Chapter 1

"Are you looking for a good time?"

The call wasn't overly loud and the cheerfulness seemed a little forced. I guessed it was just another teenager making a meager buck promoting some local amusement park.

She was a teenager all right, and we were at a suburban shopping center in early February. But she'd chosen a strange place to promote her employer - this was a little used back passage to the parking house, and she'd chosen an unlikely potential customer. I was alone and I didn't exactly signal Family Wanting To Go To Amusement Park In Winter.

I was in my late forties. Very late forties - the big five-o only six weeks away, and while reasonably youthful and well-kept, if I say so myself (and no one else does!), my hair was grey bordering on white. It runs in the family; my dad and his dad before him both started turning grey in their mid-thirties. When the same happened to me, my late wife, bless her, always said it made me look 'distinguished'. My daughters, both grown now and settled far away, had been somewhat less diplomatic.

But I like to be kind, so I put on a smile and turned to the girl to politely receive her flier or whatever - which I would dispose of in an environmentally friendly way in the first available bin - and replied with a similar cheerfulness "Aren't we all?"

Except there was no flier. She seemed confused and hesitant and did not try to make eye contact. I looked her over. She had long dirty-blonde hair gathered in a ponytail, and too much, if competently applied makeup. Quite good style, really if she toned it down a little and dropped the bright red lipstick which didn't suit her at all. I've always found it difficult to determine the age of teenaged girls, but I guessed she was around sixteen - though obviously trying to look older. Her clothes were ordinary. Not flashy and certainly none too clean. She had a short but warm winter coat on which she had zipped down quite a bit revealing a remarkable cleavage for a girl who was otherwise of medium build and height. Come to think of it, she was thicker around the waist than I would have expected from her lean face. Maybe it was just the coat. Or possibly she was too keen on milk shakes and French fries, but if so, she wasn't getting a double chin from them.

Somehow my looking her over made her shrink, but she drew breath and said in a low voice "So how about it?"

"I beg your pardon?" I said - reverting to my urbane European voice. I am often mistaken for a Brit. My English is British, even if I am not.

The change in voice somehow seemed to disconcert her even more, but she soldiered on. "I mean, you and I, should we, you know..." she trailed off

I was stunned. "Are you trying to proposition me?" I blurted out - wondering if she even knew that word.

Apparently she did. "Uh huh," she nodded. Still not looking me in the eye and seeming even younger.

"Why would you be doing that?" I asked. Stupid question, really, but I was genuinely surprised. Living in big cities, I had certainly had offers from professional girls before, although I had never taken them up. But this was a teenager in respectable suburbia.

"Just forget it," she said shrinking before my eyes, "just forget it."

"I don't think I can," I said gently, "and I don't think I should either."

She quickly looked up at me so I finally got to see her eyes - clear, deep blue, and beautiful. And very very scared. "Are you a cop?" she asked - panic in her voice.

"No, my dear," I said. "I am not a cop. And you are clearly not a prostitute. So why would you proposition me?"

Suddenly her eyes were full of tears, making her make-up run. "I need food and a place to sleep and I haven't got any money."

"But surely your parents..." I started.

She cut me off. "No!" she exclaimed. "They've thrown me out. I can't go back."

As I mentioned, the passage we were standing in was not the busiest, but it was Friday night and other people were passing through. I even spotted a security guard who was looking in our direction. I didn't so much have to worry about meeting anyone I knew - a problem at a new client requiring on-site expertise had brought me out here for the first time today, and I had only stopped at this shopping center because I was late shopping for the weekend. But I didn't want to be mixed up in a potentially embarrassing situation with a teenager of questionable morals.

"Listen," I said. "I'll feed you. I need to take my stuff back to my car, but after that we can go and have a meal - and you can tell me as little or as much as you like."

She seemed to hesitate. "We've got to move on, or that security guard will get suspicious," I said nodding up the corridor.

Startled, she looked in the direction I had indicated. "OK," she said, and we headed to the car park.

She didn't say a word while I put my shopping in the back of the car. Luckily it was a cold night, so I didn't have to worry about my fresh stuff going bad.

I returned my shopping cart to an already overflowing line and turned to her. "What would you like to eat?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "What can I have?"

"Anything," I replied. "Anything in return for a name. I am George, by the way."

She thawed a little. "I'm Laura."

"OK Laura, any preferences, or should we just go to the Food Court and look around?" She agreed to that with a nod.

On the way up we passed the rest-rooms. I handed her a pack of tissues. "Perhaps you want to freshen up a little," I offered.

She nodded. "Go a little easy on the lipstick," I suggested. She actually blushed. I braced myself for a longish wait, but she was back in a few minutes looking much better with less makeup.

The din of the Food Court was deafening. It had the usual selection of junk food chains offering wholesale heart disease and instant obesity. To my surprise she headed to a Lebanese outlet and asked for a number of very healthy things - salads and lean meats and bread. My respect grew. I ordered from there too and got a few specialties for starters. Due to the noise, the serving lady misunderstood me and I ended up with rather a lot of food, but didn't worry too much - I could always take left-overs home. I asked Laura what she wanted to drink.

"Water will be fine," she replied. "Or, um, I really should have some milk."

"We don't have milk but you can get that over there," said the lady and pointed at an outlet at the other end of the court.

Milk? I was getting more and more surprised. There had to be an interesting story here. I paid for the food; we crossed the Food Court with our Lebanese purchases on a tray and queued up at the other outlet to get the milk. "Are you having milk too?" Laura asked when I ordered.

"Sure," I said. "I drink lots of it. Always have." It was her turn to look surprised.

I started to look for somewhere to sit. The Food Court itself was very busy and almost full, but I spotted a deserted group of chairs and tables up a passage some distance away. "How about there?" I asked. "We might be able to talk without shouting up there."

She agreed and before long we were unloading our hoard on a table in remarkable privacy. "This is quite a feast," I exclaimed.

"Yup!" she agreed with something approaching animation in her voice and started to sit down.

"Don't you want your coat off?" I asked. I had already taken mine off and extended a hand to take hers

"Sure," she said, unzipped the last bit and shrugged out of her coat. I drew in breath sharply, finally understanding. This was not just another overweight American teenager. This was a pregnant teenager. About four months along, I guessed. She noticed my gaze. "You noticed, huh?" she asked, the animation gone from her voice.

"Yes," I said. I was suddenly overwhelmed with concern and compassion for this girl. And determined to get her story and try to do something for her. I cannot explain why. Perhaps it was the 'nurturing gene' of being a father. Perhaps it was my loneliness. Whatever it was, I needed to gather my thoughts, and anyway, her first need before anything else was food.

Chapter 2 »