The Book of Eve

by Julia Blake

  A man, tall and in his late forties, ran lightly up the beautiful marble staircase and stopped halfway, facing the guests he held up a hand until the excited buzz had died away.

  ‘My friends,’ he began. ‘I want to thank you all for joining us on this very special day, the day when my darling wife and your dear friend, Annaliese, turns thirty five.’ There were cheers from the guests, as they turned shiny happy faces up to him, anticipation and pleasure lighting their expressions.

  Letting my eyes roam, I saw, standing at the foot of the stairs, a tiny woman, obviously late in pregnancy, her short dark hair styled into a sharply angled bob. I envied her the control she obviously had over it and for the chic air she wore like a second skin. I wondered who she was, watched silently as she looked up at the tall man standing beside her. He smiled at her, his love and adoration obvious even from the other side of the room, tenderly a large hand rested gently on her abdomen and I guessed he must be the father of her baby.

  They seemed an unlikely pair, her so slight and dark, her classic chic making me doubt she was English, and him so typically Scottish looking, with his burly physique and red hair; and yet, as she slipped under his arm, fitting exactly against his side, I realised they were a perfect match.

  Opposite them, on the other side of the stairs, stood a very tall, untidily assembled woman, short hair cropped almost regimentally close to the side of her head, eyes blinking through thick rimmed spectacles as she gazed up at Robert, clutching her glass as if it were a life line, mouth silently moving in time to his speech. In a sudden burst of clarity, I realised this must be the assistant, Caroline O’Donnell, and gazed curiously at her.

  Ally hadn’t been very forthcoming with information about her, only that she’d been with Annaliese for years, since her first book had been published, and ran both Annaliese and Robert’s lives with such military precision they’d be lost without her. Ally knew she’d been married, she had a son who lived in America and very rarely came home; at least, Ally had never seen him.

  Next to her, stood a man, he smiled at the pregnant couple and I felt the breath catch in my throat. He was, quite simply, the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Dark haired, tall, he looked to be in his late twenties and was dressed in a pale linen suit which screamed expensive.

  I gaped hungrily at his square jawed profile, thinking wildly he looked like old photographs of those men who’d conquered the British Empire and done great deeds of daring do in the wilds of Africa, or some such place. Clean-shaven, he had a firm, perfect chin and a straight nose. Looking up at Robert, head held at a slightly arrogant angle, I realised why he seemed familiar, my father still had all his old Rider Haggard books and this man could have posed for one of its covers. ‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Ally, angling my head in his direction.

  ‘Scott,’ she muttered back, and we rolled our eyes in a mute expression of shared lust, which had Mrs Briggs clicking her tongue disapprovingly and beetling her brows at us.

  Behind Scott was another man, shorter, slighter and with soft blond hair which flopped over a soft, kindly looking face, he pulled a rueful face at the pregnant woman and I noted the feminine angle of his chin and the set of his mouth. Probably gay, I said to myself. As he turned further to gaze around at the assembled guests, I amended firmly to myself, definitely gay.

  The pregnant woman swayed, I saw concern flicker over the red headed man’s face as his grip on her elbow tightened. He glanced around, seeking support, but before he could do anything, another man silently and unobtrusively slipped a chair from the wall. Without any fuss, he touched the woman on the shoulder, who turned, saw the chair, sank gracefully down onto it and flashed a grateful smile at her rescuer. Her husband too nodded his thanks in the other man’s direction, who smiled, before turning his attention back up to Robert.

  Curiously, I studied them, the woman sitting neatly, her legs crossed at the ankles, her poise and grace made me aware of my own slouch and I drew myself up. Her raspberry coloured maternity dress was stylish and suited her, clever draping over the stomach serving to lead the eye away from the bulge, without resorting to the usual tent like camouflage which women in very late pregnancy seemed to sport.

  Beside her stood the man whom I’d definitely decided was her husband, tall and solid. Muscly rather than fat, he stood like a rugby player, his burly body taking on a thin guise of respectability under his well-cut, dark blue linen suit.

