Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(15)

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘What pub?’ asks Lenny.

‘Whatever Paulie told you. I’m not good with names,’ says the fat one.

‘Can you remember your own?’

He doesn’t realise she’s questioning his intelligence. Lenny asks to see his ID but he’s not carrying one.

‘I’m Boris Johnson,’ says his mate.

‘And I’m Harry Windsor,’ says the fat one. ‘I left Meghan at home with the baby in LA.’

Lenny gives them a tight smile. She turns to Paulie. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll be sure to put that payment through. Same amount as last time.’

Paulie blinks at her, taking a moment to comprehend what she’s saying. The penny drops. His mouth opens and closes.

‘What? No. I’m not a fuckin’ snitch,’ he stammers, looking at his mates, almost pleading with them.

Lenny, blithely, ‘Don’t get up, Marlene. We can see ourselves out.’





9


Evie


How many ounces of flour make up a cup, and is a cup the same as a mug? Cyrus doesn’t have any proper measurers; and he doesn’t have a nine-inch cake tin, so this could be a disaster.

I want to celebrate my anniversary by baking a cake. It is a year since I left Langford Hall and came to live here. Cyrus rescued me when nobody else knew that I was drowning. This is the longest I’ve ever slept in the same room, apart from at the children’s home, and when I shared a bed with Agnesa.

I try to crack an egg against the side of the mixing bowl, but it explodes in my hand. I dump the shell in the sink and fish broken bits out of the bowl with my fingers. They make it look so easy on The Great British Bake Off. Whisking, folding, blending, dusting. And that Nigella Lawson can make sucking a spoon look positively pornographic.

Half an hour later, I hear the door open and keys hitting the side table. Boots are kicked off. Mail is checked. An envelope is torn open. Cyrus appears in the kitchen. He looks at the bench, which is covered in flour, caster sugar and cocoa powder.

‘I’m making a cake,’ I say.

‘Just the one?’

Sarcastic prick!

He tries to peer into the oven. I block his way.

‘You’re not allowed to look.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a surprise. And if I mess up, I’m throwing it away.’

He goes to sit down.

‘Wait!’

I brush flour off the chair.

‘How was the job-hunting?’ he asks.

‘I am officially a working woman.’

‘Great. Where?’

‘I’ll be mixing cocktails at a bar.’

He frowns. ‘Working nights?’

‘Thursday, Friday, Saturday – eight till two.’

‘Maybe you should have found a day job.’

‘I don’t need your permission,’ I shoot back.

For the briefest moment, I see the hurt in his eyes.

‘Do you know how to mix cocktails?’ he asks.

‘They’re going to teach me. I already know how to make a margarita and a mimosa.’

‘How about a Virgin Mary?’

‘You’re disgusting.’

‘The drink,’ he says. Normally, when he teases me, he laughs, but not this time.

‘How are you going to get home?’

‘I could borrow your car.’

‘Are you asking?’

‘Are you being a dick?’

He smiles tiredly.

‘My friend Morty is selling his Mini. He wants two hundred and fifty quid. I’m going to save up – unless you lend me the money. I could pay you back.’

‘It’s probably a rust-bucket.’

‘Fine. I’ll find another way.’

I hate arguing with Cyrus. I hate that he’s older than me and that he thinks he knows everything. I hate how he picks me up on my grammar and my vocabulary, like when I say literally when I mean figuratively (whatever the fuck that means). I hate how he laughs at me, but not in a cruel way. Cyrus thinks I’m a teenager, but I’m twenty-one, and I could be his equal, if he let me.

‘So where is this bar?’

‘In the Lace Market.’

‘Is it a nice place?’

‘Very classy. They want me to buy a dress.’

Cyrus knows my wardrobe consists of nothing but jeans and sweatshirts and oversized sweaters. It’s another staring contest. Who will blink first?

‘I’ll lend you money for a dress,’ he says. ‘But I want you to go shopping the old-fashioned way. Choose a dress. Try it on. Make sure it suits you.’

This is another test. Part of my therapy is to interact more with people, rather than living like a hermit. He’s challenging me to be ‘normal’, whatever that means.

‘I could come with you,’ he says.

‘I don’t need help,’ I snap, annoyed with him.

Poppy has come in from the garden and sniffs at his socked feet. Cyrus tells her to sit. She obeys. She can also shake hands, and play dead, but only for Cyrus because he’s the alpha male. Cyrus says I don’t walk her enough; or brush her coat; or pick up her shit from the garden, but it’s hard work looking after a Labrador.