Unsentimental love story told from a man’s point of view Jase is a soldier who falls for a girl at a gig in Newport. When he finds out that Charlotte is a writer from London this brave man is terrified. She loves words. Jase has spent his life hiding the fact that he cannot read. Desperate to see more of her, Jase signs up for a writing course she is teaching in Wales. Can Jase possibly keep his secret there? Lust becomes love despite their differences. But Jase is called away by the Army, back to the Middle East, and now Charlotte has a secret, too...
Release date:
February 18, 2016
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
96
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He leaned towards her, not too close. He was polite but he felt rowdy, because vodka Red Bulls were rushing through him, and because she was very pretty. The music was loud. And she was talking to him, if you could call it talking. She was leaning into him, turning her head so that her ear was near his mouth.
Jase smelled her just before he spoke: a faint smell, delicate, like blossom. In the strobing lights her neck was pale. She wore her hair up. It was either dark blonde or brown.
‘I said,’ he shouted, ‘“Where are you from?”’
They swapped positions. He turned his head and bent down so that his ear was nearer her. She stood straight, her mouth close to him, and shouted.
‘Wigan!’
They swapped again. They smiled at the pause and the change of places.
‘You like them that much?’ he asked, smelling her again, and nodding at the band on the stage.
‘They’re great!’ she shouted. ‘You a fan?’
He shrugged and grinned.
‘Do you dance?’ he shouted, after a moment, because he had to say something. She raised an eyebrow at him. She did a little shimmy. He laughed and copied her. They shimmied together, and then they danced. That was how they met. They kissed in the flashing, thundering dark of the dance floor. Her mouth was beautiful. Jase longed to kiss it all night.
They left together when the lights came on. In the brightness she was prettier still. Dark blonde hair, that pale neck, and dark eyes, possibly dark green. She wore a black vest and a sort of T-shirt over it which came off her shoulder slightly. Her black skinny jeans ran down to short boots with little heels. The boots were pointed and scuffed. Jase noticed that her toes turned inwards slightly. He loved that. It made him feel tender. He could see no tattoos, no cleavage, which was unusual in TJs on a Friday night, and only one small piercing in each ear. She had pretty ears.
Jase was wearing the same as most of the lads, a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. It was a warm night, and the rain was fine like spray. Cars sizzled by and the street was ugly, a fast road with chip shops shining, attracting crowds.
‘Chips?’ she said.
‘Yes!’
Jase did not know what else they could do. He could not take her back to his mum’s really.
They held hands. He was not sure if she had reached for his or he for hers. Her hands were surprisingly strong, and warm.
‘You don’t live in Wigan, do you?’ he asked her, in the chip-shop queue.
She shook her head. ‘London,’ she said. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘My mum lives here, but I travel for work.’
‘Are you a truck driver?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘Sailor?’
‘Close.’
‘Pilot?’
‘Closer!’
She touched the tattoo on his right arm.
‘You’re a soldier,’ she said. ‘That’s your regiment?’
‘Paratrooper,’ he nodded. ‘But we’re not like any old soldiers.’
‘How are you different?’
She had a lovely quiet voice, soft as the rain, and the faintest hint of a northern accent.
‘We can fly,’ he said. ‘Haddock or cod?’
The old lady who served their food smiled at them with knowing amusement. Jase reckoned she had been listening to their conversation, through all the noise of the chippy.
‘There you are, love,’ she said, handing over the two hot, heavy paper parcels. ‘Have a good night. Mind how you go now.’
Now they were outside. Where to eat? There was nowhere nice to sit.
‘Are you with friends?’ Jase asked her.
‘No. I’m staying there.’
He followed her nod to a tall building with HOTEL written on it in green lights.
‘That’s handy!’ he said. He felt a bit silly.
She was looking at him. She was not smiling but her eyes were full of fun.
‘Do you know my favourite way to eat fish and chips?’ she asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘In the bath,’ she said.
Jase had no idea where he was when he woke up. It was quiet. He was in a large bed. His arms were wrapped around someone. A girl. A woman. She had soft, creamy skin, and it all came back to him now. The most beautiful thing had happened to him last night. He could not remember falling asleep. She had amazing skin. He remembered the tan lines around her hips. He moved the duvet to look again and she stirred. She turned her head as though looking over her shoulder but she did not open her eyes.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’
‘No one really,’ Jase said. ‘Just looking. Room service. Making sure you’re ok.’
‘I'm very ok, thank you,’ she said, and wriggled against him.
My God, Jase thought, I must have hit an IED and been blow to heaven.
About an hour later Jase went to the bathroom. When he came back she was watching him. They both grinned.
‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,’ Jase said.
‘Charlie,’ she said, and held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’
He took her hand, turned it over and kissed it. ‘Jase,’ he said. ‘I do very well thank you, Charlie. Great to meet you. Amazing to meet you, in fact.’
Gently he leaned over and kissed her mouth.
He made them both tea.
‘What the hell were you doing in TJs?’ he said, when he had given her a cup.
‘Working,’ she said.
Jase sat near her on the bed. He had a towel around his waist.
‘DJ?’
‘Very good!’ she said. ‘I was. Still do a bit. But not last night.’
‘Glass collecting?’
‘Not really, no,’ she said.
‘You’re not a journalist?’ he said, suddenly.
‘Why am I not?’
‘You can’t be! You’re too beautiful.’
‘Why thank you,’ she said, looking down. He remembered last night when he told her she was pretty – the prettiest, most beautiful thing he had ever seen – she had looked away. She did not do compliments, clearly. ‘Can’t journalists be beautiful?’
‘I just don’t think you are one,’ he sai. . .
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