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‘I haven’t decided.’
‘I can offer you my guest room.’
She gives me a look, as though assessing my motives.
‘The guest room?’ she asks, seeking confirmation.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I wouldn’t want you to think that I’d tumble into bed with some guy I’ve just met.’
‘You won’t be tumbling anywhere.’
Her right eyebrow arches. ‘Not unless I trip.’
15
Evie
Cyrus has invited a woman home. She has dreadlocked hair and skin so dark and polished smooth that she makes me feel pale and scrawny like a plucked chicken. It’s impossible not to stare at her, particularly her eyelashes, which are absurdly long. Nobody needs eyelashes like that.
‘What’s she doing here?’ I whisper when Florence has gone upstairs to get changed.
‘She’s staying tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she lives in London and it’s late and I offered.’
‘OK, but who is she?’
‘A lawyer. She’s going to help Arben.’
We’re both whispering, which isn’t necessary.
It’s my turn to make dinner. Cyrus does most of the cooking, but he’s taught me to make spaghetti bolognaise and macaroni cheese and chicken parmigiana as long as someone else crumbs the chicken because I don’t like touching raw meat. I used to be a vegetarian but went back to eating meat because the doctor said I wasn’t getting enough protein.
Florence reappears. She’s wearing one of Cyrus’s sweatshirts and cargo pants. Of course, she’s a vegan and she doesn’t drink alcohol. Does that make her boring or more interesting?
‘Evie can lend you a pair of pyjamas,’ says Cyrus.
‘They won’t fit,’ I say. ‘She’s a giant compared to me.’
‘Knickers and a T-shirt will be fine,’ says Florence, smiling with perfect white teeth, which are probably natural. Black people have nice teeth. Is that because of the colour contrast, I wonder, and is that a racist thing to think?
‘And you can use Evie’s bathroom,’ says Cyrus. ‘I put a new toothbrush in the vanity.’
Which is supposed to be for me.
I steam some extra vegetables and set the table without being asked. I don’t know who I’m trying to impress. Florence automatically sits next to Cyrus. I want to look under the table to see if they’re playing footsie.
I listen to her stories, itching to catch her lying, but she tells the truth about her family and university and her work. I wonder if Cyrus fancies her. He doesn’t show it. Maybe he doesn’t want a girlfriend. He acts so gay sometimes.
If he were mine, I’d make sure everybody knew. I’d kiss him all the time. I’d do more than that, but Cyrus won’t let it happen because there are rules about that sort of thing, something he calls a ‘duty of care’. That doesn’t stop people gossiping about us living under the same roof. I’ve seen the neighbours’ curtains shiver and the Venetian blinds bend when we leave the house together. Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice. I like that about him.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ I ask Florence.
‘No.’
