James Chase: Eve

She flicked ash into the fireplace. It was a nervous, irritable movement and I could see she did not know what to make of me. As long as I could keep her in that frame of mind I held the initiative.

“Aren’t you going to say sorry for this?” I asked, touching the bruise on my forehead.

She said what I expected her to say. “Why should I? You deserved it.”

“I suppose I did,” I said and laughed. “I’ll have to be careful next time. I like a woman with spirit. I’m sorry about the way I behaved, but I did want to see what your reactions would be.” I laughed again. “I didn’t expect to feel your reactions.”

She looked at me doubtfully, smiled and then said, “I do get wild sometimes . . . but you deserved it.”

“Do you always treat men like that?”

She hedged. “Like what?”

“Knocking them on the head if they annoy you,”

This time she giggled. “Sometimes.”

“No hard feelings?”

“No.”

I watched her. She slouched as she sat, her head forward and her slim shoulders rounded. Again she looked sharply at me when she felt my eyes on her.

“Don’t sit there looking at me,” she said irritably. “Why did you come here?”

“I like looking at you,” I returned, relaxing in the armchair and feeling completely at ease. “Can’t I talk to you? Would that strike you as odd?”

She frowned. I could see she was in two minds. She did not know whether I was wasting her time or whether I was here professionally. It was obvious that she was controlling her im-patience with difficulty.

“You have only come here to talk?” she said, looking at me and then immediately looking away. “Isn’t that a waste of time?”

“I don’t think so. You interest me and besides I like talking to attractive women.”

She looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated expression of exasperation. “Oh they all say that,” she said impatiently.

That annoyed me. “If you don’t mind I would rather not be classed with an anonymous “they”,” I said with acerbity.

She looked surprised. “You have a very good opinion of yourself, haven’t you?”

“Why not?” It was my turn to be impatient. “After all, who’ll believe in me if I don’t?”

Her face darkened. “I don’t like conceited men.”

“Haven’t you a good opinion of yourself?”

She shook her head emphatically. “Why should I?”

“I hope you’re not just another woman with an inferiority complex?”

“Do you know so many?”

“Quite a few. Is that what you suffer from?”

She stared into the empty fireplace, her expression suddenly moody. “I suppose so.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “Do you think that’s funny?”

“Why should I? I think it’s rather pathetic because there’s no reason for you to.”

She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Why not?”

I knew then that she was unsure of herself and interested to know what I thought of her.

“You ought to be able to answer that if you are truthful about yourself. Now my first impressions of you . . . no, never mind, I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

“Come on,” she said, “I want to know. What are your first impressions of me?”

I studied her as if I were making a careful assessment of her qualities. She stared back at me, frowning and ill at ease, but wanting to know. I had thought so much about her for the past two days that I was long past first impressions. “If you really want to know,” I began with assumed reluctance, “only I don’t suppose you’ll believe me.”

“Oh, come on,” she said impatiently, “don’t hedge.”

“All right. I’d say you are a woman of considerable character, independent to a degree, hot tempered and strong willed, extra-ordinarily attractive to men and, oddly enough, sensitive in your feelings.”

She studied me doubtfully. “I wonder how many women you have said that to?” she asked, but I could see she was secretly pleased.

“Not many . . . none at all if you take it as a whole. I haven’t met any one woman with all those qualities except yourself. But, of course, I really don’t know you yet, do I? I may be entirely wrong . . . they’re just first impressions.”

“Do you find me attractive?” She was in deadly earnest now.

“I would hardly be here if I didn’t. Of course you’re attractive.”

“But why? I’m not pretty.” She got up and looked in the mirror again. “I think I look awful.”

“Oh no, you don’t. You have character and personality. That’s much better than insipid prettiness. There’s something extraordinary about you. Magnetic is perhaps, the word.”

She folded her arms across her small, flat breasts. “I think you’re an awful liar,” she said, anger in her eyes. “You don’t really think I believe all this slop, do you? What exactly do you want? No one else comes here smarming over me like this.”

I laughed at her. “Don’t get angry. You know, I’m sorry for you. You certainly have a bad inferiority complex. Never mind, perhaps one day you’ll believe me.” I leaned forward to examine the books on the beside table. There were copies of Front Page Detective , a shabby copy of Hemingway’s To Have and to Heme Not, and Thorne Smith’s Night Life of the Gods. I thought they were an odd assortment.

“Do you read much?” I asked deliberately changing the subject.

“When I can find a good book,” she returned, bewildered.

“Have you ever read “Angels in Sables”?” I asked, naming my first book.

She moved restlessly to the dressing table. “Yes . . . I didn’t like it much.” She picked up a powder puff and dabbed at her chin.

“Didn’t you?” I was disappointed. “I wish you’d tell me why.”

She shrugged. “Oh, I just didn’t.”

She put down the powder puff, stared at herself in the mirror and then moved back to the fireplace. She was fidgety, impatient and a little bored.

“But you must have reasons. Did you find it dull?”

“I don’t remember. I read so quickly I never remember any-thing I read.”

“I see . . . anyway you didn’t like it.” I was irritated that she couldn’t remember my book. I would have liked to have talked to her about it and had her reactions, even if she did not like it I began to realize that normal conversation with her was going to be difficult. Until we knew each other — and I was determined that we should know each other — topics of conversation were severely limited. Up to now, we had nothing in common.

She stood looking at me doubtfully and then sat down on the bed again. “Well?” she said, abruptly. “What now?”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

She shrugged and made a little grimace. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Of course there is,” I said and leaning forward, I took her hand in mine. “Are you married or is this a phoney?” I was twisting the thin gold wedding ring on her finger.

“I’m married.”

I was a little surprised. “Is he nice?”

She looked away. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Very nice?”

She took her hand away. “Yes . . . very nice.”

“And where is he?”

Her head jerked round. “That’s not your business.”

I laughed at her. “All right, don’t get high hat. I must say when you get mad, you look quite impressive. How did you get those two lines above your nose?”

She was up instantly, looking at herself in the mirror. “They’re bad, aren’t they?” she said, trying to smooth the furrows away with her finger tips.

I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. I had been in the room exactly a quarter of an hour.

“Then you shouldn’t frown so much,” I said, getting to my feet. “Why don’t you relax?”