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  Why can't I turn David out of my mind? I made myself stop thinking about Mark Dear Mark, why did

  you have to die?

  Eve thought about Mark deliberately now, about her first meeting with him. It was one way to keep David out of her mind, wasn't it? Dear, helpful Peter and his helpful tips. Self-analysis for the masses. Do-it-yourself head-shrinking. Stop it, Eve! It's Saturday, and you have nothing to do until four-thirty Monday morning when the clock goes off again. Remember Mark. He, at least, was kind.

  She always noticed men who were taller than she was. And she had known he was someone important from the way everyone seemed to fawn over him the minute he walked in. Mark had presence; he was the kind of man one couldn't help noticing.

  Eve had been modeling gowns at a charity ball, given just two weeks before the San Francisco Opera season opened. She had been feeling desperate that evening because she knew she had to get a job—a real job. She'd switched over from Berkeley to San Francisco State University, but the question remained. Scholarship or not, she had to have a part-time job so she could send money home and still have enough to live on.

  "Mart, I've got to find something! Mr. Higgins gave me this really great letter recommending me to the editor of the Record, but it's been two weeks and I haven't heard—"

  "Well, you will. And wipe that sick look off your face, for Christ's sake. You're not playing Violetta, remember, just modeling the gown Beverly Sills is going to wear. Go on out there, baby. You're on."

  The gown, really a costume, was gorgeous. Yards and yards of skirt and a tightly fitting bodice that exposed her arms and quite a bit of cleavage. Eve walked out to the lilting waltz theme from La Traviata, and the first person she noticed was Mark.

  Tall, with silver-gray hair. Piercing blue eyes in a tanned, ruggedly handsome face. His gray suit almost matched the hair. And she knew, without having to look after that first glance, that he was watching her.

  She hadn't known until later that he had arranged to sit next to her at dinner. Or that he had been the reason the five models had been asked to stay on for dinner. Another of the things she was to learn later was that Mark Blair always got what he wanted. He wanted Eve, and she didn't even realize who Mark Blair was and what he represented until Marti clued her in, much later on that evening, when Eve had floated back to the apartment on a champagne cloud.

  "Darlin' child, your future is assured. Mark Blair! The elusive, aloof Mr. Blair, who just happens to own— almost everything around here! Do you feel like Cinderella?" Marti was half-drunk herself, but honestly happy for Eve, who hadn't really recognized her luck yet.

  Eve wasn't thinking "luck"—she'd never met anyone like Mark Blair before, and she'd been more impressed by the man himself than the aura of power that clung to him. He hadn't been distant with her, and he was both a fascinating companion and a tender and undemanding lover.

  It was not until afterward that Eve realized just how much Mark had done for her. He'd taken over. She'd got the job working as a feature writer for the Record, one of the newspapers Mark owned, and had finished college. And it had been Mark who'd found her the job at KNXT, insisted she must take it. It was almost as if he had been preparing her for what would happen—for learning to live without him. All she had left of the two years with Mark was memories. Sudden, surprise "vacations" all over the world, an education she could never have had in college. A closet full of expensive clothes and a few pieces of expensive jewelry.

  All that was left of Mark Blair was cremated one incongruously sunny morning. Eve hadn't gone to the funeral, which was attended by his grown-up children. His bedridden wife, who had been "dying" for the past ten years of some mysterious illness, hadn't attended, either. Mark had died of a heart attack, playing tennis.

  Two years. Eve hadn't cried over Mark since he'd died, but now the tears came slipping far too easily down her face. Was she crying for Mark and the love and safety and security he'd given her, or for David? Or were they tears of self-pity, for Eve Mason who was young and beautiful and bright, and had everything— and nothing?

  CHAPTER THREE

  "PETER PET, I tried everything—Yoga, stream of consciousness, reminiscing over past mistakes—I can t exorcise him."

  Why, Eve wondered, did she tend to talk like Peter whenever she was with him?

