The Waif and the Stray

"I need to go, but I'll see you later. Tomorrow, maybe," he offers, his voice quiet.

"Oh, ok."

"Ok, then."

He shifts on my bed, a lurch of the mattress, before pressing his mouth to mine. Just a fleeting touch. A delicate burn that leaves me anxious for more. An impression of his deliberateness in the moment. A press of warm flesh, a brush of dark hair as he'd turned away. Then the delicious feeling is gone and he's standing up in one fluid, fast movement.

"If you can kiss me, I can kiss you back, Lou, so be careful," he winks, his swagger fully restored as he saunters out of the room.

I listen to him taking the stairs down, whistling to himself, before lying back to stare at the ceiling. A previous occupant once stuck rainbow stickers up there, and I count them with the half of my brain that isn't stunned stupid by what's just happened.

+++

"Lou?"

I look up from the sheaf of print-outs. It's Kevin.

"Aren't you going on break in a minute?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply warily.

"Come to the office with me, I've got something to ask you about."

All the hairs on my scalp rustle with alarm. A crowd of possibilities rush into my mind, none of them good. Maybe he's going to give me the sack. Or accuse me of doing something wrong. Or ask me out, because I know Kevin likes me, I'm just not sure how much, or in what way, he likes me. As I follow him across the warehouse floor I'm amazed to find out it's that last option which bothers me the most. The feel of Jude sitting next to me as I read to him, and the sound of his voice as he stumbled to pronounce the words, come to me as clearly as if he's here right now. I bite the inside of my mouth to concentrate on the here and now.

When he shuts the office door, my pulse jumps higher.

"Sit down, Lou, and don't look like I'm about to shoot you, it's nothing to worry about."

"Ok," I perch on the edge of the orange plastic chair.

"First off, thanks for all the extra hours over the last couple of weeks. We'd have been really short without you coming in."

"Ok."

He gives me a sort of half-smile, and my nerves start up again. "But, look, Maria's got a new job, and I need to replace her pronto, and I reckon you could do it standing on your head, so I want you to apply. It's more regular office hours and better pay than what you're on, plus it comes with some benefits. A pension and sick pay. What d'ya say?"

He looks at me hopefully, his eyes sweet and soft behind his big glasses.

"Are you serious?"

He laughs, then straightens his face. "I'm really serious, Lou. You're such a hard worker and you're bright and diligent. It's not the most fascinating job in the world, but it's a step up, and I think it'd be good for you."

"I don't know what to say," I splutter, trying to reconcile the forces of hope and panic and gratitude warring for my attention.

"I'm going to print out the job description and you can come by after lunch to pick it up, ok?"

"Yeah. Ok. Brilliant, actually. Thanks, Kev," I manage, finally coming to my senses.

"Great. So," he pauses, turning away, slightly, to his desk, "it seems like you're a bit more settled recently?"

That's Kev's way of asking if I've got somewhere stable to live, without directly asking. Walking that fine line between being a mate and being my boss.

"Yeah, definitely. I'm living in a really nice place now. In Hove. Friends of a mate of mine, so it's good."

"Glad to hear it, Lou. You'll need to update your details with the HR service here."

We smile at each other; complicit in keeping the specifics of my recent homelessness safe from the prying eyes of the HR department.

"Thanks, Kev. You're my best boss."

He clicks his heels together. "Aim to please, twenty-four seven, madam," he jokes, poking fun at our corporate slogan.

+++

"Fuck me, it's hot," Piotr flings himself down onto a chair, dramatically swiping at his brow. "I nearly boiled dry on that bloody bus."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry but I probably made it worse in here by cooking up some pasta this afternoon," I apologise as I scrub at the sink with the scourer.

"Pasta? Had dinner early, did you?"

"Naw, for some reason I thought it'd be a good idea to make a pasta salad for later."

His chuckle is low but genuine and I get a flash of joy for having ended up living here.

"Nice. Who's on the guest list?"

"Ha ha," which comes out too loud, since the idea of me every hosting a dinner party strikes me as utterly preposterous. "Everyone, of course. I made a ton of it, so everyone's welcome to it."

"You're a sweetheart, Lou."

I shake my head, swishing water around with my hands to rinse the sink.

"You're from up north, then?" His question is calmly asked. Nonchalant. I still stiffen. It's been nearly three weeks since moving in, and I'm still tight and nervy.

"Yeah, that's right. The accent give it away?"

"That, and something Jude said."

"Jude?"

