Good Girl, Bad Girl(94)

As I kneel down, Poppy tries to jump into my arms, knocking me backwards. I finish up on my backside on the damp grass.

“She doesn’t know her own strength,” says Raptor. “You should train her. Get her used to socializing with people and other dogs.”

Evie nods, draping herself across Poppy.

Paperwork has to be filled out. Forms signed. I buy a bag of dried dog food from the shop, as well as a harness lead and bowls for the kibble and water.

“Where is she going to sleep?” asks Evie.

“I thought maybe the laundry.”

“That’s too cold. Can she stay in my room?”

“We’ll see how it goes tonight.”

Evie sits in the back seat with Poppy, cracking a window so the Labrador can sniff the air outside. I get behind the wheel and reach for my seat belt. Suddenly, Evie wraps her arms around my neck and presses her cheek against my ear. It is a stiff hug. Unpracticed. Uncertain.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Thank you.”





49




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



I want to tell Cyrus what happened. I want to tell him nothing.

Confiding in him would go against everything I was ever taught. Trust nobody. Believe in nothing. Terry told me that. He proved it.

“You think you can rely on someone,” he said. “You think you know their name, you think you’ve seen their worst side, but that is a blindness. You haven’t looked closely enough.”

Sitting at the kitchen table, I shuffle the cards and deal a hand, playing them in my head before shuffling again. Cyrus is at the sink using a sharp knife to divide slabs of chuck steak into portions that he’ll freeze for Poppy. The Labrador is sitting on her haunches, hoping a morsel might fall to the floor.

“Don’t you dare feed her from the table,” says Cyrus.

I let my hand slip from my pocket and drop a piece of meat under the chair. Poppy sniffs it out and guzzles it greedily.

“Labs are notorious overeaters,” says Cyrus. “You don’t want her getting fat.”

Poppy is licking my fingers.

Cyrus is talking about building “a run” for Poppy in the back garden.

“She can’t stay inside all day. She’s too destructive.”

I glance towards the laundry, where one of his Nike runners has been chewed into a scattering of rubber, mesh, and synthetic leather.

“I’m sorry about your shoe,” I say for the umpteenth time. “I’ll pay for new ones.”

“What with?”

“When I get a job.”

Cyrus doesn’t comment.

The Labrador seems to be listening. Her paws make clicking sounds on the floor as she crosses the kitchen, wagging her tail and shoving her nose into Cyrus’s crotch. He pushes her away. “We should teach her not to do that.”

“She’s saying sorry.”

“She’s begging.”

I laugh and produce a phone from the pocket of my smock dress. It was on my pillow this afternoon, along with a note saying: “I know it’s secondhand, but I can’t afford a new one.”

When I tap the phone, the screen lights up, showing the different icons and apps. I don’t have anyone to call, but that’s OK.

“I’ve programmed my pager number into the contacts,” says Cyrus. “Next time if you get into trouble—”

“I won’t get into trouble.”

“I know, but just in case . . .”

A piece of meat drops from the chopping board and is quickly gobbled up by Poppy.

“Hey! You said not to feed her.”

“That was an accident,” says Cyrus, winking at me.

“You have a bathtub,” I say, in a mildly inquiring tone.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never had a bath. At least I don’t think I have. I don’t remember.”

“You can borrow mine,” he says.

“When?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Now?”

“Sure.”

I go upstairs and collect a towel. In Cyrus’s bathroom, I adjust the taps and begin filling a deep, claw-footed tub. Spying a bottle that says “bath crystals,” I pour half the contents into the running water. Pillows of foam erupt from beneath the taps, getting higher and higher. Maybe that was too much.

Slipping out of my clothes, I avoid looking in the mirror, because my bruises look like the inkblot tests that Guthrie used to give me.

“What does this remind you of, Evie?” he’d ask.

“A vagina.”

“And this?”

“Another vagina.”

It did his head in.

Having drawn the bath, I slide into the tub, sending a tsunami of foam spilling over the sides onto the floor. I’m not sure what to do next. In a shower you wash yourself, but in a bath—going by the films I’ve seen—people read magazines or drink champagne or go to sleep. I rest my head on a folded hand towel and close my eyes, letting the warm water soak into my muscles and bruises.

I can see the point of baths now. I’m going to stay in this tub forever.

Cyrus knocks. Immediately, I cover up, before remembering the door is locked.