  She looked at him expectantly. Waiting for the rabbit to be pulled out of the hat; waiting for him to snap his fingers and tell her it was okay to wake up now—the breakup with David had been nothing but a nightmare.

  They lingered over Saturday night dinner at Peter's favorite restaurant, one of those "in" places where everything was lousy but the food.

  Peter sighed theatrically, shaking his head at her, but underneath the table Eve could feel his hand searching for her knee, moving upward to rest on her thigh. Peter liked touching, especially in public—and most of the time she let him because it gave her a strange, exciting feeling.

  "I told you, Eve darling—I charge for analyzing you, but I screw you for free. Now, which is it going to be?"

  "Stop giving me ideas, Peter—maybe I should start charging you. Wouldn't you like to use me as a case history? I'll talk into your little tape recorder in my best little-girl voice and use all the dirtiest words I know— it should make a best-seller."

  He leaned over the table, pretending to look into her eyes, but she had felt his hand tighten on her thigh, and now his fingers probed delicately, carefully, until she rewarded his persistence with a tiny sigh—a relaxing of her muscles.

  "Clever Eve. You always say exactly the right thing, don't you? Let's skip the cafe royale and go to my place so we can fuck."

  "Mm-hmm. And I get to talk afterward?"

  "Fuck first, darling. Talk later."

  That night, Eve made the first of what she was to call the "Peter Tapes." She rationalized that she was doing it for herself because she needed help and Peter was a psychiatrist—normally she would never have been able to afford Peter. Whatever her subconscious reasons were, she had to admit to herself that having their lovemaking taped gave her the same sexy-dirty feeling that Peter's hands groping up her skirts under restaurant tables did.

  Peter didn't like her to call it screwing.

  "Screw is such a mechanical word, my sweet. You're not a machine; I'm not a machine. Fucking is so much more human, more personal, don't you think?"

  Peter was good in bed, very efficient, even considerate —making sure she got hers. But he wanted her to talk dirty. All the other times she had refused, why should she put herself, her voice, her moans on one of his tapes?

  At least he had been honest enough to tell her about his collection of porno tapes and to ask her if she'd mind having the tape recorder running while they fucked.

  "But what do you do with them, Peter? Do you play them back when you're alone? Do you play with yourself while you listen?"

  "I'm the analyst, Eve," he had said reprovingly. He had explained that one day he was going to make up a kind of tape collage that included the voices of all the women he had ever fucked. "Everybody has some secret ambition, luv—that's mine." She had not been able to help laughing. In a way, she really liked Peter. He was honest, he didn't bother to play games; and because she was not one of his society patients, he didn't bother to be tactful with her.

  Tonight, Eve was going to play Peter's game. Why not? Maybe he'd play the tape for David sometime; it might even make David jealous. Somehow, she knew David was still jealous, still cared what she did.

  And after she had put herself on tape to Peter, he'd let her keep talking, putting herself on tape for herself. It was supposed to help her understand her own hangups better when he played it back for her the next time. Therapy, Petrie-style.

  the first tape:

  The damn thing is running. Peter, how do I start? What do I say? (Sigh.)

  Eve, you were very good tonight, and I'm very sleepy. You just talk—just say anything you can think of. That tape's good for a whole hour more,
and it's all yours.

  Oh—shit!

  No more dirty words, angel, or you'll get me aroused again. And do try to make any questions you might have rhetorical, would you, please? I'm going to take a nap.

  Peter, you really are a cold fish. No—I take that back. You're not too bad, really. For a man. I can see you shrugging in the dark. Don't you like it when I say something nice about you for a change? Oops, sorry, purely a rhetorical question.

  You know, this is really a strange feeling. Sitting up in bed talking to myself. At least, it seems like that. I know you're there somewhere, tape recorder, but I can't see you. I should talk to myself more often; it really is kind of fun.'

  What am I going to talk about? David, naturally. That's why I'm here. You're going to have to answer some questions later, Peter, dear. Maybe when you play this back. After all, I'm here courtesy of David, aren't IP Does he do this often? Do you tell him what happens between us? Oh, damn, I wish I could have the answers right now, but there you are, pretending to be asleep.

