Good Girl, Bad Girl(66)
“May I ask why?”
“It won’t bring Jodie back.”
Something about his attitude annoys me. I can’t tell if he’s mourning the loss of his niece or the loss of a future champion, his ticket to reflected glory.
“It must be a very close relationship—a coach and his student. Working together, traveling to events, staying overnight . . .”
His body tenses and his eyes are fixed on mine.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Did you have separate rooms?”
Whitaker’s face goes through a transformation from amazement to anger, as the red mist descends. His features become tighter and smaller, rushing to the center of his face.
“How dare you suggest—how dare you think . . .”
“It’s a question that has to be asked.”
“It’s a question that could destroy my career,” he says angrily. “Even the merest hint of something like that and I’d never coach again. You have no right. You . . . you . . .” He can’t finish. “The suggestion that I slept with my niece is obscene. You have a sick mind. A sick, sick mind.”
36
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I’ve been watching them talking, but I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying or decide if they’re lying. Neither would be very good at poker. Too many “tells.” Cyrus is holding his emotions in check, but the coach is all over the place.
When people swear on the Bible, promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that’s bullshit. Everybody lies. Lawyers. Social workers. Counselors. Doctors. Foster carers. Teenagers. Children. It is what people do: they breathe, they eat, they drink, and they lie.
I once did a survey at Langford Hall, keeping count of how many porkies I heard in a single day, and I came up with an average of eighteen per person . . . before lunch. These were only the obvious lies, not the small fictions that people tell to keep others happy. I love your new haircut. What a cute outfit. I didn’t take your yogurt. Others were lies they told themselves. I’m not so fat. I’m not too old. Nobody will notice that missing. I know what I’m doing. If I had more time I would . . .
The obvious lies are the easiest to pick. Others are better hidden or so close to the truth that the dividing line is blurred. Some lies are selfish. Some inflate or conflate or mitigate or simply omit. Some are told for good reason. People lie because they think it doesn’t matter. They lie because telling the truth would mean giving up control, or the truth is inconvenient, or they don’t want to disappoint, or they desperately want it to be true. I’ve heard them all. I’ve told them all.
Walking between the tiered seats, I follow the passage to the changing rooms. The two skaters I saw on the ice are putting on their street clothes. One of them is in a hurry to leave, angry with herself, slamming the door of her locker and limping out. The other is still unlacing her skates.
“You were very good,” I say. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone skate. Up close I mean. When you see it on TV, you don’t realize the speed or hear the sound of the skates on the ice.”
I sit down on the bench opposite her. “I’m Evie, by the way.”
“Alice.”
“How long have you been skating, Alice?”
“Since I was five.”
“Have I left it too late?”
“Anyone can skate. Most people just do it for fun.”
“Is it fun for you?”
“Today, yeah. Ask me tomorrow.”
Alice pulls a heavy fleece over her head, lifting her hair out from the collar.
“Did you know Jodie Sheehan?” I ask.
“Sure. We trained together.”
“With the same coach?”
Alice nods. “Mr. Whitaker.”
“Was Jodie his favorite?”
A cloud of uncertainty passes across her face. “He pushed her harder than the rest of us.”
“Why?”
“Because she was so good.”
“I wish I could have seen her skate,” I say, running my finger over one of the blades. “Can we play a game, Alice?”
She glances up nervously. “My mum is picking me up.”
“This won’t take long. It’s a bluffing game called two truths and a lie. I tell you three things about me and you pick which one is a lie.”
“OK.”
“My real name isn’t Evie. I’m a twin. And I can fit four boiled eggs in my mouth all at once.”
“That’s a lie.” Alice laughs.
“You mean about the eggs? No, that’s true. I could prove it to you if we had four boiled eggs. Now it’s your turn. You tell me three things about Jodie—two truths and a lie.”
“Why Jodie?”
“It makes things harder.”
Alice begins thinking. “OK. Jodie wanted to quit skating, she had a secret boyfriend, and she once screamed so loudly at a horror film that the girl next to her peed her pants.”
“That’s hilarious,” I say. “Were you the girl?”
Alice nods, blushing. “How did you know?”