Lover Read Free Page A

Then, in a blurt, ‘AndIthinkI’mgoingtobesick.’
    He stepped away while she turned her head and vomited, and when she turned back, he was holding out a handkerchief, neatly folded. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Please.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    When she’d wiped her face, he said, ‘Do you think…I mean…couldn’t you stand up?’
    â€˜I… Yes. I think so.’
    Upright again, she held out the handkerchief, but he didn’t take it. ‘You needn’t worry about that,’ he said.
    Mortified—of course he wouldn’t want it back, not with that on it—she balled it up and stuffed it in her pocket. ‘Sorry. I…I’ll wash it for you.’
    â€˜No, it’s fine. Keep it. Or throw it away, if you like.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she repeated.
    It was awful. She wished he’d go away. She wished never to see him, or any of them, ever again. She wished she were home. She wished she were dead, or anywhere except where she was. His kindness made it worse, far worse.
    â€˜Look,’ he said. ‘You can’t go home on your own, not when you’re…you’re…not well. I’ll take you.’
    â€˜No, honestly, I—’
    â€˜It’s all right, really. I won’t…you know.’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘You’ll be quite safe. Please let me help you.’
    â€˜Well, all right, then.’
    She didn’t take out her torch. One was enough, and besides, she didn’t want any more light. The night was quiet, and they walked together, without touching or speaking, except for her brief directions. The vomiting and the cool air had sobered her; now all that remained was the bad taste in her mouth, the pain in her neck and chest, the memory and the horrible, mounting embarrassment of what he’d seen, what he must be thinking. By the time they reached the end of her road, her shame was overwhelming.
    â€˜I’m fine now,’ she said, grateful that he kept his torch low, and she couldn’t see his face. ‘It’s only just down there.’
    â€˜Are you sure? Just…you did seem very frightened, back there.’
    â€˜Really,’ she said, impatiently. ‘It’s fine.’
    â€˜Well, if you’re sure. You’d better take my torch.’
    â€˜No, I’ve got one.’ She brought it out of her pocket and switched it on.
    â€˜Well, goodnight, then.’
    â€˜Yes. Goodnight.’
    The kitchen door was ajar. She paused in the passageway long enough to call out, ‘I’m going straight up, Mum.’
    â€˜You stopping in your room?’
    â€˜Yes. I’m really tired. I’ll come down if there’s planes.’
    She sat in front of the scarred wooden desk that served as her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror: the remains of make-up on the blotchy face, hair half down, the marks, red and livid, on her neck. She clutched a hand to her chest. The brooch, Mum’s green brooch that she’d filched from her bedroom: it was gone. Must have fallen off when… She fingered the place where she’d pinned it. No—there was a small rip in the material. As if it had been torn off. As if he’d pulled it off her dress when… But that was stupid. Why would he?
    It wasn’t an expensive one, only Woolworth’s, but Mum was bound to notice. She’d have to say it had fallen off at the pictures. She stood up and took off the dress. The skirt was filthy, and there was a long rip down the back. She could say she’d had an accident with the bicycle. Fallen off. Damn. They’d left the bikes in the lane. She’d have to go back and get hers in the morning. She could say that was when she lost the brooch, too. Say she’d gone back to the place and looked, but it wasn’t there. The handkerchief, though: she’d have to get rid of it. She pulled it out of the pocket, and something