  Ml right. Back to David. I don't understand him. Do you, Peter? I suppose I never did understand David, even while I was falling in love with him. I thought I did, of course. I thought I knew everything about him—the way he thought, the way he could turn me on without even touching me. God! Here I was, thinking he'd turn out to be just another guy, looking for some fault, something about him I'd begin to hate. And suddenly it hit me, out of the blue.

  I love David. My God, I'm really in love. That's a big moment for any woman—sort of like losing your virginity, only better—more scary, too. Isn't there a song that goes "I've never been in love before"? Well, I haven't. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever feel that way about a man after Mark, whether I'd ever find another man, one I could really trust. And then, without even realizing it, I was in love with David.

  He didn't call. That's when I knew. He used to call me every day, from the first time we met. It was like—like something to look forward to each day. At first I thought it was kind of amusing— David didn't seem the romantic type at all; he seemed very prosaic, very straight. But as I got to know him, I felt as if he was opening up his real self, letting me in, and it was a very private thing— I was the first, the only woman. He made me feel that way.

  Anyhow, David would call me. At least once a day. Every day. I started to look forward to his call, you know! I used to unwind while I talked to him, he's—he was, I mean—he seemed to understand. He even let me talk shop, tell him about my aching feet—oh, I begin to see something already. This is an aside to you, Peter; you really are clever. I guess David was my very own tape recorder, only not quite; a tape recorder can't fuck and make you feel like you're the only woman in the world—that's another little knack David had. He would concentrate on me; he made me feel—unique.

  And then one day he didn't call! I couldn't get to sleep; I was frantic! I found myself pacing around the apartment like a caged animal, getting on Marti's nerves, and then it hit me, and how it hit me —I loved David. I mean, I'd fallen in love. And he hadn't called. So I made mistake number one—the first in a long line of them. I called him. In the middle of the night yet.

  "David," I said, "I love you." And he laughed. "Eve, you're an idiot." That's what he said. Then he said he was sorry he hadn't called—there had been an emergency and he'd had to stay late at the office, working on some brief. And afterward, he'd just fallen asleep. I felt stupid. But good, too. Now he knew. Don't ask me why I wanted to tell him. Maybe I wanted to hear him say the words back. But he never did. Smart David.

  Peter, did you analyze David, too? How did you become friends? What did David tell you about me? Ah, come on, Peter, I know you're not asleep —I can tell by the twitch of your shoulder. You want to fuck again, I can tell that, too. Peter? Did he tell you about the quarrel?

  Time's up, Eve. You can save the quarrel for the next tape. Roll over now, like a good girl, and tell me you want to get fucked. Come on, there's a few minutes left on that tape, enough for lots of sexy words and noises.

  You're a bastard, too, Peter... no, stop it, I don't want... damn you anyhow! Tell me, Eve.

  Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me, fuck me!

  end of tape.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN EVE GOT BACK to the apartment, very late, Marti was still awake, listening to Rod Stewart records. As usual, she had been drinking; a half-filled glass sat on the coffee table within reach.

  Eve was worried for her. So far, Marti's drinking had not started to show in her face or her figure, but if she kept it up, it inevitably would.

  Marti and Stella must have quarreled again. Eve wondered with a trace of bitterness whether Stella was still confiding in David. Two-faced Stella who stood between two camps and wavered.

  "Eve, baby, Want a drink?"

  "Uh-huh. I'm beat. That Peter, sometimes he gets in a mood and he seems insatiable. Even my legs ache."

  "You must've turned him on, baby."

  Eve laughed shortly, easing off her shoes.

  "Not me, really—it was the tape I made for him. Peter taped everything—words, sounds. Would you believe that he's even fixed his bed so it creaks every time someone moves?"

  "I believe. Peter sounds like a riot. Sure is a shame I'm not a switch-hitter like Stella, or I'd get him to give me some of his bedroom therapy."

  "Marti—"

  Marti picked up the glass and waved it vaguely in Eve's direction.

