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‘Do you fancy Cyrus?’
‘Evie!’ he says, glaring at me. ‘That’s out of order.’
‘Why? I’m not saying she has to fuck you.’
Florence doesn’t seem upset at all. She finds me funny or maybe it’s Cyrus’s reaction that makes her laugh.
My mobile vibrates. It’s an unknown number. I refuse to answer. I don’t want some heavy breather masturbating down the phone or a scam artist telling me my account has been hacked. A text arrives. I’ll read it later.
Florence helps Cyrus load the dishwasher and chats about growing up in Zimbabwe, which is in Africa. I want to ask her about elephants, which are my favourite animal. I sort of imagine they’re everywhere in Africa, and I picture people riding them to school or catching them like buses, but I don’t want to sound stupid, so I say nothing. Soon, she yawns and apologises and wishes us goodnight before she climbs the stairs. I leave clean knickers outside her bedroom door and listen to the pipes clanking and rattling as she turns on the shower.
Cyrus is downstairs in the library. I wonder if he’s going to join Florence later, sneaking into her room in the middle of the night. They’d make lovely milk-chocolate babies. Why do I think things like that? I hate myself sometimes. All the time.
In the morning, I wake early, which is unusual for me, and get out of bed because I can’t bear the thoughts that come to me when I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling. Introspection leads to self-analysis, which leads to self-hatred. That’s my circle of my life – the vicious kind.
Getting dressed, I go downstairs and let Poppy into the garden. Then I watch TV for a few minutes, flicking between channels, searching for nothing. The news: doom and gloom. Breakfast TV: sunny and chatty. Children’s shows: patronising. Cyrus and Florence are sleeping in separate rooms. No beds or bodily fluids were swapped last night, which makes me want to gag, but also makes me happy.
It’s my turn to take Poppy for a walk. Leaving the house, I turn along Parkside, heading towards Wollaton Park. Already the cool of the morning is being baked away by the sun, as it appears above the trees. At a house on the corner, a young guy in faded jeans and a T-shirt is working on a car in the driveway, leaning over the engine. I slow down, noticing how his jeans hug his backside. Poppy tugs on her lead.
The boy is Liam and he’s home from university and has spent his summer break stripping the engine of an old Ford Fiesta and rebuilding it from scratch. Cleaning, greasing, rewiring and tightening bits and pieces. Liam has blue eyes and stubble on his cheeks and blond highlights in his hair that might be caused by sunshine or chemicals.
Wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag, he smiles. ‘Morning, Princess. Did you sleep well?’
‘I did.’
‘Alone?’
‘None of your business.’
He grins and crouches down, calling to Poppy. I unclip her lead and she trots along his driveway. Liam scratches behind her ears and looks into her eyes as though practising dog telepathy. ‘We’re friends now,’ he says. And then to me, ‘When are you coming for a drink with me?’
‘When hell freezes over.’
‘Are you old enough to drink?’
‘Fuck off.’
Another smile. ‘I’m off to the pub tonight if you fancy coming.’
‘The pub.’
‘Yeah. The Admiral Rodney.’
Is he asking me on a date? I think of Cyrus and wonder if it would make him jealous. Probably not.
‘What time?’
‘I’ll be there about six.’
I nod and summon Poppy, clipping the lead to her collar and turning into the park. I wonder if Liam is still watching me. I want to look over my shoulder to check, but that might seem weird or needy.
My phone vibrates. It’s the same unknown number as yesterday, but I know who it is now. A voice message comes next.
Hello, Evie. It’s Dr Bennett from the Diana Princess of Wales Hospital. I need to talk to you about your MRI scan. Can you please call to schedule an appointment?
I delete the message and think about what I’m going to wear tonight for my date with Liam. Not that I have much choice. I don’t wear dresses and my jeans come in two colours, black and blue, and two styles, ripped and unripped. In truth, I’m more interested in telling Cyrus that I have a date than going on one. Maybe that’s because I haven’t been on many, or any, ever.
This could be a disaster.
