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‘Nothing. You can’t tell Mama or Papa.’
She turned her body away from me, but I felt the bed shaking.
22
Cyrus
I knock on Evie’s door. ‘Are you awake?’
‘No.’
‘You have a phone call from Dr Bennett at the hospital.’
‘I’ll call her back,’ says Evie, half asleep.
‘It sounds urgent.’
I open the door. Evie’s room is darker than a cave. Poppy raises her head and thumps her tail against the mattress. She’s supposed to be sleeping downstairs in the laundry, but that house rule didn’t last long. I put the phone onto speaker and hold it out of Evie’s reach.
‘She’s listening,’ I say.
‘Hello, Evie,’ says Dr Bennett. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you. ‘Did you get my messages?’
‘No,’ says Evie.
‘I have your MRI results. Can you come and see me?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘No you’re not,’ I say. Evie tries to snatch the phone out of my fingers. I keep it from her. ‘We can come today.’
‘I’ll put you down for eleven o’clock,’ says Dr Bennett.
‘We’ll be there. Thank you for calling.’
Evie glares at me and rolls away, facing the wall.
‘Have you been avoiding her?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Well, get dressed. We leave in half an hour.’
‘I can drive myself.’
‘I want to be there.’
‘Why? It’s none of your business.’
‘I care about you.’
‘No. You like sticking your nose into my life. You’re not my father, or my guardian, or my big brother. What am I to you?’
‘My friend.’
Her eyes narrow. She knows I’m telling the truth and that annoys her because she wants us to be more than friends and housemates and co-parents to Poppy. I suspect I know the reason. Evie has survived so much abuse in her life that she could be forgiven for never trusting another human being, let alone a man. Then I came along and listened to her. I read between her lines and didn’t judge or pity her or make her feel broken. The opposite happened. I made her feel normal and unsullied and stronger. But sometimes survivors like Evie mistake empathy and listening for something deeper and more romantic. In psychology we call it erotic transference. Evie argues that she is not my patient so it shouldn’t matter. But it does, of course. And it’s never going to happen. I can only love her as a friend.
We drive in silence through countryside that is dotted with pretty farmhouses and ugly barns and golden wheels of hay. Heat shimmers off the road, creating darker pools that look like puddles of water. Holiday traffic is banked up at roadworks and exits – tourist coaches with bug-splattered windscreens and jug-eared mirrors; caravans and campervans and family wagons loaded with beach gear and children.