  "Go on to bed, baby, and don't worry about me. In a mood like this, no one can help me. We had a big fight, Stel and I, but we'll make up. Don't we always?"

  Marti didn't sound convinced, but it wasn't any of Eve's business.

  "Well, I guess neither of us will be getting any telephone calls tomorrow, so we can both sleep later. 'Night Marti."

  After Eve had gone into her bedroom, Marti fixed herself another drink. She thought about what Eve had said, about the tape recorder. Maybe she should get herself one and talk into it on nights like this. It might be better therapy than alcohol, at that. The drink was much stronger than the last one she'd had, and she grimaced at the taste. Mustn't turn into an alcoholic; it ran in the family. When she lived at home, very long ago, someone was always warning her about her drinking. And then she'd quit. But Stella—Stella was enough to drive anyone to drink.

  Oh, God, what a bitch Stella was. But how beautiful, how very clever with her hands and her tongue and her soft, ladylike voice that could make even the dirtiest words sound like a love poem.

  Marti supposed it was funny, in a sick sort of way, that she and Eve should both be in the same boat. Eve had lost David, and she had lost Stella. Wasn't it odd how all their lives were mixed up together in some way? Here were Marti and Eve sharing an apartment; Stella and David sharing office space. At least, she hoped that was all they shared, but with Stel, who could tell? "Mr. Zimmer," she called David in the office. When she brought him to the party, it had been "David." And how could anybody really blame David or any man for looking twice at Stella, for wanting her? Stella was lovely;

  if she hadn't been so petite, she could have been a model, too. So innocent, Stella could look, and when she cried, so pathetic, so sad!

  Tonight, Stella had cried.

  Marti had known, from the time Stella walked in, that something was going to happen. Stella was tense, edgy. When Marti kissed her, she had ended the kiss quickly, drawing away.

  "Okay, baby, give. Something's bugging you, and you might as well tell me now as later."

  Marti had been pouring drinks, her face turned away from Stella's. Why let Stella see how much she was affected? Stella was already too sure of her power over Marti.

  "Mart," Stella said nervously, chewing on her lower lip. She paused, and Marti could almost feel her gathering up her courage. The words tumbled out in a rush. "George asked me out. George Cox—you remember I told you about him? And—I said I would. Marti, I've got to try it, don't you see? I—I want to."

  Marti had heard her own voic
e bridge the distance between them, sounding calm, so damn calm!

  "Well, darling, if you want to, there's nothing I can say, is there?" She came back with their drinks and handed one to Stella. "I don't exactly own you, baby."

  Stella reached out and touched her lightly on the arm, and she had to force herself to remain calm, casual.

  "Marti?" Stella's voice pleaded with her. "Baby, it's just a date, that's all. And he's so old. All he wants is companionship—he said so. And to be seen with a girl, someone young, you know? It's just an ego thing."

  "And what is it for you? Do you have to be the one to feed his damned male ego?"

  Stella pouted, bending her head to study the liquid in her glass.

  "There's nothing wrong with being nice to someone, is there? And he's a friend of Mr. Bernstein's—he can help me get ahead, don't you see that? He won't make any demands of me; we'll still have each other, see each other. Oh, Marti, darling, please understand! I'm so damned weak; I'm not strong like you are. I have to put on an act like I'm—I don't want people to know. My never going out on dates—people are bound to think it's not normal, not natural. I feel as if they've started to wonder already, to talk about me. And I can't stand that thought, Marti."

  Marti ground her teeth, her hands clenching, but she managed to make her voice come out even.

  "Stella, I do understand. You've made up your mind already; you've been thinking about this, and you think you're doing what you have to do. But think about this, baby—I love you. Marti loves Stella—does George? Or does he just want a pretty face to take out to dinner? I want more than that, Stel. God, sometimes I wish I were a man, so I could take you out in public and show you proudly to the world as mine. But I'm a goddam coward, too. I'm not going to fight for you. Know what, baby? You go ahead, go out with George. Me, I think I'll get good and drunk!"