Virtually Perfect (5 page)

'Hello?'

'Why do you sound surprised?'

'...How do you mean?' asked Eve.

'You must know it's me calling,' Ben teased her, 'but you always say hello like you don't.' 

Eve paused for a moment.

'I know it's your number,' she said quietly. 'but how can I be sure that it's you?  It could be... a jealous wife.'

Ben grinned.

'Impossible.  I never let her out of the kitchen.'

'...Or a mistress.' 

He laughed.

'I never let her out of the bedroom.'

There came an uncomfortable pause.

'...Thank you for the flowers, Ben.  They're beautiful.'

'You're welcome.  Don't mention it.  Now, what are you doing tomorrow?'

'I haven't made any plans,' Eve admitted.

'I'll take you over to my place... if you like.  I'll show you my darkroom...'  

Another long silence.  Ben bit his fist. 

Way to go, Romeo...

'I mean—'

'What time?' he heard her say.  He finally exhaled.

'I'll pick you up at two.'

'I'll show you my darkroom.'  It's way up there with 'Come up and see my etchings', and Eve knew it.

If you can't say no on the phone, ask yourself this: what chance do you have in person?

'I'll call you.'  His parting words had played over in her head ever since.  By the time Friday rolled around, Eve was convinced it was just a platitude.  She'd never hear from him again.

Then the flowers arrived, couriered from Covent Garden.  Dan had never done anything like that.  His idea of being romantic was putting the toilet seat down.  Gardenias.  Here was a guy who actually listened
and
remembered.  They're as rare as rocking horse poo.

She thought back to
La Casona
.  No, no.  She knew that Ben was alright.  Not just alright - he was really sweet, actually.

She thought she was being smart when she asked about his dog - showing she paid attention.  She remembered he had one from months back.  She hadn't thought to recheck when she signed up this time.  She was mortified when he told her it had got run over.  Ben tried to shrug it off, but she was sure she saw tears in his eyes.

'For Christ's sake, Eve!' Curtis castigated.  'Don't be such a sap!  He probably never even owned a dog, and even if he did...  Look, just because a person likes animals, doesn't automatically make them all warm and fluffy and nice...  Hitler doted on his Alsatian by all accounts, and look what happened there!  Idi Amin was so kind to his pet crocodiles, he used to feed them real live people...'

There was a certain logic to it, even coming from a prat like Curtis.  But hearing Ben's voice again, Eve's guard was down in seconds.

Shutterman
hadn't been online in five days, but his profile was still live. 

Eve didn't like that one bit.

Eve had built (and deleted) her profile three times over the past four months. 
Shutterman
was a constant.  Same photo, same profile verbatim (apart from the 'pets' part, she now realised).  How long had he been there?
 
He was a good looking guy.  His profile had no typos: cute, but not sickly-sweet.  Funny.  Interesting.  All-in-all, he was pretty much up there with the cream of the crop.  So why was he there? 
Looking for a relationship. 
Why hadn't he found someone?  He was online regularly - always took the lead, initiating conversation. 

...Why was he there at all?

A Google Search had returned over 2,940,000 search results for
benjamin macy photographer. 
Eve discovered, reading a write-up in
The Times
, that he was actually half-French.  He was 36, just like he'd said.  She saw the Mont Blanc snap he'd spoken of, the fluke click when he'd fallen and nearly killed himself.  Sunrays burst from a cerulean sky, peeking over the snow ridge, catching ice crystals, making them sparkle like diamonds.  It looked like something from space.

There were a few landscapes, but it seemed Ben did mostly portrait work.  There was a fabulous black and white shot of a Big Issue salesman.  There were famous faces.  Pop icons, movie stars.  A shot for a De Niro poster she used to pass every day, at the tube station in Clapham.

There were nudes.  Quite a few nudes, actually.  They were mostly black and white.  They were striking, but not lurid; more quirky.  There was nothing particularly sexual about the poses.  Outrageously attractive models, chiselled faces, languid limbs. 

Eve was a pro.  She didn't get jealous. 

OK, maybe a bit.

Eve went back to her Google Search.  An image caught her eye.  She clicked on it. 

It was a book cover, a monochrome of a little Japanese girl.  Eve had seen it before.  Her gaze fell on the description in the sidebar.

Chasing Butterflies

Jacket design by Muriel Sanders

Front jacket photograph by Benjamin Macy

Printed in the UK

Copyright
©
2007 Faber & Faber

Eve quickly dragged the white arrow to the little blue cross, clicking on it, closing the window.  She slammed her laptop shut, her hand across her mouth.  The blood had drained from her face.

'Holy shit!  What the fuck is that?'

Ben's eyes were wild with excitement.  Mr Bojangles gawked back.

'He's a Maine Coon,' Eve told him, wandering out to the kitchen.

'He's a fucking horse!  ...Can I touch him?'

'...Pardon?'

'Can I pick him up?'

'I wouldn't.  He doesn't like men.'

'He's incredible!  Have you ever thought about getting him an agent?'

'...His singing isn't that good,' called Eve.  'And he only performs when next door's queen is in heat...  How do you take your coffee?'

'White please, one sugar.' Ben sat down next to Bo. 

'No but seriously Eve, I've got contacts in advertising I could put you in touch with.  They'd be falling over themselves for a monster like him.'

Bo looked up at Ben with his bright green eyes. 

'Stick with me, kid.  I'm going to make you a star!'

'...Pimp him out, you mean.'

Eve shuffled in like a geisha, carrying the tray, trying not to slosh the coffee into the saucers.

