She stood up. “Thank you for the meal. It was very nice. Please don’t . . . don’t do anything misguided. I don’t want any more contact with Devan Thompson.”
Jory watched her leave the room, knowing that the next time he saw her she’d be calm, composed, perfect Bea once more.
Apparently he’d missed out on that gene.
What the hell was he doing, living here with Bea and Bran? This wasn’t a happy house. It would never be a happy house—not for him, and quite possibly not for them. Not that anyone’s likely to be able to tell one way or another, he thought bitterly.
Jory needed to get out. Stop taking the easy path and get his own place. Find his own happiness.
Suddenly, he missed Mal so much it hurt. But he couldn’t have Mal right now.
He couldn’t stay here, either, though. Jory glanced at his watch. A little after nine. It wasn’t all that late. Gawen wouldn’t have gone to bed yet, and Kirsty never minded people turning up unexpectedly.
Yes. He’d go and see them.
Kirsty was always good for an alternative perspective on things.
Mal found the days after his total fuckup with Jory a bit weird. Tasha took some time off from the pub, even sweet-talking Jago into getting a temp to cover her, seeing as Mrs. Jago, who’d normally help out, was off on a coach trip with the girls.
Mal had met the girls, briefly, when he’d first come down here, a bunch of ladies around retirement age who’d done their bit and were damn well going to enjoy themselves now. He didn’t envy the coach driver his job trying to keep them in line.
He felt bad, putting everyone out like that, but on the other hand, Tasha deserved a bit of time off and it was nice doing stuff together, like going to the beach and having windsurfing lessons. Okay, one windsurfing lesson. They were both too totally crap at it to bother carrying on, but at least they had a laugh trying. It was all right, but . . . truth was, they were both missing other people, weren’t they? And Tash, bless her, couldn’t seem to stop treating him like he was gonna break.
She asked him about Jory, one afternoon as they were sitting out on the prom eating ice creams. “So what really happened with you and Dev’s uncle?”
“Thought we’d covered that. We did the dirty. End of.” Mal took a bite of his flake.
“And then what? He told you to piss off cos he’d had what he wanted?”
“No. Fuck, no.” He hung his head. “It was me, wasn’t it? Jory started going on about taking me to meet his family and all that and . . . it was only s’posed to be a bit of fun, you know?”
“So you’re the one who legged it? Babe, I thought you liked him. All that going on about him being a decent bloke and all.”
“I do like him. But I just . . .” Mal stood up, walked a couple of paces, then turned round. “I just can’t, okay?”
“Can’t what?”
Like him. “Be with him. Get involved with him.”
“Why not? I mean, shit, babe, maybe shagging him was a dick-brained move but once you’d had him, you might as well of stuck with him, right? I know you were worried about fucking things up for Dev, but I don’t see how this is supposed to be better.”
She didn’t get it. “It ain’t just about Dev.”
“So what is it about?”
“It’s complicated. Look, eat your fucking ice cream before it melts, will you?” He frowned. “Oi, should you be having that? It’s got sugar in, innit?”
“What are you, the diabetes police? Relax, babe. I got it.” She patted her little backpack with the skulls on, so presumably she had all her needles and stuff with her.
“You gonna need to shoot up? Or, like, stab your finger and bleed on stuff? You’re gonna wait till I’ve finished, aintcha? I got raspberry sauce on this.”
Tasha laughed. “God, you’re such a wuss. Bloody good thing you ain’t in charge of no one’s blood sugar.”
Too soon, Tasha had to get back to work and Mal found himself on his own for the day. Although he wouldn’t miss the mother-henning. Much. He got up late, then wandered down into town to see what he could grab for brunch.
There was a craft fair or market or whatever on the prom today. Tables were set out in a long line, offering all kinds of stuff ranging from cheap shell jewellery to hand-knitted designer sweaters with a price tag so high they ought to throw the rest of the sheep in for free.
Mal ambled on over, cos he quite liked artsy-fartsy stuff, and mooched down the line to a table with driftwood sculptures. His interest pricked up. They were all of sea creatures, some real and some mystical, including one of a mermaid he reckoned Jory would love. It wasn’t a cutesy Disney one, or an excuse to show a pair of knockers—not that Mal had a problem with knockers, mind, but he had a feeling they weren’t Jory’s favourite thing ever. This mermaid was slim and feral looking, not some twee doll or pumped-up Page 3 stunner with a tail tacked on. She was more like the sort who’d lure sailors onto the rocks and then eat them with her sharp little teeth. He couldn’t resist running his hand along her tail, with its intricate carved scales. Squamous, that was the word for it. He’d read that somewhere. The wood was warm to
