Bride Required

‘Gay?’ he echoed again.

‘Lord, is that the wrong term, too?’ Dee was beginning to wish she’d talked about the weather instead. ‘I thought homosexuals didn’t mind being called that.’

He seemed to finally catch up with the conversation. ‘Who told you I was homosexual?’

‘You did, earlier. Remember?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘I won’t go advertising it.’

He seemed about to say something. Dee had the strong impression he was going to deny it. She hoped he wouldn’t. She was beginning to like him, but she couldn’t stand liars.

In the end, however, he said without much conviction, ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I won’t, honestly,’ Dee stressed. ‘And it’s not as if it’s obvious. I mean you look very masculine, really.’

‘Should I take that as a compliment?’ he asked in ironic tones.

‘No.’

‘I thought not.’

Dee pulled a slight face and wished he would stop trying to put her on the spot.

They lapsed into silence as Rick came to set the table in front of them.

When he’d gone, the stranger asked, ‘Where is this squat?’

‘In a block of maisonettes the council have condemned.’

‘How long have you lived there?’

‘About six weeks.’

He frowned. ‘And the council haven’t noticed?’

‘Why should they?’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve left it boarded up, and the electricity and gas are still disconnected. Even if they did know, they wouldn’t care. They’re pulling it down for redevelopment soon.’

‘And then what? Where will you go?’

The questions could have denoted genuine interest, but Dee was doubtful. ‘Why? Are you doing a documentary or something? “The plight of the homeless?” Been done before, mate, sorry.’

‘No, I am not making a documentary.’ He kept his patience—just. ‘I was simply wondering if you’d made any contingency plans for the summer.’

‘Well, I was hoping to go cruising the Greek islands again,’ Dee replied in the same flippant tones, ‘but my boat’s in dry dock at the moment.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Don’t you take anything seriously?’

‘Like life, you mean?’ She slanted him a look wise beyond her years. ‘And where do you think that would get me—taking the long-term view?’

Baxter saw her point. With nothing to look forward to and no way of lifting herself up out of her current situation, maybe it was best to take each day as it came.

‘Have you no qualifications?’ he asked in a manner that suggested he expected she had none.

Dee decided to surprise him with the truth. ‘Nine GCSES—six As, two Bs and a D. I’m still working on my A levels.’

Baxter grimaced at what he took for sarcasm. ‘Okay, message received. You want me to mind my own business.’

Actually, no. Dee had wanted him to be impressed. To look at her in a new light. To talk to her as if she were worth talking to. But, no, she was just another homeless no-hoper to him—and to almost every other person who passed her on their way to work and the real world.

‘Give the man a coconut,’ she finally responded, just as Rick approached the table.

‘Coconut?’ Rick repeated, not much one for sarcasm. ‘I don’t serve coconuts. You want coconuts, go to one of those West Indian market stalls.’ He dumped two plates in front of them and waited for some acknowledgement.

‘Thanks, Rick,’ Dee said, with a commendably straight face.

‘Yes, thanks, Rick,’ Baxter echoed, in a voice also laced with amusement.

They waited until Rick was out of range before they laughed together.

It was a brief lapse, but laughter transformed her. From a belligerent, cropped-haired punk to a bright-eyed, spirited girl-woman. The change fascinated Baxter.

Then she switched to being a child, eating her meal with wordless, indiscriminate haste.

Dee had grown used to going all day with a virtually empty stomach, not allowing herself to think of her hunger. When presented with food, however, that was all she could think of. She didn’t look up until she’d finished every last scrap.

It was only then that she was aware of his eyes on her, only then that she realised how greedy she must seem.

His own plate remained untouched.

‘How old are you?’ he asked, not for the first time.

‘Eighteen.’ Well, she would be soon.

‘Good,’ he nodded.

‘Good?’ she quizzed.

‘I was worried you might be a runaway,’ he added, assuming she wasn’t.

She had been. She had first left home last summer. It had been easy. She’d had it planned for months. She’d had cash, squirrelled away from birthdays, Christmas and pocket money. It had seemed a fortune, but it had gone after a matter of weeks and she’d returned home rather than live on the streets. Three months ago she’d run away again. This time no one had come looking for her.

‘This thing I want you to do will be complicated enough—’ he resumed the conversation, ‘—without any irate parents appearing on my doorstep.’

‘There’ll be no irate parents.’ Her mother was many things—pretty, silly, vain—but never strong enough to be irate. ‘So, if you’re thinking of murdering me, you can be fairly sure I’ll go unmourned,’ she added with black humour.

It drew no smile in return. Instead he said tersely, ‘If you thought there was any chance of my being a psychopath, why the hell did you go with me?’