"Jude, yeah. You know, that lanky gobshite with the attitude."

I snort at the same time, and as loudly, as Piotr, which must've covered up the sound of the front door opening and closing, because both of us look completely startled when Jude himself steps into the kitchen.

"What?" he asks, his eyes maybe as wide as ours.

"Didn't hear you come in the door," I blurt.

"And the devil himself," Piotr declares.

"Talking about me?"

I haven't seen him in a few days, and he looks brown, like he's been outside all day. It makes his eyes all the more vibrant in their blue-green clarity. I catch myself staring, scourer still in hand, like an idiot.

"No mate. The other devil."

I finally swivel back to face the sink, trying to sort through the mix of reactions running through me, while he and Piotr trade insults and Jude, as comfortable in this house as if he lives here, flicks through the radio stations until he finds one with music he settles on. I tidy the cleaning stuff into the cupboard under the sink, totally distracted. The bleach bottle rolls out of my fumbling hands and along the floor.

"Here," Jude hands it to me, his clear eyes slicing into me as surely as if he's fishing for my soul.

He cracks his cocky grin, breaking the spell enough for me to stand up straight and smooth down my clothes. A new skirt and t-shirt. New to me, anyway, since I get all my clothes from charity shops. These are the first new things I've bought for months. Since last summer, probably. His eyes flick down me, then back up, but he says nothing, instead flopping onto one of the kitchen chairs.

"I'm off," Piotr announces.

"Really?"

"Promised I'd help Mo get some stuff from up Lewes way, so I need to get a shift on."

Jude picks at his nails with his pocketknife as Piotr strides out of the kitchen, and then back to collect his phone with a muttered curse, before the sound of the front door finally signals his departure.

"Who else is in?" Jude asks.

"No-one. Eliza went out to work an hour ago. Rick's at his brother's. Mo and Al are meeting up with Piotr, I guess," I shrug. "I made pasta salad today. Want some?" I ask, before I can think about it too much. And anyway, I'm hungry.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."

I dish it out, pushing away the feeling of being watched.

"How did you learn to cook?" he asks, already digging his fork in, as I sit down at the table.

"Being fostered doesn't mean I was dragged up by wolves, ya know," I mumble with a full mouth.

"They're the ones taught you your table manners, though?"

"Fuck off," I jab my fork in his direction and we both grin.

"So?"

And there, that's Jude. Not one to give up on me, however much I try to shut him out.

"One of my foster mums taught me. There. Happy?"

"Which one?"

He's head down, concentrating on his food, and I look at him, at his shiny black hair and brown forearms, and wonder why he wants to know.

"The third one," I relent, shovelling my fork into the past. "Debbie. She taught me to cook." I chew for a while, then swallow, before adding, "She's also the one who had all the books. Taught me to love reading."

"She sounds nice," Jude offers, before asking if there's more food.

"She was."

I watch him tipping more of the salad into his bowl and cutting another slice of bread, shaking my head when he offers more to me. Thinking about Debbie. Her bobbed grey hair and nervous hands. First impressions had been poor. For both of us, I think. But we'd grown to really like each other by the end.

"Was?"

"She died. She was older. Her kids had all left home, but she still fostered."

"Were you living with her when she died?"

I nod. "Heart attack in the kitchen. I wasn't the one who found her though. That was Malia. I was at netball practice, so it was just Malia who found her."

"I'm sorry, that must've been rough. You had to move to another home?"

"Yeah. And me and Malia got split up, because there wasn't a family who'd take us both." I shrug again. "But I was with Debbie the longest of all my foster families, so -- I'm grateful for that. She was the best."

"How long were you with her?"

"Five years."

"That was the longest?" his emphasis making it clear he doesn't think five years was that long at all.

"Sure," I stand abruptly, reach for his plate and stack it onto mine.

His hand lands on my wrist. "Maybe I wasn't done yet."

"Oh sorry --"

"Look, I just like getting to know more about you, Lou, that's all. I'm not going to use it against you or judge you or whatever else it is you're afraid of, ok?"

He feels me twitch, tightening then loosening the grip of his hand on me. I both like it and fear it.

"But why?"

"I like hanging out with you, that's why."

As I flinch again, he carries on, "I mean, we get on with each other, don't we?"

I allow myself a few seconds just to look at him. At the unselfconscious way he sits back, rubbing a hand over his chest before spreading both arms along the top of the chair.

"Anyway, that tasted lovely, thanks."

