloth of gold, and my eyes were everywhere at once as I silently weaved through the crowds, grateful hands removing glasses until at last my tray was empty.

  Following Ally, I made my way quickly back to the kitchen for another tray, and another, until every guest I could see had a full glass in their hands. Melting unobtrusively into the background with Ally, we pressed our backs against the door to the kitchen quarters, only moving when it silently creaked open and Mrs Briggs slipped out, her face wreathed in a bright smile, a glass of champagne gripped tightly in her capable hand.