  Then, in the position he’d assumed behind her chair, was the other man, not so tall as the red headed giant, nor as physically intimidating, his soft brown hair was cut into a neat, bank manager style, yet his face seemed kind. When he looked down at the shining black crown of the woman’s bob, his expression softened into tender concern. As if sensing this, the woman glanced up, her small, perfectly manicured hand lightly touching his as though to reassure.

  They seemed to form a circle around the foot of the stairs, with the pregnant woman, her husband and their friend on the left, and Caroline, Scott and the gay looking man on the right. I noticed how the other guests formed an outer ring a couple of paces back, leaving a clear space between them and this charmed circle of six, the air of exclusiveness which hung over them was palpable and obvious. Who were they? I asked myself. Who were these beautiful people, whose confidence and attractiveness set them apart from us mere mortals?

  I snapped to attention as Robert paused and, into the silence, a rich, highly amused voice resounded in a stage whisper from upstairs. ‘For heaven’s sake, darling, do get on with it, I want some champagne.’ There was a roar of laughter, and Robert shook his head, shrugging with comic resignation.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried over the mirth. ‘With no further ado, will you please raise your glasses to the birthday girl, Annaliese.’

  ‘Annaliese!’ chorused the guests, glasses raised, and there she was.

  Poised, charming, she hesitated on the stairs, hand clasped to her chest in mock surprise; then she descended, laughing, her long golden hair lifting over her shoulders. She took the hand her husband offered her, and the glass of champagne which Scott quickly ran up the stairs and presented her with. Pressing a merry kiss to her husband’s beaming face; I saw the love in their expressions and sighed wistfully, understanding the futility of my relationship with Mike.

  ‘My friends,’ she cried, blue eyes sparkling with fun and happiness. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my surprise birthday party,’ she twinkled at the word surprise, there was a knowing chuckle from her audience. ‘Enjoy yourselves, that is my birthday wish, I want everyone to have the best time imaginable, thank you.’

  There was a round of good natured applause as Annaliese ran lightly down the stairs, pressing kisses onto cheeks, gently dropping a hand onto the swollen belly of her friend and exchanging a few low words with her, before smiling and being caught up in hugs by the other two men. Scott, I couldn’t help but notice, stayed close to her side, chatting easily with Robert, his eyes constantly straying back to the brightness that was Annaliese.

  ‘Melissa,’ whispered Ally. ‘Come on, we need to get back to work.’

  ‘Ok,’ I murmured, was about to follow her, when Annaliese looked up. Through a gap in the crowd, our eyes met and locked. She gazed at me for what felt like forever, as my heart pounded and the breath caught in my lungs, stubbornly refusing to come out. She smiled; gently, almost wistfully, released me from her stare and turned to talk to someone else.

  Caroline O’Donnell too looked at me, her small eyes narrowed and hostile. Flushing slightly, after all I was being paid to work, not stare at the rich and famous at play, I quickly followed Ally through the swing door and back into the kitchen.

  Later, hours later, and with Mrs Brigg’s blessing, I took my poor aching feet and escaped with a plateful of food and a mug of tea out into the back courtyard to have my break. Carefully placing my plate and mug onto what I a
ssumed was an old mounting block, I eased my swollen feet out of the hateful shoes, catching my breath in a sob of pain at the flesh and blood left behind. Choosing not to think how I was going to force my rubbed raw feet back into such instruments of torture, I left the shoes where they lay and wandered away onto the lush grass, seeking somewhere to have my picnic.

  Back at the Hall, the party was still in full swing and would continue until the small hours, but Ally had informed me the hired help were not expected to stay until the bitter end. Instead, we had about another hour of handing out food and drink and clearing away the empties; then we would help Mrs Briggs tidy the kitchen and load the dishwashers.

  Apparently, a mobile catering unit had been hired which would arrive at four and would begin serving freshly cooked fish and chips, burgers and pizzas. ‘How original,’ I’d heard one guest exclaim. ‘Oh what fun,’ another had cried, and I couldn’t help reflecting ironically that fish and chips were obviously something of a novelty to these people, not part of their staple diet.

