Eva backs away, knocking her handbag off her desk as she does so. Various items spill out but she doesn’t have time to gather them up—the woman and child advance until they have her pinned up against the stationery cupboard door. The woman falls to her knees and the boy stands beside her, his face scrunched up; he’s crying so hard he can’t see. “You could so easily find someone else but I can’t, not now . . . do you think this won’t happen to you too one day? Please just stop seeing him, let him go . . .”
Eva waves her hands and speaks, but whatever excuse or explanation she’s trying to make can’t be heard above the begging. You say that someone should call security and people say they agree but nobody does anything. You’re seeing a lot of folded arms and pursed lips. Kathleen mutters something about “letting the woman have her say.” You call security yourself and the woman and child are led away. You pick Eva’s things up from the floor and throw them into her bag. One item is notable: a leatherbound diary with a brass lock on it. A quiet woman with a locked book. Eva’s beginning to intrigue you. She returns to her desk and continues working. Everybody else returns to their desks to send each other e-mails about Eva . . . at least that’s what you presume is happening. You’re not copied into any of those e-mails but everybody except you and Eva seems to be receiving a higher volume of messages than normal. You look at Eva from time to time and the whites of her eyes have turned pink but she doesn’t look back at you or stop working. Fax, fax, photocopy. She answers a few phone calls and her tone is on the pleasant side of professional.
—
AN ANTI-EVA movement emerges. Its members are no longer fooled by her glamour; Eva’s a personification of all that’s put on earth solely to break bonds, scrap commitments, prevent the course of true love from running smooth. You wouldn’t call yourself Pro-Eva, but bringing a small and distressed child to the office to confront your husband’s mistress does strike you as more than a little manipulative. Maybe you’re the only person who thinks so: That side of things certainly isn’t discussed. Kathleen quickly distances herself from her attempts to imitate Eva. Those who still feel drawn to Eva become indignant when faced with her continued disinterest in making friends. Who does she think she is? Can’t she see how nice they are?
“Yes, she should be grateful that people are still asking her out,” you say, and most of the people you say this to nod, pleased that you get where they’re coming from, though Susie, Paul, and a couple of the others eye you suspiciously. Susie takes to standing behind you while you’re working sometimes, and given your clandestine meddling this watchful presence puts you on edge. It’s best not to mess with Susie.
—
ONE LUNCHTIME Eva brings her sandwich over to your desk and you eat together; this is sudden but after that you can no longer mock others by talking shit about Eva; she might overhear you and misunderstand. You ask Eva about her diary and she says she started writing it the year she turned thirteen. She’d just read The Diary of Anne Frank and was shaken by a voice like that falling silent, and then further shaken by the thought of all the voices who fell silent before we could ever have heard from them.
“And, you know—fuck everyone and everything that takes all these articulations of moodiness and tenderness and cleverness away. Not that I thought that’s how I was,” Eva says. “I was trying to figure out how to be a better friend, though, just like she was. I just thought I should keep a record of that time. Like she did. And I wrote it from thirteen to fifteen, like she did.”
You ask Eva if she felt like something was going to happen to her too.
“Happen to me?”
You give her an example. “I grew up in a city where people fell out of windows a lot,” you say. “So I used to practice falling out of them myself. But after a few broken bones I decided it’s better just to not stand too close to windows.”
Eva gives you a piercing look. “No, I didn’t think anything was going to happen to me. It’s all pretty ordinary teen stuff in there. Your city, though . . . is ‘falling out of windows’ a euphemism? And when you say ‘fell,’ or even ‘window,’ are you talking about something else?”
“No! What made you think that?”
“Your whole manner is really indirect. Sorry if that’s rude.”
“It’s not rude,” you say. You’ve already been told all about your indirectness, mostly by despairing ex-girlfriends.
“Can I ask one more question about the diary?”
Eva gives a cautious nod.
“Why do you still carry it around with you if you stopped writing in it years ago?”
“So I always know where it is,” she says.
—
SUSIE gets restless.
“Ask Miss Hoity-Toity if she’s still seeing her married boyfriend,” she says to you.