Good Girl, Bad Girl(55)
His chest and arms are covered in an aviary of swallows, sparrows, hummingbirds, doves, lorikeets, and robins. The birds move as he moves, animated by the muscles beneath his skin and the beads of sweat that trickle in rivulets down his neck and chest.
Cyrus turns to pick up a bottle of water. I see his back, which is covered by an enormous set of folded wings that stretch from his upper arms, across his shoulders, down either side of his spine, where they disappear beneath his shorts and reappear on his thighs. Each feather is so beautifully drawn and finely detailed that I can make out every barb and vane, so lifelike that I can imagine him arching his back, unfurling his wings, and taking flight.
Cyrus adds more weight to the bar before ducking underneath and bracing it across his shoulders. He tries to straighten. Groans. Nothing happens. It’s too heavy. He tries again; this time the bar rises a fraction of an inch, then more.
Veins bulge in his arms, and his face darkens with blood. This is not exercise. This is self-abuse. This is punishment.
I’m willing him to stay upright but his knees are buckling. He staggers. Sways. I catch my breath, sure that he’ll fall, but Cyrus steadies and lowers the bar with painful slowness. It hovers over the cradle for a moment before dropping, and he collapses onto a bench, his head draped over his splayed knees.
I back away, feeling like a voyeur or, worse, a thief. Returning to the bedroom and my new bed, I don’t bother pushing the chest of drawers against the door.
30
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Felicity Whitaker answers my knock with such a flourish that I’m sure she’s expecting someone else. Squeaking in surprise, she touches her face almost instinctively as though caught without her makeup. She’s in old jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a scarf.
“I was cleaning.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Don’t be. Any excuse.”
She pulls off her scarf and pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She’s someone who favors jewelry that dangles and clinks.
“Housework can be very therapeutic,” I say. “It gives me a sense of achievement.”
“I thought you’d have a cleaner.”
“No.”
“A wife?”
“No.”
Felicity raises her eyebrows in mock surprise and I wonder if she’s flirting. I’m still standing on the doorstep. Apologizing, she steps back, pushing a vacuum cleaner away with her foot. I squeeze past, almost brushing against her. She could give me more room.
The kitchen table is covered in boxes of cereal and bowls of soggy flakes.
“We slept in this morning,” she explains, pointing to a chair. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.”
She fills the kettle. I notice an array of postcards magnetized to the fridge with plastic fruit; images from New Orleans, Sydney, Mexico City, and Berlin.
“Have you been to all these places?”
“Heavens no.” She laughs. “They’re from my pen friends. I’ve been writing to some of them since I was eleven. My primary school started a program. We were twinned with schools around the world.” She is clearing the table as she talks. “One day, when I win the National Lottery, I’m going to visit them all—take a world tour. I know it’s a silly dream.”
“It’s not silly.”
Through the door, in the sitting room, I notice a gangly-looking youth with an electric guitar on his lap. He’s wearing headphones and his fingers are flicking up and down a fretboard, making music that only he can hear.
A girl is lying with her head next to his thigh, peering at her phone.
“My eldest, Aiden,” says Felicity, smiling. “I think the girl is Sophie, but I could be wrong. She’s here to comfort him. My children have become more popular since Jodie’s death.” She gives me a guilty look. “That’s probably a terrible thing to say.”
Aiden dips the guitar and drives to a head-rocking crescendo.
“Is he in a band?” I ask.
“God forbid! No!” She laughs. “He’s reading law at Cambridge next year. He won the Charter Scholarship. Fully funded.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Isn’t it though. We’re so proud of him.”
She’s opening cupboards, searching for something. Finally she retrieves a packet of biscuits that is tucked behind cake tins and Tupperware boxes, hidden from her children.
“It isn’t easy getting out of this place. A lot of Aiden’s friends have gone straight from school onto the dole or are at risk of getting trapped in dead-end jobs at call centers or franchise stores. They’ll get some girl pregnant or marry too young out of boredom, or go into the family business, having promised themselves they never would. Not my Aiden. He’s going to be a lawyer in a big London firm with a house in Hampstead and a villa in Italy.”
“Sounds like you have it all planned out.”
Felicity laughs and her earrings sway.
“Where did you meet Bryan?” I ask.
“On the ice. I fell over. He picked me up. Cheesy, I know. It was my nineteenth birthday. I was with a group of girlfriends, but I forgot about them completely as Bryan held me around the waist and we skated. He made me feel like we could be Torvill and Dean.”