  The catering unit would stay all night, dispensing hot food whenever the guests wanted it. In the morning, it would offer a choice of breakfast foods, ranging from the traditional bacon and egg roll, to waffles, toast and crumpets. Mrs Briggs would also be back in the morning to make sure there was enough tea, coffee and juice on tap for all the partied out guests.

  It was like I’d been allowed a glimpse of another life, of another world where people thought nothing of spending thousands on a party. Passing round drinks and trays full of delicious looking yet unfamiliar food, I’d caught glimpses of Annaliese opening her presents. I couldn’t help contrasting the beautiful jewellery and gorgeous pieces of china, with the thirty pounds my parents had given me in an envelope last month when I’d turned nineteen. Mike, being out of work as usual, had given me nothing, and my birthday money had quickly gone on food.

  Annaliese, she fascinated me. As I’d slipped through the guests, silently handing out canapés and topping up glasses, I’d constantly looked for her, instinctively knowing as soon as I’d entered a room if she was there or not. Her brightness, that quick silvery laugh, the fact wherever there was a crowd of laughing happy people, Annaliese was invariably at its centre.

  I wandered through the cooling grass, a moan of pleasure on my lips at the relief after the torture of too high and too tight shoes. Finding a weeping willow tree, I eased my way under its concealing branches, dropping down to sit cross legged on the ground, taking a swig of tea and looking with interest at my plate.

  My parents are very plain eaters; much of the food I’d been serving all day was unfamiliar to me. Cautiously, I picked up a small golden brown pastry parcel and bit into it, flaky bits erupting onto my lips and skirt, as a warm nutty cheesy taste with the tangy flavour of spinach exploded in my mouth. Hmm, I thought, not bad. I tried an olive, instantly spat it out, its oily salty taste unpleasant to my uneducated palate. The little vol-au-vents filled with anchovies marinated in fresh herbs and lemon juice are nice, as were the triangles of brown bread topped with smoked salmon and caviar. The taramasalata made me feel sick, so I pushed it to one side and instead crunched up a garlic and herb breadstick. I’d eaten nothing since a small portion of greasy sausage and chips the night before, so could feel my stomach rumbling and protesting at the richly unfamiliar food.

  I sipped my tea, wished it was champagne. I’d had champagne before when I’d passed my exams my parents had bought a bottle. But I couldn’t help feeling its gassy disappointing taste which had burnt the back of my throat and caused indigestion, was a pale imitation of the golden bubbling liquid I’d been serving all day. I’d watched in silent envy as the guests gulped it down, the atmosphere fizzing and frothing almost as much as the champagne, voices rising until a bubble of happy sound seemed to encase the whole hall.

  I finished my tea, tipping the dregs onto the ground and placed the plate, with its leftover bits of food, on the ground beside me. Wiggling down I stretched out on the grass, flexing my feet as the blisters throbbed, dreading trying to squeeze them back into those shoes.

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you.’ My eyes snapped open in shock at the male voice which suddenly intruded into my sanctuary. I struggled to sit up, frantically pulling down a skirt which had ridden up to the top of my thighs.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ I gasped, pushing hair out of my eyes, peering through the fronds of the tree to where a man stood, the sun behind him casting a halo of light around his pale suit. I shaded my eyes and realised it was Scott.

  ‘You should be careful lying there,’ he continued. ‘There’s an ants nest in that tree and the ferocious little buggers will have smelt the food.’ I felt a tickle on my leg, in sudden paranoid fear swiped my hand across my shin, dislodging a probing exploring ant, feelers held high as he searched for food. Quickly, I scrambled to my feet and hopped out from under the tree, brushing myself down, imagining the scrabble of tiny feet on my body.

  ‘Oh,’ I exclaimed in disgust, as the remnants of food on my plate heaved and moved under a mass of small black bodies, ‘What shall I do?’ Scott frowned, cautiously reached down a hand and tipped the plate over, tapping it on the ground to dislodge food and ants into an angrily vibrating heap, then handed the empty plate and mug back to me.

