by Ashe Barker
I make a point of getting up when I hear him moving about the following morning. It’s just after six and I know he can’t have had more than about four hours’ sleep, but still he looks fresh and alert when I join him in the kitchen.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” He glances up from his coffee to regard me, framed in the doorway, barefoot, my hair all over the place and swamped by his Superman T-shirt.
“No. I was listening for you.”
“Oh?” He reaches for the coffee jug and pours me a cup.
I take a seat opposite him.
“Is there something you need, Beth?”
Yeah. Shall we make a list? “No. Well, yes. I need to talk to you.”
He lifts one perfect eyebrow, and waits.
“I’m better now.”
“I know. I’m glad.”
Glad because it means he’ll get his home back to himself again? I take a sip of my coffee and plough on.
“So, I don’t need to be here any longer.”
He places his cup back on the table and watches me. I find myself squirming under his long, slow perusal. At last he speaks. “Do you need to go? Do you want to?”
I shake my head. “No. Bloody hell, no. I love it here. You’ve been… you’ve been… wonderful.”
“So, why move out?”
“I have to. You didn’t ask me to live with you forever. You just put me up for a few days, when I needed it.”
“You still need a place to sleep. Unless you’ve made other arrangements?”
“You know I haven’t. What other arrangements would I make?”
“So, why leave?”
He isn’t making this easy, and that pleases me. I’d have felt devastated if he’d seemed eager to be rid of me, even though I wouldn’t really blame him. “I don’t want to take advantage. Or outstay my welcome. You’ll get sick of me.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “No sign of it yet. I want you to stay. At least until you do have place to go.”
“There’ll never be a place.”
“Then make one. Find one.”
“What are you talking about? It’s not that easy.” My tone is probably sharper than I intended, but really, does he have no idea?
“Beth, how old are you?”
I stare at him, startled. He’s never asked me any personal questions before. I don’t answer.
“Beth, I asked you a question.” His tone has shifted, just a slight hardening, but I know he expects a reply.
“Eighteen. I’m eighteen.”
His eyebrows lift. “Really? You look younger. What’s your date of birth?”
“Twelfth of June, 1989.”
He narrows his eyes, still unconvinced it would seem. “Right, and how long have you been living rough?”
“Since I was sixteen. This is my second winter.”
“What about until you were sixteen? Your family?”
“I don’t have a family.”
“So, what happened when you were sixteen? Why did you start sleeping rough? Where did you live before that?”
He may not have quizzed me before but he’s firing questions at me thick and fast now. I recoil, my instincts are screaming at me to defend myself. I never talk about the reasons why…
“That’s not important.”
“No? Okay then. Tell me this, is there anyone who might be missing you? Anyone wondering where you are right now, what happened to you?”
“No. No one.”
He watches me in silence for several moments as I shift in my seat, the lie hanging between us.
“I think we both know that’s not true. And just for the record, to make sure there’s absolutely no doubt in your mind about this, if you leave here with nowhere decent to go, then at least one person will miss you and worry about you. If you truly do appreciate the help I’ve given you so far, then don’t do that to me.”
Now I’m confused. I have no idea what he’s suggesting. What he’s asking me to do.
“But, I can’t stay here forever…”
“No, you can’t. I agree with you about that. But you can stay here until you get on your feet. What about school? Did you finish? College?”
School? College? My head’s whirling now.
“I got some GCSEs.”
“Good. So you could enrol in a college in January, get some A levels, then think about what to do next. Or if that’s not your thing you could start looking round for a job. With an address you can do any of that stuff.”
“An address?”
“This address. For as long as you need it.” He stands and take his empty cup over to the sink. He rinses it and leaves it on the draining board, then turns to me. “Look, don’t try to make a decision now. Any decision. Just stay here for a while longer, think about what I’ve said, and about what you’d like to do. It’s Christmas next week. Stay until the New Year, then we’ll talk again and come up with something. Something that does not involve shop doorways or cardboard boxes to sleep in. Deal?”
I’m at a loss for words. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d slipped me a few quid and let me go on my way, or even told me I was welcome to stay a few more days if I wanted. But this, this planning for my future, this is totally unexpected. And not entirely comfortable. Planning involves taking responsibility. It involves decisions and thinking ahead. It involves being accountable and I’m well out of practice at any of that. I live from day to day, I’m used to that existence. I’m not sure I could transform myself into the sorted out creature he seems to be describing.
“Beth? Do we have a deal?”
“A deal?”
“You stay for now, and we talk again in the New Year. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay then, a deal.” It’s only a couple of weeks. I can manage to stay put that long, and it really is very nice here. Very nice indeed.
Matt nods, his expression one of satisfaction. He takes his jacket from the back of one of the kitchen dining chairs and puts it on. He picks up his keys to the Range Rover and his briefcase. “I need to be off. I’ll see you later.”
