Virtually Perfect (3 page)

I like chatting with you. I'd like to give it a go out there in the real world. So before you disappear (again), my real name is...

Fuck it.  My real name is Benjamin Macy.  My number is 0770900496.  I really would like to meet you.

Zhadou Quing.  Zhadou Quing. 
Eve looked up from her notes and out at the bidders, wearing her best fake smile.  She was tired, dead on her feet in fact, and more than a little hung over.

'Lot 267, a spinach green jade pot from the Zhadou Quing Dynasty, carved with...' She had to sneak another peek. 'tootie masks and cicada lippets.  An incredibly rare, 18th Century piss...' 

Eve's tired eyes settled on Marcus at the back.  His were out on stalks.

'...PIECE!' she shouted.  '...Piece!' 

Bollocks! 

She collected herself. 

'Who'll start me off on this decadent, one of a kind, 18th Century
chamber
pot?' 

The silence was broken by whispers and a couple of sniggers.  Eve stared down at the polished lectern, brushing down her sharp jacket. 

'A thousand?'  Her cheeks were scarlet, voice steady, eyes like a hawk.

'One thousand, thank you sir...  One thousand, two...  One thousand five hundred pounds, with the gentleman at the back.'

The Chinese pisspot was the last item in her section.  She had to get the reserve.

'One thousand six hundred with the lady... One thousand, seven...'

She'd hit it. 

Curtis was fidgeting at the side of the stage, anxious to crack on with Fine Arts.

That'll do.  Wrap it up.

'Two thousand pounds, to the lady in...  Two thousand five hundred pounds... '

Eve flicked to Marcus at the back, his hands clasped tightly, pressed to his lips.

'Three thousand with the lady...  Four thousand sir?' 

The moustached man at the back distinctly nodded.

Shit!

'Four thousand with you.  Thank you sir.' 

The lady with the blonde bob and shearling coat threw her hand up.  Eve balked.

You have got to be shitting me...

'Five thousand with you, madam.' 

Eve scanned the room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

'Six?  ...Six, with the gentleman at the back.'

Eve's clammy hands were clamped tight to her thighs. 

'Do we have... Seven thousand...  Eight thousand...  Nine thousand, thank you madam!'

You could have heard a pin drop.

For fuck's sake, hurry up!

Eve couldn't help it.  She was jigging about.

'Do we have any advances on nine thousand pounds?   Nine thousand f..
. 
Ten thousand pounds!  Any more for any more? ' Eve bit her lip.  Hard.  'Ten thousand, one...  Ten thousand, two hundred pounds?'

The man with the moustache shook his head.  Eve's eyes darted wildly around the room.

'Do we have any more bids?' she said quickly.  'Ten thousand, one hundred pounds for this exceedingly rare... Zhadou Quing...
chamber
pot?'  She was sure she heard someone snigger.  'One more sir?  Are you quite sure?  Going once... '  Nothing stirred.  'Going twice...'  No more hands.  Eve exhaled.  The woman smiled.  The hammer slammed.

Eve tottered down from the stage.  She kept her eyes focussed on the floor as she click-clacked down the aisle.  Once she'd slipped through the blue curtain, she walked straight into Marcus.  A stained smile exploded on the old man's face. 

'Three times the top estimate!  I am so proud of you!'

Oh God, no please...

He threw his arms around her, squeezing her tightly.  He smelt of stale cigars and Deep Heat.

Once he'd released her, Eve scooted straight to the ladies'.  She'd had six cups of coffee that morning.  She was bursting.

She'd done it again, just as Ben had predicted.  The conversation had disappeared.  Ben even tried logging out; typing
Decogirl
into the search box.

Username does not exist.

He ran a quick search on 34 year olds in Brighton.  Nothing.  Niente.  She was gone.

Ben was having a really shitty morning.  He hated these shoots at the best of times, but today's was absolute torture.  As soon as he'd set up the flame-haired prima donna's pose, she'd wriggle out of it.  Or start talking, or he'd lose the light.  Or the wind wrecked the shot. 
Does no one use hairspray anymore?
  Or some twat on a jetski would mess up the background.  Ben was hitting the red in his patience reserves.  The ying-ying-ying of the model's whining  was sending him over the edge.  But he just kept smiling, just like he always did.

Ben sat in the trailer, fork in hand, pushing some weird fish stew around a cold plate. 

He pulled his phone from his pocket. 

1 new message.

His eyebrows raised.  He dropped his fork with a clatter, clicking on 'open'.

You can call me Eve.

Did she mean 'Call me Eve' or 'Call me, Eve'?  It had to be her.  Should he call now? 
Don't be so stupid!  You'll look desperate.  You'll scare her away.
How long was he supposed to leave it?  God, how he hated all the adolescent uncertainty.  Ben had been single a year.  He'd grown to despise all this pre-dating bullshit.

'Right then...' said Ben, stepping down from the trailer, slinging his camera over his shoulder.  He looked up at the sky.  The cloud was thickening by the second.  'We're going to try something else.' 

He'd been placid all morning, smiling through gritted teeth, but he was up against it now.  They'd got nothing, and he was losing light fast.  If he didn't get the shots, they were toast. 

'This time, when I set you up, you're going to stay quite still.  You're not going to keep whining and wriggling.  We're all cold, we all want to go home.  It's your job.  Get over it.' 

The model stared at him with her bright green eyes
. 

'You've got one hour left to get your shit together.  If you don't, I'll personally see to it that what happens here follows you all the way back to London, and bites you on the arse...  Now, are we quite clear?' 

The model was pissed at him the entire afternoon.  That was it, Ben was done with fashion - he'd only done this one as a favour.  But he got the shots.  They were surreal, the editor was raving.  Red hair, a slate backdrop, vivid green eyes.  The pale girl in the stills was languid, beautiful, fierce.  In layman's terms, she was on fire.

