The Book of Eve Read online

  With a crash of notes the organ hurls us into the first hymn, one of Annaliese’s favourites, Morning Has Broken. A memory of her singing it, long golden hair a tangle of morning after the night before bed headedness; eyes bleary with hangover, mouth twisting into a wry grin of black humour as she surveyed the fallout from a monumental party in the cold light of morning.

  I remember her throwing up her hands in despair, grabbing my wrist, her lilting, surprisingly deep singing voice, that faint trace of accent which only ever emerged when she sang or in times of extreme emotion, an accent which intrigued and baffled me as I strained to catch its origin.

  Twirling me round, feet cold on the tiled floor, robe flying around my ankles, she’d sang loudly, praise for the bringing, of this fresh morning. Her rich laughter wrenching reluctant humour from me, we’d danced down the hallway and into the kitchen where she’d opened a bottle of champagne. Glasses clinking, we’d giggled, toasting ourselves and another phenomenally successful party, the scent of her perfume, faint and elusive in my nostrils.

  Oh Annaliese... Annaliese... why? Why?

  The man next to me silently and sympathetically hands me a starched, freshly laundered handkerchief. I murmur my thanks, glancing curiously from the corner of my eye. I vaguely recognise him as Annaliese’s bank manager, a man of middle years and middle class values; he’d attended some of Annaliese’s more sedate soirees and she’d had had him wrapped around her little finger. Dennis was his name, though his surname escaped me. He’d belonged in the very outer circle, and, as such, had not been deemed worthy of the attention of the chosen few, us lucky ones who had the honour of being Annaliese’s disciples, her coterie, as she called us.

  Discreetly, I touch the handkerchief to a face wet with tears of bitter memory, notice Dennis pull another from his pocket. How many had he brought, I wonder, had he been anticipating floods of tears from Annaliese’s more emotional female compatriots? But no, there’s a sniff beside me, a flurry of white as he raises the small square of linen to his face. Dennis had come prepared for his own emotional breakdown. I gaze in wonder as this staid, nondescript little worm of a man sobs like a baby, his narrow shoulders shaking with unsuppressed emotion.

  All around me, people are breaking down, handkerchiefs and tissues being groped for in pockets and slim black clutches. ‘Oh, how delicious,’ I can almost hear Annaliese cry in delight. ‘A positive sea of grief, how very Greek.’

  The hymn ends and the vicar began the service, its ornate, old fashioned language seeming to suit the woman we’re here to bid farewell too. In life, Annaliese had enjoyed the theatrically overblown; relishing complexity and confusion, so it’s apt her funeral should be this grand Victorian melodrama of black and bitter tears. She would have loved it. I wondered if she’d arranged it, almost immediately realising yes, of course she had. Annaliese was never one to leave things to chance; her meticulous planning and obsessive attention to detail one of the reasons why her parties had been so renowned.

  There’s a rustle of interest in the congregation, Robert stands and walks forward to join the vicar, turns to face us, a piece of paper clutched in blanched white knuckles. My heart turns as I see how the past year has aged him, his previously unlined face showing obvious signs of strain, his dark, well cut suit hanging from a body which has plainly lost weight.

  He clears his throat. An air of almost unbearable expectation grips us. Collectively we lean forward in our seats, willing him on, flooding our support and compassion towards him as he tries to talk, falters, coughs again, finally begins to speak. His voice, faint and wavering, gains in strength as he warms to his theme, words rich with passion and grief. The obviously prepared speech slips unnoticed from his fingers and he talks to us direct from his heart, honestly and compellingly about his Annaliese, the woman he’d loved and protected for so many years.

  ‘Annaliese loved life,’ he looks around the sea of solemn heads, all slowly nodding in agreement. ‘And she had a great capacity to wring every ounce of fun out of any situation. Looking around, I see so many dearly loved and familiar faces, know you’ll all agree with me it was one of the things that made her parties legendary. She loved and enjoyed people. One of the greatest thrills in her life was having so many friends. From very early on in our marriage, I had to accept our home would always be bulging at the seams. That it would be a very rare evening I would arrive home and not find a party in full swing,’ he grins wryly. ‘Whether I was invited to it was another matter.’ There is an obliging chuckle from the congregation.