I can only nod, my head still reeling from our conversation and the memories it evokes. The fears, the frustrations, the thwarted aspirations which might, just might be moving back into my field of vision. And all because of this gorgeous, wonderful man.
Matt moves past me, heading for the door. I turn and grab his arm. He looks down at me in surprise, but stops.
“Will you be late again? Tonight, I mean?”
He tilts his chin, his features registering—what? Annoyance that I would see fit to ask about his movements? Or maybe amusement?
“Did I worry you? Sorry. I went to a club. I shouldn’t be late tonight though.” Neither annoyed nor amused then. If anything, I’d say he was concerned.
That makes a change. It’s been a long time since anyone was concerned about me.
* * *
During the course of that day, and over several more that follow I turn over the conversation in my head, mulling over Matt’s suggestions, coming up with new ones of my own. He’s right of course. With an address I can do almost anything, apply for anything—jobs, benefits, training opportunities. Matt has given me my own key so I can come and go as I like, and he even lent me his quilted hiking jacket to wear when I go out. It’s not new, but it’s warm and waterproof, and a lot tidier than the tattered old third-hand duffel coat I was wearing when he found me.
I often make my way down to the shops in the centre of Headingley. It’s a bustling place, and by way of testing these new waters I scour the shop windows for job adverts. There are plenty right now, shops and cafes wanting short term staff over the Christmas period. I decide to talk it over with Matt. Temporary work is not exactly what I had in mind, and the holiday sales will be over in a matter of a couple of weeks at most. But maybe this is somewhere to start. It would be good to be able to make some sort of financial contribution, or at least buy my own clothes and con
ditioner.
* * *
Matt’s late again so I take myself off to bed at around eleven thirty. I hear him come in about a half hour later, so I climb out of bed to go say hello to him, and goodnight. I open my bedroom door which leads straight into the open plan lounge and kitchen area. The greeting dies in my throat when I see he is not alone.
The woman with him is everything I am not. Tall, elegant, fashionably dressed and teetering on sexy spiky heels as she twines her arms around Matt’s neck, tipping her face up to be kissed. He obliges her, displaying a degree of enthusiasm for the task as he edges her backwards towards the kitchen worktop. He slips his hands under her tight bottom and lifts her up onto the granite, positioning himself between her spread legs.
I gasp and take a step backwards, hoping to slip back into my room unnoticed. Matt is facing away from me, but my slight movement attracts his companion’s attention and she turns to look fully at me. She taps Matt on the upper arm.
“Sir, we have company.”
Matt looks over his shoulder as I try to shrink away. He straightens, then leans in to murmur something in the woman’s ear. He turns and comes across the room to me.
“Beth, I thought you were in bed. Are you alright?”
I nod, frantic now to escape to the sanctuary of my own room. “I heard you come in and I was just coming to say goodnight. I didn’t mean to disturb you…”
“You didn’t. Let me introduce you to Megan.”
“No, really, you want to be alone, I can see that. I’ll get out of your way.” I fumble behind me for the door handle and retreat back into my room. I stand in the middle of the floor for a few moments, watching the door. He didn’t seem angry, but still I fully expect Matt to follow me, to perhaps insist I come back and make polite conversation with the lovely Megan. He doesn’t. After a couple minutes I hear low voices coming from the room next to mine, Matt’s bedroom. I hop back into my own bed and pull the covers up to my neck.
A girlfriend. He has a girlfriend but he never said anything. I’ve been staying here for over a fortnight and he never mentioned this Megan.
It stands to reason really. How could a man as attractive as Matt Logan not have a girlfriend? Unless he was gay of course, but even then he’d still have been gorgeous and would have been snapped up by some lucky man.
Megan. Perfect, beautiful, sophisticated Megan. Polite Megan, she even calls Matt sir.
I curl into a ball, my ears straining to hear any snatch of conversation, but I can’t make out anything. A woman’s laugh, a couple of sighs, a whimper perhaps, though I can’t be sure. After an hour or so it is just silence. I assume Megan is staying the night and resolve not to surface from my room until after they have both left in the morning. I’m surprised a few minutes later to hear doors opening and shutting, more soft murmurings, then the outer door.
She’s gone.
I bury my face in my pillow, and at last I manage to sleep.
* * *
“Beth, wake up. I want to talk to you.”
“Later.” I know exactly what he wants to talk about, and it’s not happening. Not if I can help it. I roll over and pull the duvet up around my ears as though that would keep out his words.
“No, now. I want to talk before I go out. And not to the back of your head.”
“I’m tired.”
“No you’re not. You’re sulking. Turn over and look at me. Now, please.”
He has somehow managed to inject that timbre of command into his voice. I find myself obeying despite my resolve not to cooperate with this. There is something quite compelling about Matt Logan when he decides to turn it on. I turn to face him and open my eyes.
“I wanted to apologise about last night. We embarrassed you.”
Not what I expected, him apologising to me. I shake my head. “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have just walked in on you.”
