Chapter 1 #2
James probably wouldn’t have known who Max Everly was if it hadn’t been for the suitcase.
Old and battered, it had turned up at this very auction house, full of sheet music for never-before-heard songs written by Everly—whose existing body of work had all been composed before 1935.
It was one of the reasons Eve had always wanted to work at Stanley’s—in the hopes that another such suitcase might appear.
The compositions were swiftly verified by experts and their discovery created a big stir in the music world.
Eve had been glad because it meant more people got to hear the music she had always loved so fiercely.
She heard it ringing in her head again now—the songs that she had played so many times, the ones that acted as a lifeline, tethering her to the world when she was in danger of floating away.
She knew her mystery visitor couldn’t be the composer since he had been born in 1899 and would have been one hundred and sixteen by now.
“He’s, um, he’s quite frail,” James said tentatively. “I think it was an effort for him to get here.”
Eve recalled the elderly man she’d seen on the steps outside earlier. It could only be him, surely.
“He said it was important,” James went on. “And he promised he wouldn’t take up more than ten minutes of your time.”
Her secretary didn’t look at all hopeful that she would agree to see him.
Eve had once overheard James refer to her as the Black Widow in the staff room, while chatting to their colleague Kate.
She supposed this was a reference to the fact that she always dressed in black and didn’t chat much, never going out for after-work drinks or attending Christmas parties.
She knew the other staff thought her cold and unfriendly.
Perhaps she was cold and unfriendly, although she didn’t particularly mean to be.
She was the kind of woman who was forever being asked whether she ever smiled.
Kate had laughed at the Black Widow remark. “Personally, she always makes me think of Miss Scarlett. You know, from Cluedo?”
“Miss Scarlett is a blonde,” Eve had remarked from her chair, which was hidden behind the door. Eve’s hair was jet-black and cut short in a sharp bob. Her eyes were different colours too—one blue and one green.
James and Kate had both looked appalled to see her there, but just because her colleagues had cast her in the role of femme fatale, that didn’t mean it was who she was deep down. It cost her nothing to see this old man for a few moments, and she had liked his hat, so she said, “Show him in.”
She tried not to notice or mind James’s look of surprise.
He left the room and soon returned with the unexpected visitor, ushering him over the threshold before giving Eve a nod and closing the door.
It was, indeed, the same person she’d seen on the street.
He looked to be in his late seventies and had removed his hat to reveal thin wisps of silvery hair combed neatly back from his forehead.
His shoulders were rounded, and he hunched forwards over his stick, his gaze directed towards the floor as he shuffled in with slow, careful steps.
Eve came around her desk to greet him. Even with his stoop, he was quite a bit taller than her.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Eve Shaw.” She’d expected there to be a painting, as these were her specialty, but there was no sign of any wrapped package under his arm. In fact, he didn’t appear to be carrying anything at all. She held out her hand and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Max Everly paused for a moment before reaching out to take her hand.
He had a surprisingly strong grip, and the warmth of his palm sent a little spark of something through Eve.
She felt, for the strangest moment, like she’d been here before, meeting this man before, holding his hand before.
He was staring down at her fingers, clasped in his, and she felt a tremor pass through his palm.
“The pleasure,” he said quietly, “is all mine.”
He raised his head, meeting her gaze for the first time, and Eve found herself looking into brown eyes, dark and rich and deep, and the strangest thing was that even though she knew this man couldn’t possibly be the musician from the 1930s, in that moment his eyes seemed startlingly like the ones she’d seen in the black-and-white photographs of the composer from all those years ago.
Not only that, but she was sure she saw a flash of recognition in this elderly man’s gaze too.
She had the sudden conviction not only that he recognised her, but that he knew her, and that she must, therefore, in turn know him.
A gasp caught in the back of his throat and his hand tightened around hers.
“Hello, Eve,” he breathed.
Suddenly, her feeling of knowing him evaporated, and it was a stranger who stood before her.
He seemed reluctant to let go of her hand, and when he stepped closer, Eve sensed that he meant to embrace her.
She automatically took a step back. She wasn’t a hugger and was relieved when Max let go of her hand.
“Forgive me,” he said, a little breathlessly. “You…you remind me of someone I used to know, that’s all. My name is Max Everly. Thank you for meeting with me. I appreciate your time.”
“Not at all,” she said briskly. “Please take a seat.” She waved towards the comfortable armchairs facing her desk. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, thank you. Black. One sugar.”
She walked over to the coffee pod machine on a table in the corner and made their drinks. She set one down in front of her guest and then took her seat opposite him behind the desk.
“So, what can I help you with, Mr. Everly? James said you had something for me to value?”
“Please,” he replied. “Call me Max.”
He reached for the coffee cup, and Eve noticed the liver spots on the backs of his hands, and the boniness of his knees where they pressed against the fabric of his trousers.
Yet there was a glint of something warm and almost mischievous in his eyes, an echo of the younger man he’d once been.
Eve had the sense that, unlike herself, this was someone who had smiled and laughed often.
“That’s a curious little fellow,” he said, nodding at the fumsup charm on Eve’s desk.
“Curious” was one word for it. Eve had always thought the fumsup had a bit of a creepy look, with its jointed metal body, overlarge wooden head, and white glass eyes, but she liked it no less for that.
“It’s a good-luck charm,” she said. “They were sent out to soldiers during the First World War.”
“And how did you come by yours?” Max asked.
“I…” Eve trailed off, recalling the childhood dream she’d once had that a magician had given it to her, but the truth was that she didn’t know where it had come from. “I can’t remember. I’ve just always had it. I suppose I found it somewhere.”
“I suppose you did.” He leaned forwards a little. “You know, sometimes the end is also the beginning.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“Have you travelled a long way?” she asked carefully. She was starting to wonder whether he was quite all there.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Well, yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, you could say that. But it was worth the wait.”
“How did you happen to come across my name?” Eve asked. “It’s just that I normally specialise in valuing paintings, you see, so—”
“Do you not think,” Max interrupted, looking at her closely, “that it’s high time you stopped valuing paintings and started producing some masterpieces of your own?”
Was he trying to make a joke? If so, Eve couldn’t bring herself to laugh. But beneath the fabric of her black jeans, the octopus tattoo on her thigh began to burn upon her skin.
“I’m not sure that I follow,” she said. “Are you looking to have something commissioned? This is an auction house; we don’t create new work here.”
“That’s a pity.” Max set his coffee cup down. “But no matter. The reason I came here was to give you this.”
He reached into his trousers pocket and gently set an object on the desk between them. It was a small, ornamental octopus.