Company - Max Barry [85]
“Sorry,” she croaks. “Is this too gross?”
“In my job, I see a lot worse.” He holds out the tissues—eight boxes' worth, because Eve was very specific about the brand, which turns out to be sold only in tiny, beautifully packaged boxes. He's a little relieved to see that Eve is genuinely ill, because it will make it easier to stick to his ground rules, and a little disappointed, for the same reason.
“I love you so much for coming.” Her smile is unusually loose, almost goofy.
“Are you high?”
“I did take a number of anti-flu tablets, once I knew you were coming over.”
“Was it a large number?”
“I wanted to perk up for you.” The smile wobbles across her face again. Her pupils are huge; at first he'd thought it was the low light. She slides down the pillows and clasps her hands above her head in a position Jones finds confrontational. “Come, sit with me.”
“Uh . . . no, I'm okay.”
“You can't just stand there.”
“How much are all those clothes worth?” he says.
“I don't know. I never added it up.”
“It must be . . .” He starts to do sums in his head, then realizes the figure is going to be ludicrous. “How are you going to wear all that?”
“It's not just the wearing. It's the acquiring, and the having. Come on, sit.”
He stays on his feet. “Don't take this the wrong way, but have you considered therapy about this?”
“I do see a therapist. But I'm not allowed to tell you what we talk about.”
“Oh. Okay. Wait, you're not allowed to tell me specifically?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
“I can't tell you.”
Jones exhales.
“He said you won't understand.”
“I'm trying to think why you're discussing me with your therapist.”
“Because you're important to me, Jones.” She blows her nose. “God, thank you so much for these tissues.”
He eyes her. “If you don't want to tell me, that's—”
“He says you're a mother figure to me.”
Jones sits on the bed.
“I know what you're thinking,” Eve says. “Mother figure? But it's nothing to do with sex. It's about roles.” She leaves a pause, in case Jones wants to say something. “My dad's a loser, not like you at all. Mom was the strict one.”
“You think I'm strict?”
“Dr. Franks—that's my therapist—says you fill a need for moral guidance that's been missing since I left home.”
“This is very disturbing.”
“It's really a compliment. It speaks to how much I look up to you.”
“I thought you didn't even like your mom.”
“I don't.”
“I'm confused.”
“Maybe you should see Dr. Franks,” Eve says. “He's very good.”
Jones stands up again. “Did you give me that phone because you're sick and you wanted your mom to come take care of you?”
Eve laughs, then sneezes, then laughs again. “That's so funny. I have to tell that to Dr. Franks. Jones—hey, come on, sit. Sit down.” She waits until he complies. Then her lips curve. “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Are you worried about the virus? Don't be a sissy.”
“Eve, I'm not going to kiss you.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . it would be a bad idea.”
“I want you to know I don't think of you as my mom.”
“Fine. I accept that. But no.”
“It's because I'm sick and ugly, isn't it.” This isn't a question. Her face pinches.
“Eve, you're very attractive. Even with a bit of tissue stuck to your nose.”
She rubs her nose and inspects her finger. “That's embarrassing.”
“You're not ugly,” Jones says firmly. “Trust me.”
“How can I trust you? You're the new wiz kid at Alpha. That was me, a few years ago.” She puts a hand on her chest. “That was me. And you won't even kiss me. How do I know you won't hurt me?”
Jones blinks. “I won't hurt you.” As this comes out, he realizes he really means it. Exactly how this dovetails with his aim of sabotaging Alpha is not clear.
“Prove it.”
“No.”
She sneezes.
“Anyway,” Jones says, paddling for calmer conversational waters, “illness is a major cause of corporate productivity loss. As an agent for Alpha, you should know better.”
She wipes her nose. “You know with peacocks, only the males have colorful tails? The gene that causes that also lowers their immune system.