Gino's Arranged Bride

‘That’s not what I—’

‘Oh, shut up!’ She thumped him amiably and he just managed not to drop tomato sauce on the album.

‘You can tell so much from old photos,’ he mused. ‘People’s past selves, sometimes even they’ve forgotten what they were like—and there they are.’

‘What about you? Don’t you have any record of your past self?’

She felt him tense.

‘Not here with me.’

‘Not one little picture of the younger Gino?’

After a moment he said quietly, ‘All right.’

He went up to his room and returned a moment later with a picture that he put into her hand.

It showed Gino, with flowers in his disarranged hair, looking mildly tipsy, his arm about the loveliest young woman Laura had ever seen. She was blonde and elegant, with the kind of supreme assurance that roused Laura’s envy. She and Gino were laughing at each other against a background of coloured lights and revelry.

Laura studied her, wondering if this was the answer to Gino’s habit of seeming to live life at arm’s length. He was always good-natured and kind, but she knew now that he kept the world at a distance, never quite involving himself in the moment.

‘I’ve never seen you look like that,’ she said, her eyes on the brilliant young face. ‘Not just happy, but throwing yourself into everything and hang the consequences. You learned caution after this.’

He nodded.

‘Was it very long ago?’ she asked.

‘Last year. A thousand years. Another universe.’

She sighed. ‘I know what you mean. You never know what’s waiting for you just around the corner, do you?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Thank you for showing me.’ She handed him back the picture and he took it without a word.

After that they went on talking about nothing much until it was time to go to bed. It was cosy, unexciting, the kind of evening Gino would once have despised. But, bit by bit, he found he was losing the appetite for anything livelier. He could not have said why.

The next evening Laura had another stint in The Running Sheep.

The first hour was busy and she was run off her feet, but at last the crowd thinned out and she was able to turn her attention to a man who had been waiting patiently at the far end of the bar.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry, I can see how it is.’ He gave her a pleasant grin.

He was about forty, with a reassuring solidity, but he was also handsome in a slightly cinematic way. His hair was thick and fair, his eyes deep blue, his features regular, only just beginning to blur.

She served him a whisky and he took it with the same charming grin, raising the glass in salute.

‘Have one with me,’ he said.

‘Thanks, I’ll have an orange juice.’

After that, if she had a free moment she returned to him. His name was Steve Deyton, and he was making frequent visits to the neighbourhood, with a view to setting up a factory making stationery products.

‘I don’t know anyone in this area,’ he said, ‘and there’s very little to do in the evenings. I’ve been here several times, hoping you’d notice me, but you never did.’

She laughed. It was a familiar gambit, and one to which she had a standard repertoire of answers. In fact she had noticed him, but she wasn’t prepared to say so. Not yet. She gave him a light-hearted reply, and went away to serve someone else.

At the end of the evening he asked if he could give her a lift home.

‘Thank you, that would be—’ Laura stopped, her attention caught by something she saw in the corner. ‘No, I don’t think so. Thank you anyway.’

He followed her gaze. ‘I see. A boyfriend?’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘My brother. Goodnight.’

Laura put on her coat and headed for the corner.

‘Hey,’ she said, shaking Gino’s shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

‘Hm? Oh, hello.’

‘It’s time to go.’

He looked at the half full glass of beer.

‘It’s flat,’ he mourned. ‘How long since I dozed off?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t know you were here.’

‘No, your boss served me. All right, I’m coming.’

He hauled himself sleepily out of his seat and followed her out into the street, dropping a casual hand on her shoulder.

‘You may have to support me home,’ he said.

‘How many did you have before you fell asleep?’

‘No idea. That’s the idea of falling asleep. It wipes the slate clean.’

‘Does it?’ she asked severely.

‘Oh, hush, you sound like a grandmother.’

‘You make me feel like a grandmother,’ she said. ‘Or an aunt. You need looking after.’

‘Wash your hands of me,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’m a hopeless case.’