Evie seems to be evaluating me, chewing at her bottom lip. ‘So how would this work?’
‘You’ll live with me. You’ll have your own room and bathroom. It’s nothing fancy, but I’m sure you’ll cope. We’ll share the chores.’
‘I’m not your slave.’
I ignore her. ‘I’ll pay the bills. You’ll study or get a job – in which case I’ll charge you board.’
‘Don’t you get paid for being a foster carer?’
‘I’m going to save that money for you. You’ll get it when you turn eighteen – as long as you don’t steal from me, lie to me or run away.’
Caroline returns, taking a seat between us.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a case turn around like that,’ she says, brightly. ‘I don’t have a lot to compare it with, of course. Was any of that planned?’
‘No.’
‘But your letter to the judge . . .?’
‘I wrote it two nights ago.’
Evie has unzipped her boots and is rubbing her heels. I see the blue veins beneath her pale skin on her ankles. She interrupts.
‘Do you have a dog?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m away a lot.’
‘I could look after a dog.’
‘You’re not with me for long enough.’
‘Two hundred and ninety-eight days,’ she says, having done the maths. ‘If you get a dog, I could take it with me.’
‘We’re not getting a dog.’
‘And the bossing starts,’ she mutters, but doesn’t fixate on the rejection. I haven’t seen Evie this animated before. Normally our conversations have been stilted and defensive, where each question is treated like a landmine to be avoided or disarmed. I could be winning her trust. I could be deluding myself.
‘When can I see the house?’ she asks.
‘Why not today?’ asks Caroline.
‘I need to get it ready. Clean it up.’
‘Prepare the dungeon in the basement,’ says Evie.
‘Very funny.’
‘You said I could see it before I decided.’
‘OK.’
We eat lunch. Caroline chats about the case, wanting to replay every highlight, wishing her immediate boss had been there to see it.
Evie watches us, as though trying to read something between the words. Occasionally, she wrinkles her nose, or makes a spitty sound in her throat, or blows air across the top of her soft drink bottle, making a tooting sound.
Caroline disappears to pay the bill.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask.
Evie leans closer. ‘You’re flirting.’
‘I’m not flirting.’
‘Yes you are. And she’s engaged.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m not blind.’ Evie holds up her left hand and wiggles her wedding ring finger. ‘You said you had a girlfriend.’
‘I do.’
‘But you’re not sure.’
‘Please don’t do that.’
I look away, which Evie finds amusing.
Caroline returns. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
‘Nothing,’ I say too sharply.
‘Cyrus has a thing for lawyers,’ says Evie with a glint in her eye.
Caroline pauses, clearly uncomfortable, and I feel myself shrink in her estimation. I want to shove a serviette in Evie’s gob, but I know this is what she does. I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.
Moments later, we’re outside on the footpath, buttoning coats, wrapping scarves and flagging down a cab. I try to remember what state I left the house in this morning. I hope the central heating has stayed on.
We retrace the route of my earlier cab ride, past the university and Wollaton Park. As we reach my road, I picture Parkside Avenue through Evie’s eyes. It must look like I’m rich, almost posh, until the cab slows and stops. The house appears instantly shabbier than I remember, set amid a dense throng of rambling roses and clematis.
‘It’s huge,’ says Caroline, being polite.
‘It’s falling down,’ says Evie.
‘It belonged to my grandparents.’
‘Are they dead?’ asks Evie.
‘They’ve retired to Weymouth.’
‘Can I live with them?’
Junk mail tumbles from the mesh-basket beneath the mail slot as I open the door.
‘How long have you lived here?’ asks Caroline, ever the optimist.
‘A little while,’ I say.
Seventeen years.
I give them a tour of the ground floor – the parlour, the study, the library, the drawing room, the kitchen. Evie opens the fridge.
‘You have no food.’
‘I buy when I’m hungry.’
‘You order takeaway.’
‘No. I can cook.’
Evie has moved on. ‘Do you have a computer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wi-Fi?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I get a phone?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t like phones.’
Evie looks at Caroline as though they’ve stumbled upon the Missing Link. I try to explain but sound like a Luddite.
‘I’ll need a mobile phone,’ she says adamantly.
I don’t say yes or no, but a part of me is pleased that she’s making plans. This might work.
Caroline has returned to the drawing room, where the rugs are worn and old furniture gleams with polish. She pulls open the curtains and dust motes dance in the shaft of light. The large fireplace has decorative tiles around the edges of the hearth and family photographs arranged on the mantelpiece. Most are casual snapshots, random moments captured when the subjects were unaware of the camera. I’m feeding ducks with my mother at Henley, or riding on my father’s shoulders, or eating an ice-cream on Brighton Pier. My favourite is a black and white portrait of my parents on their wedding day in 1975. My father was twenty-nine and my mother twenty-six. They are doubled over laughing, my mother holds the train of her dress, trying not to drop her bridal bouquet. The only official family portrait was taken in a studio and looks so staged and unnaturally bright that I wonder if the colours were painted in afterwards.
Evie seems fascinated by the photograph. She picks it up and traces her fingers over the faces.
‘What were their names?’
I point to each of them. ‘April and Esme were the twins. They were seven when this was taken. I was nine. Elias was fifteen.’
‘Where are they now?’ asks Caroline.
‘His parents are dead,’ replies Evie. She points to my brother. ‘He did it.’
Caroline looks shocked. ‘What about your sisters?’
‘They’re dead, too,’ I say, taking the photograph from Evie. I place it back on the mantelpiece, arranging it at exactly the same angle as before.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ says Evie, sounding aggrieved.
‘You didn’t ask.’ I change the subject. ‘I’ll show you upstairs.’
They follow. Whispering. Evie is limping from her blisters.
‘This can be your room,’ I say, opening the door. The room has a single bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and a window that’s so dirty we could be underwater. Evie looks unimpressed.