I mutter something as I turn around to fiddle with the hot water tap.

"Naw, don't do that. I'm doing the washing up. My Nan would kill me if I didn't."

"She taught you to wash up, did she?"

His eyes glint as he fights to stop the grin, bodychecking me out of the way. "She did."

"So, come on then. Tell me something about your upbringing, as you're so nosey about mine. Fair's fair."

"Sure, what do you want to know?" holding his arms wide, nothing to hide here.

"About your family."

"My family? Rent-a-crowd, that's my family."

"Really?" I bite my lip, not sure why the view of Jude washing up is so enthralling.

"Yeah. There's nine of us kids."

"Nine?"

He looks over at me and smiles at my loud disbelief. "Yeah, nine. Plus my mum's sister's kids. There's seven of them."

"Did you all live together?"

"Pretty much, yeah. When we was all travelling, yeah. But then I moved in with me Nan when I was about eight, nine maybe."

"How come?"

"She was fed up of the life. Wanted to settle. She was never a real Traveller, she married into it. Anyway, I was the youngest and I reckon my parents were just done with having little kids under their feet by then."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

"Naw. Sounds worse than it was. I was always closer to me Nan."

"Is that when you came to live in Brighton?"

"Eventually. We moved a couple of times before we got to here."

"But -- " I hesitate, "but, you went to school?"

"Yeah, I did. But it was too late for me by then. Couldn't make head nor tail out of the reading."

"And none of the teachers could help you?"

He shrugs, drying his hands by rubbing them up and down his shorts, while I decide to tack back to safer ground.

"Are the rest of your family still travelling?"

"Most of 'em, yeah. Want some water?"

He hands me the glass as we walk into the little garden.

"I can't believe this weather."

"They reckon it could last for weeks."

We slump onto the wide bench covered in Eliza's bright cushions.

"We're both granny-reared," I comment, lying back a little, to catch a view of the sky above us.

"Both what?"

"Granny-reared. Debbie was more like a granny's age than a mum's. And you actually were brought up by your Nan."

"What's that mean?"

"My English teacher said it was easy to spot kids like us. We're more patient and quieter. More likely to listen than talk. That sort of thing. According to her, anyway."

I swallow some water, hoping to banish the too-familiar fluttering in my chest.

"She told you that, did she? Sounds like she liked you."

I shrug, tipping into definite discomfort now, the vibrations inside simultaneously a distraction and a sharpening of focus on what's making me nervous. We're sitting quite close together, close enough for me to feel the heat of Jude's body. And we're alone again. I sneak a look at him, but he appears unaffected. Not nervous. Not anything. It must just be me feeling this way.

I pull my legs up, sliding away from him a little. "What? No cigarette?"

He pushes himself lower on the cushions. "Nah. What was it you said? Only 'dickheads' smoke if they have asthma like I do."

"What? Really? You've given up?" I'm astounded.

"Yeah."

He twists a little, angling his body to be able to look at me and treat me to one of his full grins.

"You having me on?"

"Me? Louisa, come on, would I do that to you?" He holds his hands out like a saint in prayer and it makes me laugh.

"I dunno, Jude. I'm not sure I can believe you. You've always smoked."

"Don't exaggerate. Didn't have my first fag until I was nine. That's what being the youngest kid is like -- older brothers are always looking to introduce you to bad habits early. But giving up isn't so hard, actually."

"I should think not, what with being able to breathe more easily, surely?" I can't help but tease, even if I'm still reeling at the idea Jude might've stopped smoking because of something I've said.

"Sure. It's only been a few days, so I don't know if I feel that different yet. But, after all what you've read to me about asthma, it did seem a dickhead thing to be doing, to smoke as well."

"Well, well, Jude Sheridan, you do surprise me."

"Looks that way," again, with his dangerous grin. "Anyway, what are we reading tonight?"

"Oh, ok. I didn't know you wanted to do some reading. Whatever you want, I guess. Do you want me to go get the book we started last week?"

I jump up, stopping off for a pee on the way up to my attic room. Not until I look at myself in the mirror do I remember him calling me Louisa. I blow air out, watching my cheeks deflate, and wonder what's going on.

Back in the garden, Jude's in the same position I left him, one leg bouncing, but otherwise supine.

"Ok, let's see what's going to happen to our heroine tonight," I smile at him.

