Dead Romantic by Simon Brett Page A

There’s a lot about death in his poems, death and love going together, Pleasure and Pain, you know.’
    Sharon shivered. ‘Don’t think I’d like it much. My Mum always says there’s enough nasty things in the world without people writing about them.’
    Paul couldn’t think of anything to say to that. There was a silence. Then, for something to do, he reached out impulsively and took her hand. She did not seem to mind and gave his a reassuring squeeze. Greatly daring, he leant across and brushed his lips against hers. They were warm and seemed possibly to open slightly at the contact. He was instantly aroused, though, in a sitting posture, this did not cause him problems.
    He looked into her clear blue eyes, blank as boiled sweets. ‘You’ve got nice eyes,’ he said.
    â€˜Thank you.’ She gave his hand a friendly squeeze.
    Emboldened, he continued, ‘In fact, all of you’s nice. ‘You’re just nice.’
    â€˜So are you,’ said Sharon, to be polite.
    He leant across and placed his large lips on hers, which parted slightly and pressed back with some enthusiasm. Sharon did not mind being kissed in public. In fact, in many ways she felt safer being kissed in public than when she was alone with a feller. On the top of a bus there was no danger of anything going too far, so she was prepared to be responsive.
    Paul misread the reason for her warmth. He felt suddenly ecstatic, uplifted. She really fancies me, he thought. She’s really panting for me. She wants me. Right, tonight’s the night. We won’t go to the cinema, we’ll just have a few drinks, get her a bit tanked up, then back to her place, I’ll ask to come in for a coffee, and then we’ll do it, quick, before her Mum and Dad get back from the pub. The restaurant part keeps going after closing-time, they’re never back till after midnight, I’ve got plenty of time. She wants it, too, no question about that. God, the time I’ve wasted. Should have got in there straight away.
    He drew back from the kiss, smiled and leant forward for another little peck. She smiled back, a nice, safe, domestic smile. He looked out of the window. ‘Hey, we’re there!’
    He grabbed her hand and they scampered down the stairs, both feeling good, full of youth. On the pavement, he put his arm round her shoulder and planted a little kiss on her cheek.
    â€˜You are nice,’ he repeated, incapable of further invention.
    â€˜So are you,’ she repeated, polite again.
    Relief flooded through him. It was going to be all right. She fancied him.
    Pulling her by the hand, he ran down towards the pub. Sharon, who thought he was behaving a bit oddly but couldn’t see that there was any harm in it, ran along with him.
    The euphoria lasted into the pub. Paul felt in charge, felt for the first time for ages that he was dictating events rather than being dictated to. ‘Don’t think we’ll go to the flicks,’ he said authoritatively. ‘Just have a few drinks.’
    â€˜All right.’ Sharon was disappointed. There was a Shirley MacLaine picture on at the ABC ONE that her friend at work had said was frightfully sad, and Sharon had really quite fancied seeing that. But on a date it should really be the feller’s decision, she supposed, so she’d better go along with what he said.
    â€˜Then maybe back to your place for a coffee,’ Paul continued, atypically brave.
    â€˜All right.’ Sharon acquiesced to that idea too, but she was aware of the warning sign. Still, she’d been lucky with Paul so far and, if he did try anything on, she felt confident she could handle it. She’d dealt with much more persistent boys in the past. And it was only to be expected. Paul had been slower than most, but there came a time when all of them, for reasons she recognised but did not fully understand, seemed to want a bit of a cuddle on the sofa. She