Free Don't Tell Eve by Airlie Lawson

on not having had children, especially ones like Kate’s, Oliver turned the pages of a book that had been tucked untidily onto a shelf at about shoulder height. At first he’d assumed it to be good old-fashioned pulp fiction. Given the cover featured a hatted, trench-coated guy observing a sexy, curvy dame this was a fair guess, but instead of guns, jaded PIs and noir-ish dialogue, he found it wasn’t fiction at all. It was, of all the unlikely things to find in Kate’s house, a book on management.
    Now, if Oliver had been someone who read management books, or even business books, instead of prize-winning literary novels, racy biographies and design bibles, he would have noticed that the content was quite radical. This not being the case, he was simply amused that a book on a topic he considered to be as bone-chillingly dull as management should be so engaging.
    Upstairs, while standing under the shower, Kate was no longer obsessing about how unfair life was. Instead, her mind was on other things – tiny sky-blue shoes, Oliver’s moss-green eyes, his hint of a Scottish accent and the question of whether or not she had just washed her hair.

Chapter 9
    Eve, who now featured on all the local PR companies’ guest lists, had been invited to the recent opening of Sand, but hadn’t been able to make it. Instead, Hilary had bossed her into going to a bookseller event where, to Eve’s disappointment, there were exactly zero glossy-magazine photographers. So this would be her first time at the bar.
    Sand was officially hot, but not on a Monday night, Monday not yet being the new Thursday, even in this topsy-turvy part of the world. So, believing she wouldn’t be seen by anyone that mattered, this was the night Eve had invited the young author to meet her.
    She’d asked him for 6 pm. At 6.30 she strolled in, absorbing the atmosphere. But for a few languid loungers, it was empty – perfect for what she had in mind. Moroccan daybeds, low light and dusty ochre walls gave the place the sense of intimacy she was after. That it was part of a chic boutique hotel meant she’d already been able to book a room, so when the time came, any awkwardness would be avoided.

    ‘Remind me, what does your old boss look like?’ asked Oliver, the most languid of the loungers.
    Kate slouched opposite him, her back to the door. ‘I can’t believe you think it’s appropriate, acceptable, or even fair to bring that woman into the conversation, but, if you must know, she’s …’ Kate searched for the right word, ‘striking – Dolly Parton’s hair, a wardrobe probably stolen from the Dynasty set and show-stopping earrings. She’s hard to miss.’
    ‘Then I think she just walked in. Did I tell you I’m interviewing her for a piece I’m doing? And that – no, don’t —’
    It was too late, Kate had already done it. ‘Oh God, that is her.’ She slid down further and covered her eyes.
    ‘Come on, she can’t be as bad as all that, not really. She fired you, but you know that’s not personal, it’s just an economic imperative. That’s how companies work. Getting rid of people would be part of her brief.’
    ‘It wasn’t just that she fired me —’ And then she remembered the non-disclosure document she’d been forced to sign.
    Oliver was still mesmerised by Eve, so he didn’t notice that Kate hadn’t finished her sentence. ‘Who’s the bloke with her? The one she’s snogging?’
    ‘Oh, that’ll be Todd, her husband … Er, no, it’s not – that’s not Todd. Todd’s older. Not old, just older than that teenager. Todd’s also … What’s the word for it? Neat? I’ve only met him a couple of times but he struck me as the kind of man who irons his undies. You know – slicked-back hair, tidy, straight, everything matching. Actually, everything black. He’s a strange match for Eve, I’d have thought – but whatever the deal is, he certainly doesn’t deserve that ,’ she spat out the word. ‘Then again, who