Eve Annajane Writes, LLC

Excerpt from Chapter I

Finally, she heard the front door open distantly, and Fitz’s quick footsteps tapping down the halls. He burst into the dining room with grandeur, his face breaking into an apologetic smile as soon as he laid eyes on Ivy.

“So sorry I’m late, dear. Got carried away at the office. You know how things are,” he waved his hand dismissively and began to make himself a drink at the bar cart. “Have a drink, love? I’ll make you a martini. Anyway, I was all set to leave and get here on time, I swear, even factored in traffic, but just as I was grabbing my briefcase Jimmy came in — you remember Jimmy, the one with the beard and the funny voice — well, he came in with Bob from legal and-” he swallowed his drink in one gulp “-they were having some issue with one of the pictures on my slate, and I really had to get it figured out with them before everyone closes for the weekend, you understand.” He waltzed over with her drink and placed it kindly before her. “There you are. I truly am sorry, though.”

She gave him a soft smile, unsure if it was reaching her eyes. “It’s fine, dear.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a kiss, looking her up and down with those dark eyes that had drawn her towards him in the first place. “You look ravishing. I knew that dress would be perfect for you.” He kissed her hand once more then dropped it. “I’m just going to freshen up a bit and then I’ll be right down.”

With that, he was out the door and up the steps. Ivy sighed and turned her gaze back towards the window. The sun was losing its battle, barely stronger than the chandelier above her head. She tried to shake off her melancholy, but it simply wasn’t possible, not with the thoughts that had been tormenting her recently. The sinking, echoing realization that things simply were not alright. They had been married just one year that day, dating for less than two before their whirlwind engagement. It had felt like forever, at the time, but it was becoming more and more apparent to Ivy as they settled into this newly united life of theirs that things just weren’t settling right. 

They’d met on the movie sets. Fitz was a producer on the film, one of his first since becoming a full partner at his uncle’s studio, and though Ivy was just an extra, she had caught his eye and he invited her for drinks. She had happily accepted, thinking it would be a chance to further her career and besides, look at those eyes. He’d been helpful enough during their courting, showing her around on his arm to all his hot-shot friends and associates, and she’d landed a couple bit roles on emerging sitcoms and even in a feature. She and Fitz were never happier, too. 

After he’d proposed, however, things cooled off both in their relationship and Ivy’s career. It was the latter that upset her most. Fitz was still taking her out and showing her off plenty, to be sure, but any mentions of Ivy’s own ambitions and accolades were fewer and far between, and she hadn’t gone on an audition in months. A part of her felt that Fitz didn’t believe in her, but that was silly. She knew she was a talented actress. She had managed to convince her husband he wasn’t on her shit list for the past few months, hadn’t she?

No, the only logical option was that Fitz didn’t want her to succeed. It made more sense with his character, too. Fitz was a prideful man. He loved Ivy, of that she was certain, but he loved her the way he loved his cufflinks. She wasn’t meant to be her own person, her own professional; she could never rise higher than him, never become genuinely successful on her own merit. Heavens forbid she ever outshine his dazzling smile. And she would. If given the chance, there was not a shot she wouldn’t surpass him. And they both knew, deep down, if she didn’t need him anymore, she would leave him.

Her deep, frustrated reminiscence was cut through by the sound of his footsteps coming back down the hall. She smoothed her dress and her furrowed brow, pasted on a nice smile for him to return to. She wanted him in a good mood. She planned to talk to him about his next picture, the one whose lead was written to look just like her. She would be perfect for the role, and she wanted it. He was going to give it to her. 

Fitz waltzed handsomely back into the dining hall and sat before her. With a wide grin, he said,

he said,

Ah, fuck, what does he say?

Sofia pushed back from her desk with a frustrated huff. The quarter-filled page stared back at her in threat. Hazy half-formulated sentences bounced around her brain, but nothing she conjured seemed to fit quite right. This was the pinnacle of the story, the pièce de résistance of her seminal novel — an extended dinner scene filled with tension and drama with a poignant yet subtly indicated message on marriage, desire, greed (the exact nature of this message would, of course, reveal itself to her through the writing process and could not possibly be determined yet). By the end of the scene, her heroine will have decided whether or not to kill her husband. She could see it in her mind like a dramatic black and white picture, beautiful, tense, simmering.

If she could just fucking write it.

With another huff, this one infused with even more indignation, Sofia stood and left her study. That quiet blue room felt gray with the dark cloud of her own exceedingly high expectations looming over her. She made her way downstairs to the kitchen. The afternoon sun bathed the kitchen in a soft buttery color, and the thin blanket of snow on the ground submerged the whole property in a deep quiet. It was a rare day her husband, Rocco, was working at the office, leaving Sofia to rattle around the empty home. She’d honestly been looking forward to it; a chance to write without any distractions or impositions, without the steady stream of stock market predictions and worries that typically flowed from Rocco’s side of their shared office. She found herself missing the chatter now, though, and realized she might be better adapted to working with it.