  ‘Let them have their own party,’ he said, looking at me curiously. ‘You’re not the girl who usually comes with Ally.’ I heard the question in his voice, felt myself colour under his gaze, god, he really was outstandingly gorgeous. I’d always thought Mike good looking, but, compared to this man, he paled into insignificance. Scott reminded me of one of those heroes from books I’d done in English, the Great Gatsby or Sebastian from Brideshead Revisited, that same self-assurance which bordered on arrogance.

  I realised he was still waiting for my answer, that I was gaping at him like a landed trout. ‘No,’ I stuttered. ‘I’m not, she, that is, Jenny... erm, the girl who usually comes with Ally, well, she’s on her honeymoon, so Ally asked me to come instead.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his eyes moved down my long exposed legs and I see a flicker of something in them, ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘You’re certainly easier on the eye than the other girl. What happened to your shoes?’

  ‘I took them off,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘My feet were hurting so much, I’m not used to wearing heels but they were the only pair of black shoes I had.’ He smiled, but didn’t answer, silence stretched between us. ‘I’d better be getting back,’ I said breathily. ‘My break was only fifteen minutes. Thank you for rescuing me from the ants, I hope you enjoy the rest of your party, goodbye.’ I turned and fled from his mocking dark eyes, his sardonically handsome smile.

  ‘Wait,’ he called. ‘What’s your name?’ but I pretended not to hear and hurried back to the courtyard, my face flaming with embarrassed colour. I rescued my shoes, sat on the mounting block to brush grass and dirt from my feet and attempt to persuade them back into the cheap tightly fitting shoes, wincing with pain as blisters tore and bled, rubbing excruciatingly until my eyes watered.

  ‘My word, you’ve caught the sun,’ exclaimed Mrs Briggs as I re-entered the kitchen, mistaking my blazing cheeks for exposure to the elements. ‘Best you have some water, don’t want you collapsing from dehydration now, do we?’ Gratefully, I filled a glass from the tap and gulped it thirstily, feeling the icy cold water slip down my throat, taking the opportunity to collect my wildly scattered thoughts.

  ‘Alright now?’ she asked in motherly concern and I nodded in response. ‘That’s good,’ she said and thrust an opened bottle of champagne into each hand. ‘Now, go and top up glasses while Ally has her break, then you can both give me a hand taking out the desserts.’

  I gripped the bottles tightly, felt their coldness through my palms, the drops of condensation which oozed their way slowly down the thickened glass necks. On my way out, I passed Ally entering the kitchen bearing a tray full
of empty plates, glasses and scrunched up napkins, she pulled a weary face at me and I smiled sympathetically.

  Moving once more through the guests, ignored and overlooked, I silently refilled any glass I saw. Watching, as the party sprawled like a living thing, spreading itself through the many rooms of the Hall. A game of billiards was being played in one, and the spectators, mostly men, waved me away, indicating they were onto the whisky and had no need of my champagne. Music was being played in the large formal drawing room, people were moving together, one elderly couple gathering an admiring crowd as they perfectly performed what looked like a tango or something like that. I refilled glasses, emptied both my bottles, returned to the kitchen and emerged with two more, wondering how much all this champagne had cost.

  I passed through the rest of the rooms, seeing Mrs Briggs laying out elegant trays of tea and coffee things in the conservatory, where some of the older, more sedate party goers had gathered. And everywhere I went I heard the sound of people enjoying themselves, watched in silence as the sophisticated, beautiful guests laughed and chattered, the level of nose rising in direct relation to the amount of alcohol being consumed.

  Aware I’m constantly looking for him, I’m unable to explain why he so fascinates me. I’ve never met anyone like him before, he makes all the boys I hung around with at school, all the men at work, Mike, his mates, seem so coarse and rough. My eyes scan the crowd. With a clutch of excitement I see him, sprawled on the lawn with the rest of the inner circle.

  Lurking in the doorway, I watch as they lazily chat to each other, hear the gentle laughter rising up like a heat haze in the still warm air. They are so beautiful, all of them, glamorous and unreachable, like kings. Annaliese is sitting on a covered swing, the pregnant woman lying with her head in her lap, her stomach sticking upright, her eyes closed wearily as Annaliese gently rubs her temples, one small bare foot pushing at the ground to send them slowly rocking.