Sheltering Rain by Jojo Moyes Page A

who panted with restrained longing as the same heroes skillfully seduced them. Only the men actually did anything. The women either got killed off (the sluts) or hitched to the men (the virgins). And despite all the panting, there was relatively little real sex (Sabine flicked first through to see). Perhaps this was what being in a Catholic country was all about. Lots of panting and not much of anything really going on. “Like you, Bella,” she said, stroking the dog on her bed.
    Panting made her think of Dean Baxter. She had almost kissed him once. It was not like he would have been her first kiss; she had snogged loads of boys, and had done more than snog with some, although less than most of the girls she knew. She had known he was flirting with her, and they had been sitting on the wall of the estate after dark, and he had been sitting really close and joking with her so that she pushed him and he pushed her back, all just an excuse to touch each other really. And she had known that they probably would kiss and felt okay about it because she had liked him for ages and although he was a laugh, he wasn’t too pushy, and he wasn’t the type to go bragging to his mates afterward. Plus, he didn’t think she was weird because her house was full of books and her mum wore second-hand clothes. He had even told some of the girls to back off when they called her “Brainache” and “Spod” for not smoking and taking her exams early. But then he had gotten carried away, and instead of pushing her back, he had picked her up in a fireman’s lift, as if he was going to take her somewhere, and she had panicked and shouted at him to put her down, and when he had laughed, she had hit him repeatedly, too hard, across the head. He had dropped her after that, stood back and looked at her, holding his reddened ear, and asked her what was the matter with her. But she couldn’t really explain, so she had just laughed, even though she felt like crying, and tried to make a joke of it. But he hadn’t laughed, and things had never been quite the same between them, and then a week later she had heard he was hanging around with Amanda Gallagher. Amanda Bloody Gallagher with her long, girlie-girl hair, fabric-conditioned clothes, and cheap perfume. Probably Amanda Bloody Baxter by the time she got home. Perhaps it was time to forget about Dean Baxter. He had bad skin on his back, anyway. His sister had told her.
    Sabine shook her head, clearing it of unwelcome thoughts, and thought about Thom instead. She always found it was easier if you thought about someone else. He was the only man around who was remotely good-looking, she had decided. Pretty handsome, in fact. She had never been out with an older man, although her mate Ali had, and she said they “really knew their way around.” But she couldn’t quite get past the idea of his arm. She worried that if she ever got around to kissing him (or would they just pant, him being Irish?) and they took off their clothes, she might run away in fright when she saw his stump. She liked him too much to upset him like that.
    She didn’t know whether he fancied her. He always seemed pretty pleased to see her, and always seemed to like her hanging around. Plus, she could tell him anything. But it was hard to imagine him overcome with passion, or staring at her with intense longing. He was too withdrawn, somehow. Too restrained. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe grown-up romance worked differently.
    Thinking about grown-up romance made Sabine think of her mother, and she slid off the bed, keen to distract herself.
    With Bella padding around after her, she opened her cupboards, breathing in the musty smell of things long undisturbed, and gazing into their dark depths. Her grandparents didn’t even have the right sort of junk; other people’s bedroom cupboards were filled with cocktail dresses, and old board games, or boxes of letters, or electronic