She pulled their ceramic tea kettle from the cupboard and set it on the stove. She stared into the water as if she could pull the rest of her story out of it and hang it to dry on the window. As she waited for the unfortunately story-less water to boil, she wandered over to the window and stared out into the backyard. Though she was never the outdoorsy type, the snow looked enticing, and she considered taking a walk.

Well, now you’re going to some extremes to avoid me, aren’t you?

Sofia whirled around, scanning the kitchen with wild eyes for whatever intruder had just broken her quiet with that scathing purr. Her gaze found no one at the windows or doors, and she sighed in relief. There was no one there.

That’s quite rude, don’t you think?

She froze. Slowly, her gaze moved the other way, towards the kitchen table and the beautiful woman sitting at its end. She looked just like Sofia had pictured. Porcelain skin, shining ebony hair, fingernails painted to match her blood-red dress, and Sofia knew even from across the room those eyes were honey brown with flecks of gold. Ivy.

“What the hell,” she muttered aloud.

Ivy’s crimson lips broke into a playful, teasing smile. You sort of left me hanging up there.

“Uh, yeah,” Sofia breathed, half certain she was in the midst of a dream or a wild mushroom trip, “sorry about that.” This cannot be real, she thought to herself.

I can hear you, you know, Ivy snickered. And of course, it’s not real. You’re obviously going crazy.

 “Fantastic.” Sofia ran a hand through her hair. A high-pitched screech rang through the air, and for a moment she was relieved to discover this was only a brink-of-death hallucination, likely from some terrible car accident her brain was repressing as they rushed her into the O.R., and she was finally giving it up to the Grim Reaper while the dreadful tone of the heart monitor announced her demise to the frantic room of doctors.

You should probably get that.

It was the teakettle. She ignored Ivy’s giggle and rushed to take the water off the heat. In her strange balance of shock and delirium, she considered offering her illusory guest a cup.

I’m fine, but thank you.

Right, she thought. So, you can read my mind, I guess?

Well duh, I’m in your mind, silly. 

“Well, you’re kinda in my kitchen right now too, so…” she said aloud, letting the sentence trail off before being punctuated with the solid plop of her tea bag into its cup, “what’s the deal with that?”

Ivy rolled her eyes with a graceful, habitual flick of her hair over her shoulder. I had to get your attention somehow. You sort of left me hanging up there.

“I just needed a cup of tea, a moment to think. My god,” Sofia muttered defensively.

Can you blame me for getting scared? Ivy implored her. She had a look on her face as if Sofia were insane for not understanding. You are insane, I thought we covered that. But you’ve left me before. 

Sofia didn’t have anything to say to that. It was true. She had begun Ivy’s story nearly ten years ago, and the process had been a cycle between writing a few pages, maybe getting invigorated for a week or two or three, then getting busy and slowly setting it further and further aside — if that cycle were shaped like a pear, that is. In truth, she often went months at a time without writing a single word for herself. She wrote other people’s ideas, sure, wrote them or rewrote them or re-rewrote them. But Ivy, this mysterious, maniacal woman who had begun slithering around the recesses of her mind many years ago, slowly but certainly unveiling the bits and pieces of her story to Sofia… Ivy had been left to gather dust in that dining room, waiting for her husband to come home. 

“I never… I never tried to abandon you,” she weakly defended.

Ivy leaned over the table with a sympathetic look on her ethereal face, and Sofia was half-terrified she was going to reach over and take her hand. I know you never meant it. I know. It was never you, it was-

She was cut off by the rush of wintry wind that followed the front door’s quick swing open. Rocco hustled through the threshold, stomping his boots on the step before finally closing the door behind him and noticing her at the kitchen table. “Hey, baby,” he greeted, toeing off his boots and sending her a smile that smoothly washed over any residual chill in the room, but she couldn’t bask in that right then.

“Hey, babe. You’re home early,” she greeted shakily, tempted to glance over and check if Ivy was still there.

Rocco checked his phone and gave her a strange look. “It’s almost six.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”

He chuckled and walked over to kiss her on the head. She took the opportunity, her face hidden, to shoot a glance towards the other end of the table. Ivy was there, that was for certain, and she was staring at Rocco with a deep, simmering hatred. It froze Sofia to the core. She barely managed a mumbled reaction when Rocco skipped upstairs to get changed. Ivy’s eyes tracked him the whole way, then snapped back to Sofia as soon as he disappeared from view.

Him. It’s his fault.