  ‘Her work also was a source of great joy to her. Although, she did once confess she felt a fraud, was genuinely stunned her musings and scribbling could generate such passion and fervour amongst her readers. I remember when her first book was published, how small her ambitions were, to be acknowledged as a writer, to see her novel in a bookshop, that maybe someone, somewhere, would buy it.’ Again he pauses, his smile wistful and gentle.

  ‘I don’t need to remind you all what happened next.’

  Looking around, I see the wry smiles and nodding heads. Annaliese’s literary and commercial success was a worldwide phenomenon; the twenty novels, ten films and two TV series bringing her recognition, plaudits and the financial wherewithal to support a lifestyle of stupendous excess and lavish generosity. Yes, generosity, for all her faults, and god knows, as I’d discovered to my cost, Annaliese had those, she had given magnanimously of her wealth, redistributing and sharing it with the ease of a woman who truly did not care about money.

  ‘The greatest sorrow in her life,’ Robert continues. ‘Was that she was unable to have children. Yet, Annaliese still found the strength of character to turn disappointment into hope and founded a string of children’s homes throughout the country. It gave her great joy to visit each and every home, interacting with the children, rejoicing when a child found a new home with loving parents. Through Annaliese’s love, her determination every child must be given his or her chance at a decent life, many children are today leading happy and fulfilled lives.’

  I shift uneasily, my sensitivity to the subject making me feel small minded and mean, Robert’s words causing a gnawing dichotomy within my heart. My hatred for Annaliese, for what she’d done to me, was boundless, yet I was an adopted child. I’d been one of the lucky ones, my parents being exactly the sort any child, given a choice, would choose. Others, I knew, had not been so fortunate. It was hard to reconcile a woman whose personal crusade had been to help the young and vulnerable, with the heartless monster I’d built her up to be in my mind.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ Robert’s voice shakes, emotions threaten to overwhelm him. I see Caro strain forward in her seat, shoulders tense, spine stiff, poised to leap to Robert’s aid. ‘She was my life, my universe. I find it hard to believe the sun will rise tomorrow now she is gone, she...’ he pauses, hand to eyes, shoulders shaking. To the mingled horror, compassion and fascination of the congregation, he begins to sob, raw choking gasps of sorrow and loss.

  The vicar moves forward, places a comforting hand upon his arm, just as Caro reaches his side, a man close behind her. Craning my neck to see around the rather large lady sitting in front of me, I realise it’s Scott and the breath catches in my chest.

  Gently, Scott leads Robert back to his seat and Caro whispers something to the vicar who nods, stepping back as she turns to face the congregation. It’s now so quiet within the church; I can hear the faint cooing of woodpigeons in the trees outside.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Caro begins; her gruff voice hoarse with emotion, the accent which betrays her Irish roots pronounced, as if control is slipping. Her eyes are red rimmed, even from my place at the back I see lines of grief and strain etched deeply around her mouth. A woman whom only the most generous would call handsome, now Caro’s honest plainness shines out, face scrubbed and shiny from the deluge of salt water it has suffered.

 
I reflect how I’d hardly ever seen Caro distressed before, had certainly never seen her cry. Rarely had she displayed any kind of emotional outburst at all, except when her small eyes had rested upon Annaliese, her friend. Then, and only then, did the burning light of an almost fanatical obsessive love cross her homely features.

  Of us all, Caro had the most to lose from Annaliese’s death, not only was Annaliese her closest, indeed her only friend, she was also her employer. For as long as anyone could remember, Caro had been Annaliese’s assistant, organising her life with the precision of a military operation. Taking care of all the tedious, mundane, day to day details which had so bored Annaliese, ensuring Annaliese’s life could be one endless round of writing, fun, friends and laughter. My bulldog, Annaliese had called her. Looking at her pale drawn face, small, bloodshot eyes and dark purple circles hanging beneath them, the name seemed cruelly apt.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for coming. I know Annaliese would have been touched to see so many of her friends here. Her friends meant the world to her, she loved you all very much and I know it was a great source of joy that each and every person she met in life, became a friend and remained so.’

