Brother and Sister by Joanna Trollope Page B

always been—seemed—for him. He knew he was a short-arse.
     He'd realized, at about fifteen, that he was going to be his mother's height and not his father's, and he'd made his plans
     accordingly. At least he was broad, even if he was short, and there was nothing the matter with his face or his tongue or
     his hair or the quickness of his wits. It was soon plain that there was nothing the matter with his ability with girls, either.
     He'd gone through so many girls by the time he was twenty that his brothers were forced to cover their envy with sad attempts
     at mockery and derision. Titus affected to ignore them. Instead of rising to the baits, he merely nicked their girlfriends
     from under their noses, and carried on. And on, and on, until he met Sasha.
    He unwound his muffler and laced it fiercely in and out of several railing spikes. Sasha. What was it about Sasha? Sure, she
     was gorgeous, but she was idiotically tall, which made him look a prat, and she could be appallingly earnest and New Agey
     and she dressed in a kind of fake butch way he couldn't stand. He hated her boots, hated them with a passion, and she wore
     them all the time. When she wasn't wearing them, when they were lying around next to his on the sitting-room or bedroom floor,
     he'd say, " Look at those! They look as if they belonged to some bloody navvy, " and she'd smile and say idly, "Upset you, do they?" and he'd have to show her that he was man enough to disregard all the
     boots in the world. He'd once tried to buy her sexy boots, boots with spike heels and tight ankles, and she'd laughed at him.
     She'd just laughed. And then she'd turned and walked away, taking huge strides in her bloody navvy boots. Titus gave his muffler
     such a vicious tug that the wool creaked under the strain. Above, the church clock struck seven.
    "Wow, you're punctual," Sasha said.
    She was standing behind him, in the long naval overcoat she'd found in a forces' surplus store. He began to unwind the muffler.
    He said, deliberately not turning round, "You are half an hour late."
    "I'm dead on time."
    "You said six-thirty."
    "I said seven."
    "Balls," Titus said. "Bollocks."
    "You use such weird language," Sasha said. "Wherever were you educated?"
    "You know perfectly well."
    "If you're going to sulk," Sasha said, "I shall find someone else to play with."
    Titus whipped round.
    "I'm not sulking."
    Sasha bent a little and kissed him on the mouth. He felt the brief sliding wetness of her tongue. He snapped the muffler off
     the railings and round her neck in a single deft movement.
    "Gotcha."
    Sasha waited a moment and then ducked her head free.
    Titus said, "I've been here for half an hour. "
    Sasha sighed.
    "We've had that conversation."
    "We didn't finish it."
    "I did," Sasha said. "Are you going to shut up about it or am I walking away?"
    Titus hesitated a moment, then he pulled his shoulders back, slung his scarf over one shoulder and took Sasha's hand in a
     purposeful manner.
    "Sorry," he said. He grinned up at her. "I've had a pretty crap day."
    "Ah," Sasha said. She began to walk pulling him with her.
    "What's 'ah'?"
    "It's 'I've had a crap day so I'm going to give someone else a crap evening,' is it?"
    "No," Titus said, "I'm not."
    "What kind of crap?"
    "Steve—"
    "Ah—" Sasha said again. She swung Titus's hand a little. "I like Steve."
    Titus made a huge effort not to say, "He's married," and said, instead, in a goody-goody voice he would never have dreamed
     of using in front of his brothers, "I like him too."
    "So?"
    "He was in a mood. A big mood. "
    "We all get moods."
    "But this was a touchy-feely mood. Steve doesn't have those. Steve goes mental if you leave a pen on your desk out of alignment,
     but he doesn't do emotional. So it means he doesn't get any practice and therefore when he is upset, he's upset like someone being thrown into a pool for the first time and told to swim. All thrashing and splashing.
     And obsessed with the alignment of