“How were you to know? And anyway, you’ve never been confined to your room. I was intending to take Megan straight through to my room, but we got sort of distracted.”
“I saw.”
“Yes. I should have told you I might be bringing someone back here. At least then you’d have been ready.”
“And I could have stayed out of the way.”
“I never said that.”
“Am I in the way? You and your girlfriend…”
“Megan’s not my girlfriend. Not exactly. We just—know each other and share similar interests.”
“Bedroom interests.” I know I sound petulant, but I can’t seem to help it.
Matt frowns. “Not always in the bedroom, but last night, yes.”
“Does she work for you?”
“No. Why?”
“She called you sir, like in an office or something.”
“Ah, right. No, Megan doesn’t work for me, and I’ve never worked in an office where staff call managers sir. That was something different, and I will explain it to you if you like, but I don’t have time right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that we’re alright. And to tell you that I won’t bring Megan here again if it upsets you.”
“It’s your flat, you can bring anyone you like here. If you let me know though I’ll make sure I stay out of the way when you have company.”
“That won’t be necessary. And now I know you’re sulking. Don’t be a brat, Beth, or you might find yourself getting that explanation sooner than you expect.”
Brat? How dare he call me that? Who does he think he is?
A chaotic babble of unwelcome memories cascades around my skull. I’m trying to process them as Matt straightens and heads for the door.
“I won’t be back late tonight. The office is closing for Christmas and everyone wants to get off early. We might have time for a little evening shopping, if you feel up to that.”
Sure, just like any normal couple.
Chapter Four
“What did you tell her about me? Megan I mean. She must have asked.”
We are seated in Starbucks, in The Light, one of Leeds newest and most prestigious shopping arcades. There’s even a cinema in here and Matt has been trying to persuade me to go with him to see the latest Harry Potter spectacular. It’s not exactly my thing, but maybe. Later. For now I’m content to swirl froth around the top of my latte and watch the world go by.
My eye is drawn to the huddled figure of a homeless man on a bench a few yards from the plate glass window. I don’t recognise him. The barrier separating me from that life is every bit as flimsy as this window, I realise. I am wholly dependent on Matt Logan, his goodwill and generosity. Maybe I should go to see the film if that’s what he wants. And I should definitely not make fuss about his social life.
What does it have to do with me, after all?
Sweet FA, and that’s the problem. I want Matt’s social life to involve me. Correction, I want to be his social life. It’s not enough any more just to remain the waif he took in, a stray, some sort of pity project. I want to be like Megan—cool and sophisticated, stunning, sexy. Maybe then Matt would look at me like a lover rather than a patient big brother.
Not that I know a great deal about lover-like glances. I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never been promiscuous either. Quite the opposite, I tend to be timid, easily embarrassed. Certainly much too shy to ever attract Matt’s attention, not with the likes of Megan in the mix. I wouldn’t know where to start.
“I told her you were my cousin, staying with me over Christmas.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yeah, seemed simplest.”
“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
“Why do you think?”
“I think it’s because you’re ashamed of me. Embarrassed to admit you picked up a tramp and took her home.” Where is all this coming from? I’m trying to get on his right side, not pick an argument.
“Unfortunate choice of word.” His tone has hardened again, I swear he could cut glass with it.
/> “Accurate though.”
“I don’t agree. You were homeless and ill. I helped to fix both problems. As I see it, your story is yours to tell if you choose to, not mine. Hell, I don’t even know your story. The cousin thing was just to throw Megan off the scent.”
I stare into my coffee, silenced by his quiet words. I won’t be telling my story though, not to Megan, or Matt, or anyone else. And right now it’s not my past I want to dwell on in any case, it’s my future.
“Did it mess things up? Her seeing me in your flat, I mean?”
“No, why would it?”
“But if she’s your girlfriend?”
“I told you, she’s someone I know. That’s all. Why am I answering these questions?”
Why indeed? I treat his final remark as rhetorical, but it’s enough to stem the inquisition. And to quell any lingering doubts I might have been harbouring about the ethics of poaching another woman’s man.
I look up, hold his gaze. “You were right. This morning. I was sulking.”
“I know that.”
“Because I was jealous.”
“I was afraid of that.” His lips flatten in a sad smile. “Beth, it wouldn’t work, not between us. I’m not what you need right now.”
I tilt my chin up, defiant. “How do you know what I need?”
“Okay, let me phrase that another way. I’m just what you don’t need.”
“You’re talking in riddles. Why? If you’re not ashamed of me? And you don’t have a girlfriend. You don’t, do you? Someone else, not Megan?
He shakes his head.
“Am I not attractive enough?” Low self-esteem is a bitch, but I feel compelled to ask, get it out of the way.
“Of course you’re attractive. You’re fucking lovely. But it’s more complicated than that. For a start, you’re just a kid. A vulnerable kid. I care about you, and I’m not about to exploit you or take advantage.”
“I’m eighteen, I told you that. Not a kid. And what if I want you to take advantage?”
“Beth…”
