Eve by James Hadley Chase

newspaper and checked through the enter-tainments. I decided to take her to a theatre and after some hesitation I picked on My Sister Eileen as appropriate. The deck clock showed five fifteen and I hurriedly dropped the newspaper and threaded paper into my typewriter. I typed “Women of Hollywood by Clive Thurston’ at the top of the page and then sat back to stare at the typewriter keys. I had no idea how to begin the article. I wanted to say something sophisticated and witty, but my mind was completely barren.
    I wondered uneasily if Eve would dress flashily and whether she would look what she was. It’d be an embarrassing situation if I ran into Carol when she was with me. I knew I was taking a risk. I had never seen Eve dressed and had no idea of her taste. I decided that I should have to select some small secluded restaurant where I was not known and where no one that I knew was likely to see me.
    I lit another cigarette and tried once more to concentrate on the article. By six o’clock, the page in the typewriter was still blank, and I was in a slight panic.
    Pulling the typewriter impatiently towards me, I began to hammer out words, hoping that they would make sense. I wrote like this until seven o’clock, then I gathered up the sheets of paper and pinned them together. I made no attempt to read them through.
    Russell came in to tell me that my bath was ready. He eyed the sheets of paper in my hand approvingly.
    “Gone all right, sir?” he asked in his most encouraging manner.
    “Yes,” I said, moving to the door. “I’ll check it through when I come back and you can take it down to Miss Bensinger first thing tomorrow.”
    I did not arrive back from the Wilburs until one fifteen. It had been a good party and my head was a little heavy from the excellent champagne I had been drinking most of the evening. I forgot about the article lying on my desk to be checked and I went straight to bed.
    Russell woke me at nine o’clock the following morning. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said apologetically, “but shall I take die article to Miss Bensinger now?”
    I sat up with a grunt of dismay. My head felt heavy and my mouth like the bottom of a bird-cage. “Hell!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to look it over. Get it, will you, Russell? I’ll do it now.”
    I had finished my first cup of coffee by the time he returned. He handed me the typewritten sheets. “I’ll just clean your shoes, sir, then I’ll be back.”
    I waved him away and began to read what I had written. In less than three minutes, I was out of bed and running downstairs to my study. I knew I could never send this stuff to Merle. It was hopeless. It was so awful that I could scarcely believe that I had written it.
    I began hammering away at the typewriter, but my head ached and I could not string two sentences together. After a half an hour, I had worked myself into a furious rage. For the fourth time, I snatched the paper out of the typewriter and threw it angrily to the floor.
    Russell put his head round the door. “It’s after ten, sir,” he reminded me apologetically.
    I turned on him furiously. “Get out!” I shouted. “Get out and for God’s sake stop worrying me!”
    He backed out of the room, his eyes wide with surprise.
    I turned savagely back to my typewriter. At eleven o’clock my head was nearly bursting and my temper was seething. Round me were crumpled balls of paper. I knew it was no good. I could not begin to write the article. Panic, rage and disappointment made me want to pick up the typewriter and smash it to the floor.
    Then the telephone rang.
    I snatched it up. “What is it?” I snapped.
    “I’m waiting for the Digest article . . .” Merle began plaintively.
    “You’ll go on waiting,” I said, the whole of my concentrated rage and bitterness bursting from me. “Who do you think I am? Do you think I haven’t anything better to do than to bother with a goddam mawkish article for the Digest? To hell with