Eve wrestled with her umbrella, fighting to close the door of the black cab, dazzled by the headlights of an oncoming car.  The rain smattered her face, her heels scraping wet tarmac.  She click-clacked down the uneven steps, pausing for a second, peering through the steamy window, before disappearing into the amber glow of
La Casona
.

'Welcome!' said the maitre d' as Eve burst through the door, the wind howling after her.  It was warm.  There was mood lighting and ochre walls.  A Spanish guitar; wafts of onion and garlic.

The maitre d' took the umbrella from Eve's wet, tingling hands. 

'Do you have a reservation?' 

Eve popped open her coat buttons. 

'Um... Macy.' 

'Very good!' he said with a smile.  'Your friend is waiting for you.' 

The maitre d' slid the coat from her shoulders.  Eve hadn't been nervous, she hadn't had chance.  She got home from work, her phone rang. she heard herself saying 'yes'.  She'd been running around like a mad thing ever since. 

She followed the maitre d', clutch bag in one hand, the other smoothing down her emerald silk dress.  She looked up from the fleur-de-lis carpet, snatching glimpses - a few couples, a party of six.  There was a guy.  He had his back to her.  He had dark hair and wore a black shirt.  He sat with his elbows on the table, lips resting on folded hands, gazing into a goblet of red wine.

Eve coughed.  Ben looked up. 

'Hello,' she ventured. 

He grinned.  Straight, white teeth
. 

'Hi,' he said, standing up.  Eve smiled back, suddenly very aware of the butterflies in her stomach; suddenly all fingers and thumbs.

He seemed very relaxed.  Ben leant in, kissing her cheek. 
She's just got out of the shower
.  He got a hint of perfume, he didn't recognise it. 
He's just got out of the bath. 
Eve's pursed lips didn't make contact.  She felt a bit rigid.  She kept her hands by her sides.

They sat.  He was taller than she'd imagined.  She was smaller than he'd thought.  They smiled at each other.  She was shy.  He liked her better with her hair up.  She'd pinned the curls loosely, a few strays tumbling down.  It wasn't just brown, there were glints of copper.  She looked up at the waiter. 
Good profile... quirky.  Beautiful neck. 
Poppy lips, black kohl, a flick of mascara; flawless, milky white skin.  She had the blackest eyes he'd ever seen. 

She was blushing a little.  He didn't think it was rouge. 

I can't wait to get you in bed.

'Um...  Dry white, please,' Eve told the waiter.  She had a sexy voice, deep, very well-spoken.  'Yes, Rioja will be lovely.' Eve glanced down at Ben's half drained glass of Chianti.  'Medium, please.' 

Don't want to look like a lush.

'So...' they said in unison as the waiter walked away.  Eve giggled nervously. 

His hair was different from the profile pic, receding, just a touch.  Eve found that all the more sexy.  It was ruffled; dark - a touch of wax and a hint of gold.  His eyes were supposed to be blue.  She couldn't tell in the light.  Pinched cheekbones, a dented chin, full, soft lips.  He had a bit of a tan. 
There must be something wrong with him. 
His face was perfectly symmetrical. 
I bet he's got a hairy bum. 
Eve didn't normally go for facial hair, but Ben's stubble stopped him looking too pretty.  He had an androgynous face.  
Maybe he's one of those guys with no bum at all. 
His neck was lovely - great definition. 
Oh God, not a hairy back... 
She could see the chest hair, peeking from the undone top button. 
Is it rough, like a brillo pad?
  ...
Please don't say he's got a teeny, weeny...

She heard Ben clear his throat.

He was watching, confident, like a cat.  He was smirking at her.

Say something!  ...Words!   ...Anything!

'So, how was your day?' 

Oh God, not that! 

Ben grinned. 

'Terrible start.'  He took a sip of wine. 'But it got a lot better.' 

His eyebrows danced.  He smiled a lot. 

'I had a shoot in Reykjavik, with the model from hell.'

...Model?  Here we go...  Legs up to her arsehole. Tits up to her neck... Where is my sodding wine?

'Reykjavik?  Isn't that in...' 

Eve looked around for the waiter. 

Where the fuck is Reykjavik?

'Iceland.' 

He was throwing out a lot of eye contact.  She wasn't sure about that smile.  He was playing the coy little boy, but was he innocent or naughty?  Eve thought back to the phonecall. 

She did remember a couple of bing-bongs.  He could have been at the airport.  Or it could have been staged.  People do that, you know.  Men do that. 
He could be a binman for all I know.

Eve looked at his hands as he played with the napkin.  They looked strong, but well cared for.  Never trust a man with dodgy hands
. 
Too small; weird thumbs; too much hair on the little finger, whatever.  'Tis the mark of a wrong 'un. 

Ben had short, neat nails.  Good vein definition.  Long, spatulate fingers.  They were rather nice, actually. 

That watch looked awfully like a Piaget. 

The waiter finally arrived with Eve's wine, presenting their menus with a flourish.  She took a gulp.

'Have you been here before?' Ben asked.

'No, but it smells...' 

Eve froze, her eyes widening in horror. 

'...Shit!'

The waiter looked down, pretty horrified too. 

'...No, no!' she told him.  'I didn't mean that...  It's just...  I've just remembered something.'

'No problem,' said the waiter politely.  'I will come back when you're ready.' 

He inclined his head and scurried away.

'What's the matter?' asked Ben.

'I've forgotten to feed Bo...' 
Would it be awfully rude to pop back?

'Who's Bo?' asked Ben. 
No, no.  I can't. 
'...You told me you didn't have any kids?'