Page 9 of You Can't Hurt Me

“Does he?” I’d scoff. Love, yes, but also it was something else. After our parents died, Tony and I were all each other had. He always looked after me and protected me growing up. But I never wanted to dig back into that time of our lives. I preferred to look forward, unlike him. Secretly, I was relieved when Amira and Tony’s fling came and went quickly.

“We’re cursed,” I remember her saying after the breakup. It was during one of our many wine-fueled lunchtimes and evenings here, counseling each other through various crises, from work to mortgages to men. “I choose the wrong type, and you don’t choose any type at all. One serious relationship after college and then singledom ever since.”

“Superficial dating never hurts anyone,” I said defensively. Tinder was perfect. Fleeting, transient, under the radar. My love life had been much more manageable this way, skimming the surfaces and avoiding the depths. “Here’s to never being hurt again,” I had said, raising a glass.

The waitress disappears and returns with our wine. I dissect the menu, seized by indecision while Amira orders a pint of prawns, chips and a Caesar salad. The thought of anchovies makes my insides roil, so I just order some olives and pita.

Amira’s mouth opens in bemusement. “So? Tell me more about Dr. Reid.”

“They put me in the machine and did all these scans of my brain, which was kind of amazing, seeing different areas light up like a Christmas tree depending on what they did to me.”

“You could start on all that. You in the chair, him like the mad scientist in his torture chamber. So was he playing ball?”

Her chin tilts up and she purses her lips, expectant for more. Thankfully her focus slips as the food arrives. She rips her prawns apart, squeezing out the soft pink flesh from their shell, sousing them in a bowl of aioli and popping them into her mouth. I reach across for the jug of water, my shirt sleeve slipping back to my elbow as I lift it up.

“God.” Her hand reaches to touch my inner arm, tilting it toward her over the table lamp to get a better look. “That looks nasty.”

I grimace. “It’s not that bad. His researcher did a lot of it. I’ve got sensitive skin. Apparently, redheads feel more pain.”

“That old cliché.”

“No, really, he’s doing a research project on it.” She looks at my arm again and I pull my sleeve down.

“So was it worth it?” Her eyes glint.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, I know you, Anna. Scheming away. I can’t remember the last time you were so keen to pitch an idea to Jess. I saw that piece inThe Booksellertoo.”

“What piece?”

“Dr. Reid’s potential memoir? You’re always saying you’re bored of journalism. I get it. It’s a good plan. So...are you in, do you think? Did you pass the test?”

I redden, but I know it’s useless to pretend. Amira can read me too well, able to provoke me more than anyone.

“He didn’t even mention it. We stuck very much to his obsession with pain.”

“Bit creepy. What a bizarre job, spending your life doing that to people.”

“Not that bizarre,” I reason. “He’s about to get a prize for his research. He’s a world-class scientist trying to find a better cure for chronic pain, not just some sadistic freak doing it for pleasure.”

Her face breaks into a grin.

“What?” I protest. “I’m only saying what you used to tell me. He’sinteresting.” I remind her about Nate’s TV documentary a few years ago and how I would tease her about her crush on the enigmatic researcher popularizing neuroscience.

She shrugs. “After his wife died, it was all a bit of a turn-off. But clearly you’re willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. You really believe that stuff about Eva? His version of events?”

“Well, the evidence is that he wasn’t there at the time. The inquest said it was death by misadventure.”

“Except there’s a second inquest, isn’t there? So clearly not everyone accepted the evidence.”

“You mean Kath?” I nod, remembering the public statement she made about her sister soon after she died, how the media were too obsessed with the salacious details and indifferent to the real story. She accused the press of “postmortem misogyny,” how they focused on her sister only as “the woman behind the King of Pain.” She felt, justly or not, that no one was defending Eva’s corner, least of all Nate, and she wanted him to be more accountable. “She’s pushing for a second inquest,” I confirm. “But until then, it’s all rumor that he or anyone else was involved. I can sympathize with Kath, how you’d want someone, anyone, to blame. And as Eva’s husband, Nate fits the bill.”

“Except didn’t reports say that Kath’s daughter was there living with him? Why would she allow that if she really thinks he’s responsible? Wouldn’t she be worried?” She shrugs and barrels on ahead. “Anyway, you did ask him about those rumors that he had something to do with it, I hope?”

“Not exactly, no. But my feeling was that he’d have shut down the interview instantly. I had to play the long game. He was incredibly defensive.”

“Ah, the long game,” she muses. “That’s the real point, isn’t it? You can’t afford to be too critical in case it jeopardizes your chances of being his ghostwriter.”

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