Unsettled ""tales,"" not a novel, just mobile experiences seen through Dior rosetinted glasses or the haze of a joint. These reinforce Eve's avowedly affectionate, smog-proofed, offhand view of life in Hollywood (""sprawlsberg""), where 99% live ""half-lives of expectation."" So does she, being a writer (articles, interviews, etc.) whose friends and lovers are never around for long. Like, for instance, Terry Finch, a girl with a star look about her but the victim of a time when you can have everything except a prince; or Nikki, a wisp of a girl with migraines; or Shawn, one of Eve's lovers, even if he is seen in a silver silk smoking jacket. Look quickly and you might glimpse the real Brando or Redford or even Cary Grant. Look again and it's Janis Joplin during that last week, floating in a pool before she buys ""total surcease."" Eve settles for the partial escape--Ritalin, 10 mm. of Valium, booze. She's the kind of girl readers of Jill Robinson or Joan Didion will like; there's that torchy sentimentality (""Women want to be loved like roses"") without any of the despair.