'Oh...'

She was surprised to find Mr Bojangles sprawled across Ben's lap like a ragdoll.  Ben was rubbing his little pot belly.

'I can't believe he's letting you do that,' said Eve, setting down the tray on the coffee table, sitting on the sofa beside them.

'This one mine?' asked Ben.  Eve nodded.  She watched him pick up his cup, take a sip. 

...Thank God. He isn't a slurper.

'I hope you don't mind me turning up early.'

Eve sipped her coffee.  Ben smiled, noticing her outstretched little finger.

'...Were you trying to catch me out?' 

She did mind, a little.  She hadn't wanted him to see her like that.

'He's so heavy,' complained Ben.

'He isn't fat...'

'He's just big boned,' grinned Ben.  '...Seriously, he's crushing my legs.'

'Try waking up with him on your chest.' 

Ben turned to Eve.  He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow.  His gaze flicked to her black v-neck and back.  Eve felt her cheeks getting hot.

Bo twitched his pink nose, suddenly flipping over.  With a thud, he went off to demolish his lunch. 

'You've got a really nice place,' said Ben, getting up and dusting his jeans off.  'Bloody hell!  How old is that TV?'

'1980s, I think.'

'We had one like that!  Is it... yes, Panasonic!  I used to watch The Flumps on it!' he grinned.

If you'd said 'The Flumps' to Dan, he would have thought you were talking about marshmallows.

'I loved The Flumps!' grinned Eve.

'Does it still work?' asked Ben.

'I think the tube is going.  The red's gone really bright.'

Ben pressed the silver rectangular button.  A ridiculously orange Vernon Kay materialised on the screen. 

'How can you watch that?'

Ben shuddered and switched it off.  Eve smiled and shrugged.

'That's the general idea.'

Ben shook his head with a confused smirk.

Eve watched him wander over to the rosewood bookcase, sipping his coffee.  She liked his jeans.  He had nice shoes.  He had his smoke leather jacket on again.  He looked good.  Ben looked very relaxed.

'You're very neat,' he told her.  The books were sorted by genre.  Ben rang his finger along the spines of travel section.  They were sorted by country, from West to East.  He smirked at Eve.  'Verging on anal...'

'It always makes me smile when people say that,' said Eve.  'You know what it means, obviously?' 

Ben just gave her a look.

'It's Freud.  It's to do with the five stages of psychosexual development.  You know, when kids are learning to use the potty.  He said there are two types of people.  The anally retentive, which you're alluding to, and the anally expulsive.  Everyone talks about the anally retentive like it's some kind of slur.  It always makes me smile.  Basically, anal retentives like to leave their business alone.  Anal expulsives like to play with their shit.

'...Anyway,' sighed Eve.  'I have to be tidy.  I'd never be able to find anything otherwise.'

The flat wasn't pokey by any means.  The rooms were large with high ceilings, but Eve was a hoarder.  She'd accumulated a fair amount of junk over the years.  Devil masks from South East Asia, bronze statutes from Greece.  The flaking claret paper and antique furniture made the walls close in.  The thick velvet curtains and plump sofa made it homely.  She had an inordinate amount of cushions.  It felt warm, cosy and safe.  A quaint little apartment, with quaint, old-fashioned features.  An MDF and magnolia-free zone.  

Ben went on scanning the shelves.  There was a cookery collection - three books on soup.  She liked Indian food, apparently.  He wondered whether the books had actually been used - they all looked pretty pristine.  Then there was art. 
A lot
of art.  There were three rows dedicated to it.  There was a huge encyclopaedia on impressionism, several titles on Art Nouveau, even more on Art Deco.  There were dozens of pottery and glass collector's guides - a collection on Lalique.  The penultimate shelf consisted of novels: the classics.  Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations. 
She's softer than she seems. 
Memoirs of a Geisha, Captain Corelli's Mandolin.  Ben had enjoyed the films. 

He noticed a gap. 

Eve watched his fingers drift into it.  She breathed a sigh of relief.

He found nothing on surfing, at all.

'You paint?' he said, poring over the bottom row.  Apparently, Eve had a thing for oils.

'Not very well,' she told him. 

Ben stood up straight, draining his coffee.  He walked over to where she was sitting.

'Did you paint that?' he asked, standing directly in front of her, looking up at the impressionist piece above her head. 

A mist of peacock blues, purples and reds.

Eve laughed.

'No.'

She looked up at him. 

His eyes were bright aqua, circled with ink.  Ben smiled down.  Hers were dark and innocent.  She didn't have much makeup on.  Her lips were full and soft. 

She lowered her head.  Eve was startled.  He was standing very close.  Her line of sight met directly with his belt buckle.  Eve quickly turned her face down and away. 

'Shut your eyes,' she heard him say. 

Eve laughed nervously.

'...What?' 

'Shut your eyes.'

She heard him put his cup down with a clatter.

Eve could hear the mantel clock ticking.  She could smell him in the room - fresh and woody.  She felt his fingers brush hers.  He took the empty cup from her.  She heard a chink of metal. 

Eve wasn't sure what to do.  She felt something cold in her hand, heavy; a slip of warm leather.

'Come on then.'

Eve opened her eyes, a crack.  She saw a black tab - four interlocked silver hoops. 

'Let's go.  You can drive.'

'...I can't!'  She chased after him, grabbing her coat.  'I mean,
I can
, but I haven't in...'

Ben stopped at the front door and turned to face her.

'It's OK,' he told her, flashing her a smile.  'I trust you.  You'll do just fine.'