We're reading a book that's basically chick-lit. I picked it out of the book pile in my room partly because the language is fairly straightforward but mostly as a joke. Jude had laughed at the plot outlined in the book blurb and claimed he'd be motivated to read it for the sex scenes. He didn't know I've already read it once, and know for sure there's not much that's racy in it. But I'm keeping that secret to myself. And actually, my delight in his reading progress has overridden any joy I might get from the joke.

As has become our habit, we begin with Jude reading and me helping and correcting him as we stumble through each page. After a while, I take over, with him following the words as I read to him. It's an activity that strangely reminds me of going to Mass with Debbie. The same sense of peacefulness. It's only when I'm aware of Jude rubbing at his eyes for a second time that I pause.

"Enough?"

"Yeah. For now. It's been a long day," his eyes look soft with apology.

"S'ok."

He hesitates, then, "Don't get me wrong, Lou, but I really like watching you reading."

"You like watching me read? Why?" I sit up.

He thinks about his reply for a few seconds. "Because it's one of the few times you're not wary as fuck."

"Oh." For some reason, his words puncture my mood. "I'm wary, am I?"

"Always," he grins back, unaware the good in the evening is draining away fast.

"Right." I bite my lip and close the book in my lap with a slap. "You'll be wanting to get home, then."

An uncomfortable silence lengthens into something acutely awful.

I don't look at him as he stands up and shoves his feet back into his flip flops. Not even as he says goodnight and steps into the kitchen. The rattle of the front door closing behind him sounds so final, I flop back onto the cushions, dry, sharp bone and useless feathers clogging my lungs. I curse everything. Myself and the stupid bird inside me. All my stubborn fears.

The exchange replays in my head, over and over for the rest of the night, as I try to work out where I could have stopped it from taking this pointless, sterile turn.

+++

Today's been the hottest day so far of a very, very hot summer. Not the time to be sitting on a shitty Southern train with its shitty air conditioning, but that's what I've been doing. Pulling into Brighton station in the shadow of the huge cuttings, I'm still enjoying the sight of the station itself. Its huge iron and glass roof conjures up romantic images of Victorians in big skirts and tall hats bustling off the trains and flooding down the hill to the seafront. Today's the first time I've been here. Kevin had thought I was joking when I mentioned that fact.

I grip my bag as I step onto the platform, checking my pocket for the ticket and pulling at my shirt to separate it from my sweaty skin. The ticket barriers make me nervous until I see some people are showing their tickets to a bloke who ushers them through an open gate, so I make a beeline for him. I slip by and onto the concourse. Someone's playing the piano there. An old song. I close in, almost past it, when I recognise the player.

Something hot and uncomfortable crawls down my spine. We haven't seen each other since I cut him off that night. He hasn't called round. Or sent a funny emoji. Nothing. I've felt worse about it every day, but not known what to do about it. The uneasy solitude had felt so familiar. But unhappier, somehow.

I hang back, making sure I'm not mistaken. But yes. It's definitely Jude. Bent over the piano, smashing the keys, right leg jumping to the beat of the song. Something from the eighties, I think. An idea of walking past him, of pretending not to notice him, moves through my mind. Tempting. But cowardly. So I wait for him to finish the song before stepping into his view. I catch the surprise and pleasure on his face when he sees me.

"Hi," I say, forcing it out of the trap of my mouth.

"Hi." His smile spreads further. "Good to see you, Lou."

The generosity in his voice shames me. "You too. I had no idea you could play. What was it?"

He gives a quick tip of his head. "That was Billy Joel's 'Piano Man', Lou. A classic."

"Eighties?"

He nods, repeating a few chords of it before stopping.

"You're good."

"Are you just passing through or d'ya have time to stay for a minute?"

I hesitate. He presses down on a few keys, waiting. I watch, still taken aback by this discovery.

"Here," he moves and pats the narrow seat. "You can perch here for a minute."

He sounds confident enough, but his forehead creases. I perch on the hard stool. There's hardly enough room, but he hits a few keys and nudges my shoulder.

"Requests?"

"Um, no. Just play what you like."

His fingers hover for a few seconds and I feel his shoulders pull back, getting ready.

A soft, "oh," escapes me as soon as I recognise the first notes of 'Let It Be' and he gifts me a smile before returning his attention to playing. He doesn't sing, but his mouth forms the words as he plays. I fixate on his fingers. They're long and lithe, like the rest of him. I watch as he flexes, tents and straightens them over the keys. He moves straight into another song. It takes me a while to recognise it because he does some fancy stuff at the beginning, until it morphs into a version of 'Amazing Grace', his body moving more for this song, hot next to my side.