“I am,” I say, and square my shoulders.
“Where do you live, Jenna?”
“London.” I slam down my weights, swapping them for 8kg ones. I need to feel more of a burn.
“What do you see in him?” She crosses her arms then, her stare hardening. “Apart from the obvious.”
“Excuse me?” I turn to look at her, stopping my reps.
“He's too young for you,” Cynthia snaps at me, her eyes just as fierce.
“With all due respect, Marty's an adult, and so am I-”
“Marty? You call him Marty?” she interrupts.
“Yes, that’s what he told me his name was.” I try not to sound spiteful but it’s near-impossible.
“That's the name his ex gave him. His ex whodied.” She emphasises the last word with heavy eyebrows and an unforgiving glower.
“I know about Arnie.” This conversation is moving from places I never expected to topics I wouldn't have dreamed of discussing with her, at least not like this.
“Then you'll know Aiden's been through a lot this last year. And even before that. He spent months with Arnie, looking after him. Nobody should ever have to watch someone they love die like that. Especially not a twenty-two-year old boy.”
I bristle at the word ‘boy’ but I know nothing is to be gained from highlighting just how far from a boy her son is.
“I agree with you on that. And I truly wish it hadn't happened.”
“Then maybe you'll also agree that this is not a good idea.” She nods at me.
“There is no ‘this’. We spent the day together yesterday...”
“And night,” she adds firmly. “You spent the night together.”
I shake my head and move to return the weights. “I don't think either of us really wants to have this conversation.”
Cynthia shuffles to keep close to me, her arms folded across her chest. “And yet we are having it. And I'm asking you to stay away from Aiden. You don't know what he's been through.”
“He’s told me all about Arnie,” I say again. I take a moment to look at her, really look at her. I know it’s fear making her say what she’s saying, but fear of what?
“Did he also tell you about what happened after that? How he disappeared completely for months after Arnie died. How he went on this drink and drugs binge around Ibiza, Majorca, and the other smaller island there that I can never remember the blasted name for.”
“Formentera,” I say with a sharp inhale.
“Yes, that's it, thank you.” She gives me a quick nod. “Anyway. We barely heard from him for nearly six months until we got a phone call that he was in hospital.”
“Hospital?” I ask without thinking.
“So, he didn't tell you,” she says, and she can't contain her satisfaction. Her dark eyes sparkle like his do when he comes up with a quick and witty retort for me, but it’s brief because as she continues to talk it completely disappears and there is nothing happy or triumphant about her expression. “He was in a scooter crash. Punctured a lung. Broke seven ribs. But if you'd seen the state of the scooter, you'd know that it was a miracle he walked away with just that.”
A rush of different impulses fill my mind, but the one that is loudest, strongest, is the one to defend Marty. “People get in accidents all the time. I'm sorry that happened to him but I don't really understand your point.”
Cynthia is quick to reply to that although the way her voice cracks makes me think it pains her to do so. “There were multiple witnesses and they all said he was speeding up as he approached the wall he crashed into. He wanted to do it. He did it on purpose.”
A chill snakes its way down my back, like one of the many beads of sweat now pooling at the base of my spine.
No. Not Marty. Marty who is full of life. Full of pain and loss and grief too, yes, but so very full of life.
“He didn't tell you that part, did he?” Cynthia asks and while her tone is sly, her voice still cracks, like maybe it’s actually a great effort for her to sound so mean.
