Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees

Sophie drew a deep breath. “You can’t be serious!”

“Why not?”

“Well, because – because it’s impossible!”

“Why is it impossible?”

Sophie’s eyes searched Eve’s face for some sign of amusement, some indication that this was all just a joke and not to be taken seriously. “Eve –”

“Listen to me, Sophie. Didn’t you tell me a few weeks ago that Roderick Harvey was holding an actors’ summer school in Rome later this year?”

“Sir Roderick Harvey,” corrected Sophie automatically.

“All right then, Sir Roderick Harvey. Well? Isn’t he?”

“Y–es, yes, of course.”

“Well, how would you like to attend?”

“Me?” Sophie stared at her friend in amazement. “Attend the summer school?”

“Yes. I – er – I could arrange it.”

“I couldn’t afford it,” stated Sophie flatly.

“I could.”

“Oh, Eve, for heaven’s sake, what are you trying to say? That if I go out to Trinidad in your place you’ll arrange for me to go to Roderick Harvey’s summer school?”

“That’s right.”

Sophie was flabbergasted. “But why? Why should you do that?”

Eve had risen to her feet then and paced barefooted about the soft carpet of her lounge. “Does there have to be a reason? We’re friends, aren’t we? I thought we could help one another without there having to be too many reasons why.”

Sophie stretched her legs out in front of her. “You know I’d do anything to help you, Eye, but this – well, this is something different.”

“How is it different?”

“You know how.” Sophie examined a tiny hole in her tights, trying not to think about what she was turning down.

“I don’t.” Eve leant negligently against the mantel. “Here I am, offering you not only the chance to attend this summer school you’ve been enthusing about but also several weeks’ holiday on one of the most exciting islands in the world. I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance!”

“Would you?” Sophie’s tone was dry.

“Yes, I would. Honestly, Sophie, where’s your spirit of adventure? Don’t you want to see something of the world before you’re too old to appreciate it? You’re not going to get anywhere at that third-rate playhouse in Sandchurch!”

Sophie flushed. “The Playhouse is not third-rate. And I’m glad you reminded me that I’m employed there!”

“You could get leave of absence.” Eve was impatient. “You’re not indispensable, you know.”

She could be cruel when opposed, Sophie had learned that earlier in their relationship, and she tried not to be hurt by the things Eve was saying. She realized it was just her way of trying to make Sophie change her mind, and she returned her attention to her legs, curving one foot to rest against the ankle bone of the other.

Eve seemed to realize that her present tactics were getting her nowhere, for she sighed and then said apologetically: “I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m a bitch. But I was really depending on you to get me out of this.”

Sophie looked up. “Out of what?”

Eve shrugged, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. She offered them to Sophie, but she refused. She smoked only very occasionally, and usually when she was suffering from nervous tension on the first night of a play.

“I’ve virtually agreed to go to Pointe St. Vincente,” confessed Eve, lighting her cigarette with a monogrammed gold lighter.

“But why?” Sophie was astounded.

Eve shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is. One starts something like this and pretty soon it gets out of hand.”

“But you must have known whether or not you intended going to Trinidad!” declared Sophie.

“You don’t understand. The letters my grandfather has written to me have sort of – assumed that I would want to go there. It’s obvious he regrets very much what happened twenty-five years ago and he’d like the chance to make amends. I suppose he sees me orphaned and alone, without any family of my own now that my father is dead.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Yes, but not in the way he believes. I mean – the very last thing I need is some doting parent checking on my movements!”

Sophie sighed. Obviously the image Eve’s grandfather had of her was vastly different from the original.

“You’ll just have to write and tell him that your work won’t permit you to have leave at this time,” she suggested practically.

“No, I don’t want to do that.” Eve was resolute.

“Why?”

“Well – don’t be cross if I tell you.”

“If you tell me what?” Sophie cupped her chin in her hands.

Eve considered the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Well, they don’t know I’m a journalist –”

“What?”

Eve made a dismissive gesture. “It’s true. It was a sort of game I played.”

“A game?”

“Yes.” Eve hesitated. “When I first wrote to tell Grandfather about my father’s death, I didn’t mention my career, and when he wrote back to me it was obvious that he thought I was – well, you know – some sort of clerk. So I let him go on thinking it.”

“But why?” Sophie was astounded.

“Oh, if I’d told him I was a journalist, I guess I’d have ruined the image.”