Pig Island by Mo Hayder

said. ”Sovereign, listen. It wouldn’t be right.“
    “What wouldn’t be right?” she said, her lip trembling now. “Why wouldn’t it be right?”
    “Because …‘ I held out my hands: do I have to spell it out ? ’Because I’m thirty-eight , Sovereign. That’s, what? More than twice your age.”
    “I’m nearly eighteen.”
    “You’re nearly eighteen, and you’re very pretty, Sovereign, but you—you can’t go around saying things like that to men my age.”
    “Why not?”
    I looked up at the sky, lost for the answer. Me and Lexie had been together for five years. We’d kept our vows, but in my imagination I’d been unfaithful about a million times. I’m not going to lie: in my head I’d done it with boatloads of them—the businesswoman with the ibook next to me on a long-haul to California, the girl who wrapped up organic chicken in the butcher’s in Kilburn, the nurse who once took my blood pressure when I had chest pains after a trip to Mexico. Even, strike me dead, some of Lexie’s friends. The list was endless. And, card-carrying pervert me, some of those girls were Sovereign’s age. Younger, maybe.
    “Why?” she repeated, like she knew what I was thinking. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “It just is ,” I said lamely. “And, anyway, I’m married.” I held up my hand, showing her my ring. “It wouldn’t be fair to my wife.”
    Sovereign sniffed and pushed her hair behind her ears, biting her lip and staring at the ring. I could see tears in her eyes waiting to fall. “It’s so, 50 shit out here, Joe,” she said, in a shaky voice. “There’s no one—no one. I mean, who am I supposed to have it off with? Blake , for Christ’s sake?”
    I looked at her pityingly, resisting the impulse to put a comforting hand on her arm or shoulder. Things’ll be better when you leave.“
    “But it’s four months ? A tear broke and she pushed it away with her fingertips. ”And all I want is—‘ She paused, an idea striking her. “Can’t I at least smell you? That wouldn’t hurt.”
    “Sovereign—‘
    “I won’t touch you, Joe, I promise. It’s just—I don’t even know what men smell like. I know what Dad smells like, but I want to know…‘ She hesitated. ”I want to know what you smell like.“
    I glanced up along the alley. I’d been gone more than five minutes now. Soon Blake would start to wonder what had happened and here I was, trapped by a teenager who wanted to smell me. She was gazing up at me, her eyes big and wet. The whole baby-seal, no-fur campaign flashed through my head. I sighed, shook my head, thinking, I can’t believe this is happening, and pulled off my sweatshirt. “Be quick.”
    She paused, looking at my chest in the T-shirt, running her eyes down to my bare arms. “Yeah, I’m a manky old sod,” I said, looking down at her. “Bath shy. Don’t go thinking we’re all this gamey.” She didn’t answer. She pushed away the last of the tears and stepped forward, stopping just a pace away. I was ready to take a step back, thinking she was going to throw her arms round my neck, when instead she closed her eyes and pushed her face forward, inhaling deeply. I looked down at the skin showing through the thin hair, thinking how weird this must look, me with my chest forward, arms back, and Sovereign in front of me, moving her head in slow circles, a smile spreading across her face, breathing in like she was smelling fine wine and not my stale old body. Blissed-out ecstasy. How totally, totally sad—this girl, with all her swank and ballsy nature, sniffing a guy’s dirty T-shirt in an alley. How was she going to cope when she left Cuagach? She thought she was totally sorted, streetwise, but she had no idea, no idea the fucking bunfight it really was out there.
    “All right?” I said, ready to pull my sweatshirt back on. “Get the picture?”
    She stepped back, smiling dreamily, her eyes still closed. “Yes. I get the picture.” She opened her eyes.