Free The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle Page B

is ‘patrician’ because they’re obviously not.
    â€˜Phew,’ Billy whispers, ‘get the cut of that cashmere. Overcoats like that mean serious real estate.’
    I nod, but the truth is, neither the man nor his overcoat interest me. It’s her I keep looking at. Everything about the woman from the apartment opposite is curved, from the ample rise of her chest, to her hips, to the curls of pale colourless hair that fall over the black collar of her coat. Her cheeks are round and still slightly flushed, as if she has been crying since yesterday, and the child she pushes looks way too old to be in a stroller. Six or seven at least and dark like his father, the little boy sits staring straight ahead. Wrapped in a scarf and coat and hat, as if this is the Arctic winter instead of spring in Florence, he looks like a large doll, a boy made of wax. To be honest, he looks not quite human.
    â€˜The kid looks kind of retarded,’ Billy whispers.
    We watch as they draw parallel to us, fascinated and slightly guilty because we know something about them the rest of the world doesn’t. Out here, they’re a nice young family; handsome, prosperous father and plump, pink-cheeked mother taking their little doll boy for a stroll. But behind the walls of our palazzo, we’ve heard them shriek and call each other names.
    â€˜She’s pretty,’ Billy murmurs, ‘but she’s fat. I never noticed before that she was fat. I bet he’s having an affair,’ she adds. ‘I bet that’s it.’
    Billy lowers her voice, even though there’s no earthly way they could hear us. ‘I think it’s the kid,’ she says. ‘I mean, look at him. I bet he’s one of those guys who just can’t stand kids that have something wrong with them—you know, perfection freaks. Or,’ she whispers, ‘maybe he doesn’t like fat. If she got her act together, fixed her hair and lost fifteen pounds, he probably wouldn’t screw around.’ She shrugs, losing interest. ‘I mean, with a body like that,’ she says, ‘what do you expect? Guys like perfection, or at least something close to it, you know?’
    â€˜Yeah? Well, not everyone can be as perfect as you! Some people don’t have that choice!’
    The words come out before I even realize I’ve said them, fast and harsh, and I feel myself blush, feel the colour rising up under my turtleneck and flooding into my face. The couple and the child have passed us by now, but I watch resolutely until they’re swallowed in the crowd, and finally I have no alternative but to look back at Billy.
    I don’t know what I expect to see. Shame? Some token effort to be contrite? It isn’t there. Instead, her eyes are glittering. A tiny smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. The way she’s looking at me reminds me uncomfortably of a child who has just lifted up a rock and seen something pale and naked wriggling underneath. Billy opens her mouth and closes it again, silently, like one of the fish. Then she says suddenly, ‘I have always wanted one of these.’ She turns towards the jeweller’s window immediately beside us. ‘Look.’ Billy taps her nail on the glass, pointing to a tray of rings. ‘Don’t you think they’re absolutely gorgeous?’ she asks.
    The rings are thin gold bands, intertwined to hold a pair of gemstone hearts, each a different colour. The stones sparkle under the lights, aquamarine and topaz, fire opal and amethyst, garnet and citrine.
    â€˜They’re beautiful.’ I mumble. And I try to look as if I’m seriously studying the heart rings, instead of watching Billy’s reflection in the glass, and the tiny knowing smile that flutters across her lips.

Chapter Five
    B Y THE TIME we arrive at the bar the big mushroom heaters have been turned on. Fairy lights lace through the trees and floodlights hit the blank façade of