  Well, not all of them, I think bitterly.

  ‘After the service, there is to be a brief interment and then everyone is invited back to the Hall. It was Annaliese’s explicit instructions, and I quote, that the boring bit where the box goes into the ground be as short as possible, then all my lovely friends must have the most wonderful party, get very drunk on champagne and remember all the good times we’ve had together,’ she waits, as a fond chuckle rumbles through the congregation.

  ‘Later this afternoon, in the park, there is to be a tree planting ceremony, when a young silver birch is to be planted in memory of Annaliese. When I asked Annaliese what type of tree she wanted, she laughed and told me I could choose, because she’d never met a tree she didn’t like.’

  Again, there is a rustle of humour at the purely Annaliese comment.

  ‘So,’ Caro continues, with a tell-tale catch in her voice. ‘I chose a silver birch. I felt, of all the trees in the wood, it was the one that best reflected Annaliese. Its delicate silvery beauty, its lightly rustling leaves that love to dance in the breeze and its slender, pale trunk, all attributes which reminded me so much of her it seemed an obvious choice,’ she pauses, swallowing.

  ‘I hope you will join us,’ she gestures vaguely in the direction of the front pew where the members of the coterie sat. ‘In planting this living memorial to the most wonderful woman that ever lived, thank you,’ and she walks, her stride brisk and purposeful, back to the others, sitting down with a relieved thump beside Robert.

  On the other side of her, Mimi slips a comforting arm around her shoulders. For a brief moment, I see Caro relax into the French woman’s embrace, before pulling away, spine stiffening into its customary sergeant major ramrod straight posture, dabbing furiously at her eyes with a tissue plucked almost angrily from her capacious, eminently practical, black handbag.

  The service continues, we bow our heads in prayer, all around I felt the damp, all consuming waves of emotion which swelled and lapped through the massed ranks of dedicated mourners. I know later on, at the wake, Annaliese’s instructions will be obeyed to the letter, champagne will be drunk, reminiscences will be exchanged, and laughter will ring through the rooms of Annaliese’s home, where she’d lived so happily with her devoted husband Robert.

  I have no doubt Caro will have arranged an almost non-stop buffet of the delicate, delicious finger food of which Annaliese had been so fond. I know at the tree planting ceremony, the poor sapling will be in danger of being trampled under the feet of the attending hoards. Yet now, here, her friends are free to express their feelings in a great amorphous outpouring of sincere love and loss for the woman called Annaliese.

  Another hymn, another favourite, The Lord is My Shepherd. More memories, Annaliese curled up before the fire, her head on Robert’s lap, softly singing it, low and longingly, her blue eyes consuming the reflected flames. Her comfort song, she’d called it, only to be sung when one was slightly blue and in need of a spiritual tonic.

  It had surprised me, the depth of Annaliese’s faith. Once, I’d asked how she reconciled her religious beliefs with her life of wild parties and excess. I remember blue eyes turning a surprised gaze upon me, why were the two so incompatible she’d exclaimed. Jesus himself attended at least one celebration we knew of, not only that he’d supplied all the booze.

  After the hymn, the vicar announces that one of Annaliese’s friends and protégées, the opera singer Sara Milton, is to sing Annaliese’s favourite song. Sara rises, accepts the sycophantically offered hand of the vicar as he assists her and all her fame up the pulpit steps.

  The music starts, just as I’d expected, the achingly familiar strains of Pieu Jesu soar upwards. Sara’s glorious voice, trembling slightly with emotion, washes like finest brandy over us. Looking around, I see I’m not the only one affected by the breath-taking purity of Sara’s voice as she lingers over and caresses the words. A fresh wave of sorrow crests and breaks at the foot of the pulpit, as Sara expertly gathers up our souls in her hands and wrings them dry.

  Finally, the never ending service ends. Robert and Scott, together with two other members of the coterie, Miles and Ferdie, step forward and gently, oh so gently, lift Annaliese onto their shoulders, carrying her with precisely measured steps out into the bright daylight. Gradually, reluctantly, the mourners trail after, waiting until the inner circle have filed into the aisle, naturally acceding to them the right to be first in line, just as they had been during her life.

