Free Meet Me at the Pier Head by Ruth Hamilton

borrow spoons until I find my own?’
    ‘Please do. Oh.’ He gave her his full attention. ‘You’re going?’
    Tia felt heat arriving in her cheeks. ‘Er . . . I thought that was what you meant.’
    He stood up. ‘I imagine you need sleep, Miss Bellamy. It was a long drive. But before you leave, may I ask a small favour?’
    She nodded.
    ‘If I give you a key, will you look in on this little chap while I’m at school? He’s young, and he’ll miss his family.’
    She was suddenly sad. ‘I’ll do that with pleasure, Mr Quinn.’
    ‘Theo out of school.’
    ‘Very well, Theo-out-of-school.’
    At last, they looked at each other. She was very pretty, he thought. She was also clever, interesting, witty, funny and kind. And her laugh was cute, like bells tinkling –
oh, stop it,
Theo. You know the rules, and you should have waited for a male tenant.
    Tia wasn’t aware of having reached any sensible conclusion about Theo Quinn; he confused her, and that fact might prove . . . where were her words? Diverting? Alarming? Apple pie. She put
his spare key in a pocket, picked up the dishes and waited till he opened the door.
    ‘Good night, Tia,’ he said.
    She walked up the side of the villa to her own door, which Delia had left on the latch. A great deal of tidying had been achieved. ‘Delia?’ she called. ‘Apple pie for two.
Thanks for all you’ve done.’
    ‘Coming.’
    They ate cross-legged on a rug in front of the fireplace.
    Delia, always hungry yet permanently thin, finished first. ‘That was some dance you two were performing down below,’ she said.
    Tia swallowed a mouthful of pie. ‘Dance? What dance?’
    ‘The Avoidance Tango. So busy not looking at each other, you chattering like a young gibbon, he concentrating on the kitten—’
    ‘He had his cat put down today, Delia. He was crying when we arrived.’
    ‘Oh.’ Delia held up her hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘OK, don’t shoot. He’s very attractive, nearly handsome enough to make me change sides. He looks like a
gorgeous, sun-kissed Italian or Spaniard. And a man who cries is a man with soul.’
    ‘That’s a line from one of Ma’s films. Pa was in it, too.’ Tia went for a change of subject. ‘Do you think the divorce will happen?’
    ‘Abso-bloody-lutely. I’ve seen the preparatory paperwork, rooted it out of Ma’s bureau when she was in the garden with Nanny Reynolds. Pa is photographed with an assortment of
young females, and Ma’s lawyer has collected signed statements. Oh yes, just you wait for a couple of weeks and it will be in all the gossip columns.’
    ‘I’d better get this place ready if they’re coming to stay. Will you help?’
    The younger sister yawned. ‘Tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.’
    Tia climbed over boxes and bags until she managed to reach her bed. Delia, bless her, had made it up with fresh, new sheets, blankets and eiderdown. Nightdress?
Oh, bugger that; I’ll
sleep in my underwear and clean up my act tomorrow. I should really have a bath, but I’m too . . .
    Her head hit the pillow and she was out like a light within minutes. She dreamed of cats, kittens and Dresden, her long-dead pony.
    The luminous hands of her wristwatch announced two o’clock when she woke in an unfamiliar room whose shadows were eliminated by a bright, full and low-hanging moon.
Stepping carefully over her possessions, she went to close the curtains, and saw that she had probably been disturbed by more than moonlight. He was digging. A small suitcase lay on the grass
behind him; he was burying his beloved cat.
    Tears welled in her eyes and spilled slowly down her face. Theo Quinn was a good, kind man. About six feet in height, strong and tanned, he was also decorative, sensitive and capable. Although
she couldn’t see his face, she knew from the occasional movement of an arm that he was dashing saline from his cheeks, and she wept with him. A coat hung on the back of her door, and she
longed to don it, run