Nothing to Lose by Christina Jones

just-for-fun affair. Oh well, after she’d broken off her engagement, of course. A girl had to retain some standards.
    There were still a few night sounds: the rushing of the surf, the distant voices of home-going Ampney-Crucians, the shrill giggling of teenagers somewhere up by the beer garden of the Crumpled Horn. Had she ever giggled shrilly as a teenager? She feared she probably hadn’t. Andrew had never been given to sudden lunges of passion in shadowy places. It was one of the many things she’d missed out on. Maybe she should start catching up? It would be a bit complicated, of course, having her first grown-up taste of self-employment and rejuvenating herself into an adolescent at the same time, but she was sure, if she put her mind to it, she’d manage it somehow.
    Still, she thought, grabbing hold of the handrail and pulling herself to her feet, first things first. Before she started to enjoy herself at any level, she’d really have to speak to her father about whether the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza was simply a nasty rumour intended solely to put a dampener on her new career, or a glass-and-chromium reality.
    Tugging closed the beach hut’s warped wooden doors, she paused. Had she heard something? Someone? Holding her breath, she listened again. Yes – there were definitely footsteps plodding slowly down the cliff steps. One set? Two? It was difficult to tell. Her palms were suddenly sticky, and for the first time since she’d left home, she questioned the wisdom of living in the hut with doors which only held together with a sort of hook-and-eye contraption and one rusty bolt.
    While Ampney Crucis was way down the list of Dorset’s crime hot spots, nevertheless, there were enough people who knew that she lived here alone, who knew she’d taken over Benny’s pitch, and who would therefore be aware that she’d pocketed substantial winnings that evening.
    Damn! Sod! Damn! She fumbled with the fastener. Why hadn’t she taken Clara up on her offer of driving into Bournemouth and depositing the takings in the night safe? She held the doors together, her hands shaking. The bolt wouldn’t shoot home. She rattled at it again, her anxiety making her even more clumsy than usual.
    ‘Jasmine! It’s me!’
    She jumped at the voice echoing from the other side of the scarlet panels, then felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by a wave of anger. Andrew? What the hell did he want at gone midnight?
    Wriggling the bolt free and pushing the door open again, she peered out into the sultry darkness. ‘God – you scared me. I was just going to bed.’
    Andrew, outlined against the black sky, looked slightly encouraged by the statement. ‘I saw your lights on down here. I thought I ought to check on you.’
    ‘Why?’ She pulled the door open wide enough for him to step inside the beach hut. With both of them in there it was very crowded. She was pressed up against the chiffonier. ‘I don’t need looking after.’
    Andrew, who was in danger of being garrotted by the washing line, ducked under it. ‘Don’t you? I beg to differ.’
    Jasmine wrinkled her nose. Why did Andrew always have to sound so pompous? Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Maybe she had; maybe she’d simply chosen to ignore it as part of the comfort thing.
    ‘Jasmine?’ He’d manage to extricate himself from the towels draped on the line and was looking round at the clutter with some exasperation. ‘Are you listening to me?’
    ‘Not really. It’s late and I’m tired and I don’t think there’s anything to say. Not tonight, anyway.’ She pressed even closer to the chiffonier. ‘Did my parents send you?’
    ‘What?’
    Jasmine narrowed her eyes. Andrew looked – what? Shifty? Worried? Whatever it was, it passed immediately and he’d regained his equilibrium within a split second.
    ‘Your parents? No, of course not. I’ve been in the Crumpled Horn with the blokes from the dealership. Quiz night. We beat the Old Speckled