  Being at the back of the church, I am amongst the last of the congregation to emerge, blinking in the glaring sunshine, eyes watering at its brightness compared to the candlelit gloom of the church. The unseasonable warmth of the day sparking the thought even the weather is on its best behaviour for Annaliese.

  I linger at the back of the crowd, unwilling to venture any closer to where I can see the coffin being lowered into the gaping maw of dark brown earth, surrounded by people all wearing the appropriate expressions of sorrow.

  Suddenly, it all seems so obscene and I swallow down a rising tide of bile. Annaliese hated the dark; she loved light, the warmth of the sun, the gentleness of candlelight. It is utterly and completely wrong to be shutting her away for ever in the cold darkness. I step forward, words of denial and outrage almost forcing themselves from my mouth, almost, but not quite. I come to my senses and shrink back, feeling the rough flint walls of the church through my coat.

  I can’t breathe, the veil is constricting, blocking out the air and I gasp, turning away. I want no more of this. I have done what I came to do. In my own way I have said goodbye to the woman who gave me so much, who gave me my life, the woman who betrayed me.

  Silently, I slip away unnoticed. This is our local church; I know it and its surroundings intimately. At the back of the church is a footpath which leads through the woods. A five minute walk will take you to Annaliese’s home, yet if you turn left at the stile, another footpath will lead you to the quiet village street a few minutes away, where I’d left the hire car.

  I round the corner, my hand trailing idly over the rough walls of the church. A man leans against the back door a cigarette held to his lips, he inhales in a ragged sigh of relief. It is Scott.

  My heart leaps in frenzied panic into my throat, but I maintain my composure, pace slowly, carefully past him, head down, contemplating the morning’s events. One step at a time, one foot down, then the other. I almost make it, am almost to the bend in the path, when...

  ‘Eve?’

  The name snags at me, I hesitate. A fatal mistake, the subtle body movement confirms his suspicion and with two strides he is upon me, gripping me by the arm, spinning me round to confront him, his large ha
nd ripping the veil from my face to reveal me, nakedly make-up free, eyes swollen, completely open to his gaze.

  ‘Eve! It is you, where the hell have you been? We tried to find you, we all did, didn’t you realise how much we needed you, how much she... for Christ’s sake, Eve, why the hell did you vanish like that?’

  ‘Melissa,’ I snap waspishly. ‘My name is Melissa, not Eve. That was her pet name for me. My real name is Melissa and I’ll thank you to remember it. Now, I have to go, goodbye Scott.’

  I turn, but again his hand grips my arm. For a moment we stare each other down, his superior height causing me to crane my neck to meet his gaze, fighting to keep my face impassive. His dark eyes survey me coldly as if I am a stranger to him, and I swallow sharp regret that Scott, the man I once loved so completely and unrequitedly, could look at me in such a way.

  The awkwardness of the moment stretches between us. Accusations well in my throat and I feel the mad urge to throw myself in his arms, to beg him, tell me why. To plead with him to love me as he once did. Or did he? That not knowing, that uncertainly, that sting of final betrayal steadies me, reminds me of exactly what I’d seen, what had happened. The reason why I’d left is still there, has never been resolved. I return his stare with one of equal calm coldness.

  Suddenly, he seems to relax and smiles. Releasing my arm, he steps back with a shrug. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘I’ll walk you to the Hall, let’s beat the crush and be the first to the champagne.’

  ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to her?’ I ask in surprise, gesturing back to the church.

  ‘She’s not there,’ he says, voice tight and strained. ‘And besides,’ he pauses, glances at me significantly. ‘I’ve already said my goodbyes.’

  Guilt washes through me, a red hot wave, followed immediately by anger. How dare he make me feel guilty, implying I’d been the one to let Annaliese down because at the end I’d not been there for her. ‘I’m not going to the Hall,’ I state, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. As usual he says nothing, but falls into step beside me as I turn and walk along the footpath.