Curious, she read on.
Enthusiastic and competent driver needed for a road trip across America, driving from Chicago to Santa Monica. Generous salary, all expenses paid. Must be good-humored, flexible and friendly. Clean driving license.
Martha stared at it.
She definitely wasn’t an enthusiastic driver, and not by any stretch of the imagination could she be described as competent, but she was friendly, and she was also flexible, always assuming that they were talking about attitude to life rather than the ability to touch her toes without pulling a muscle because that was more her sister’s province.
She scanned the details again.
A road trip across America.
Why did it have to be a road trip? But hadn’t she read somewhere that America didn’t have many roundabouts? If it was all straight roads and no roundabouts then she’d probably be fine. Providing she didn’t have to reverse.
Her driving license was definitely clean, even if that was because no one in uniform had so far witnessed one of her misdemeanors. Also it had gone through the washing machine three times before she’d realized it was in her pocket.
How far was it from Chicago to Santa Monica?
She typed the question into a search engine and stared at the answer.
Two thousand four hundred miles.
She couldn’t begin to imagine a distance like that.
It was two miles from her house to the nearest supermarket.
Two thousand four hundred...basically one thousand two hundred trips to the supermarket.
She gulped and studied the map, and then looked at the map on her wall. Route 66. The road wound its way through multiple states and ended on the Pacific Coast. She’d studied Steinbeck at school, and The Grapes of Wrath hadn’t made the Mother Road sound appealing.
On the other hand it was one of the most iconic roads in the world.
She searched for images of Santa Monica, and found herself staring at sandy beaches, palm trees, a girl cycling with the wind in her hair and a smile on her face. A couple gazing at each other in a restaurant. She could almost hear the crash of the waves in the background.
The place looked so alive.
She glanced out the window again and saw Mrs. Pettifer deadheading geraniums.
California.
It looked like another world, and right now that was exactly what she wanted. Any world other than the one she was currently inhabiting. Best of all, it was thousands of miles away from her crappy life here.
She read the words again, trying to find a way to make herself fit the job. She was definitely good-humored. She’d kept smiling all the way through the fox poo incident, and not only because her sister had trodden in it on her way to work. If the person she was supposed to be driving was good-humored too, then they might just about get by.
Why weren’t they driving themselves?
Presumably they either couldn’t drive, or didn’t want to. Both options worked in her favor. If they couldn’t drive then they wouldn’t know when she was making mistakes, and if they didn’t want to then they’d be sympathetic to the fact that she generally didn’t want to either.
They wanted a competent driver. How exactly did they define competent? It was hard to be competent when you couldn’t afford a car and no one would lend you theirs.
If she could fake it at the beginning, then by the time she’d driven two thousand four hundred miles there was a strong chance she might actually be competent. As long as she could make it out of Chicago without crashing into something, she’d be fine. She’d be ecstatic! She’d never achieved anything in her life, as her mother was always pointing out, but driving across America—that would be an achievement. And it would get her away from her family for the summer. Best of all it would get her away from Steven. She wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder every time she left the house.
And a road trip would give her the chance to think about what she wanted to do with her life.
Maybe it would even lead to another job.
Martha Jackson, long-haul truck driver.
She imagined herself checking into a motel with a glowing neon sign. Maybe walking into a traditional diner and ordering a juicy burger.
America.
It sounded unbelievably glamorous compared to her little part of outer London.
“Martha! Kitchen floor!”
Martha was dragged from her fantasy of feeding coins into an old-fashioned jukebox and dancing round a bar to country music.
She felt like one of the ugly sisters. She was expected to scrub the floor while her sister was paid to prance around in leopard print yoga pants.
A new determination spread through her as she reached for her phone and dialed.
She had no idea who exactly wanted to be driven across America, but they couldn’t be more annoying than her own family. Somehow she had to sound like a perfect candidate.
Martha Jackson, personal chauffeur. Calm (except when there’s a roundabout), confident and reliable.
She waited until she heard a voice on the other end of the phone and then she smiled, trying to inject an appropriate level of friendly and flexible into her voice.
“My name is Martha and I’m calling about the job...”
Flexible, friendly and possibly the worst driver on the planet.
5
LIZA
“Who is this girl? We don’t know anything about her.” Liza paced across her mother’s kitchen. It was her third trip to Cornwall in a month and each visit was more frustrating than the last, and not just because the traffic was starting to heat up along with the weather. It was as if dealing with an intruder had made her mother give up all thought of personal safety. Or maybe it had given her rather too much confidence in her own ability to survive the worst.
Whatever the psychology, nothing Liza said could make her see sense. “If you’re determined to do this trip then book a tour. Go with a group. And a guide.”
“I don’t want to be part of a group. I’m too old to tolerate people whose company I haven’t chosen and will no doubt find annoying. I shall go where I wish and stay as long as it pleases me to stay. It’s not as if I have anywhere in particular to be at my age.”
“Mum—”
“You didn’t want me to stay alone in the house, and this way I won’t be alone in the house.”
There were days when Liza felt as if she was banging her head against a wall. “What if something happens?”
“I hope something does happen. It would be a crushing disappointment to travel two thousand four hundred miles and not encounter a single adventurous moment.”