‘I presume you’re going the airport?’ he asks.
I nod. This is highly irresponsible of me.
‘John Lennon or Manchester?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Which airport?’
‘Oh …’ It hadn’t occurred to me to book a flight from anywhere other than Heathrow.
Jim slots the second suitcase into the back seat, rocks it to test its stability, then shuts the door.
‘Is that everything?’ he asks.
‘Not quite,’ I say, making one more trip over to my car, my attention on the last remaining item. It’s still sticking out of the sunroof. I should leave the mop with the Peugeot – it’s redundant. Then again, I could have easily left the mop behind at the hostel. So why didn’t I?
Well. To leave it here is accepting that it’s over.
And I can’t.
Crouching, I remove the mop. The aviators clatter to the ground and I bend down, picking them up and placing them on the mop’s head to bring it to life once again. In the shades, I see my own double reflection. My scar. The damp weather makes my hair look so dull, so dark. That damn balayage such a waste. Why did I fork out on a blend of expensive colours for nobody to care?
Unless he does care.
I never gave Nick a chance … I just presumed …
Oh, God! I’ve presumed so much since yesterday and that’s all it is, a presumption. What if I’ve somehow been mistaken? There’s a reasonable explanation for everything, isn’t there? My interpretation of the situation could be completely wrong. And if there’s one thing I have, it’s time. My flight doesn’t leave until tonight. This mop will not be left stranded on a roadside with the blood-coloured car. It’s going to come with me and demand an explanation. I haven’t come more than four thousand miles with a heart filled with good intentions to have a door slammed in my face. This isn’t the end, it can’t be. There are answers to be found and there’s only one way to find them.
I carry the mop to Jim’s car. To my surprise, he’s already opened the sunroof in preparation for its arrival.
‘I don’t want that mop marking the interiors,’ he says.
This makes me smile, and the weight pressing me down since last night lifts a little. My hopeful heart is returning to its regular beat.
‘So, where do you need a lift to?’ Jim asks.
I don’t mention anything about London or Heathrow airport. I don’t want to run away anymore. The crash has allowed me to stop, to pause, to gain clarity. There’s always good to come from bad. I follow enough influencers on social media to know they can’t all be wrong, they can’t all be telling lies about their balanced lives or simply pretending to be happy. Maybe they really are happy. And if they are, I can be, too. I refuse to be beaten. I’ll stay in Liverpool as planned, get the facts straight.
Nick’s postcode is stored in my memory. Jim enters it into the BMW’s built-in navigation system. And back we go through the Tunnel.
12
Jim
If you think I’ve got anything to say about this fucking mess, you’re wrong.
I have no words.
None.
13
Zara
The journey through the tunnel is about as enjoyable as peeling my big toenail off. The radio signal crackles and fizzes, but Jim doesn’t bother to switch it off. His odour has become more apparent. The mop’s positioning isn’t tight, so it rocks from side to side creating an irritating tick. Jim shows no sign of wanting to strike up a conversation. And to top it all off, I really need to use the bathroom.
When daylight hits us again, Jim stretches his long arm behind and grabs the aviators from the head of the mop. Confusing. I don’t know why he needs shades on the most miserable day of the year, but each to their own, eh? Why doesn’t he have his own designer pair? These aviators are super cheap rip-offs from Patpong night market in Bangkok, bought about four years ago and very obviously fake. It’s a miracle they’re still in use.
‘Got any change?’ he asks, holding his palm out to me.
Taken aback, I fumble through my army jacket pockets and find a few pound coins. Jim snatches them from me and throws them into the basin, overpaying the tunnel fare. Then, he removes the aviators, tosses them into my lap and speeds off.
‘Why did you do that?’ I ask, digging my nails into my seat.
He doesn’t bother answering.
‘Jim?’
I spot a cafe, demand he stops.
‘You need a double espresso,’ I say.
‘I won’t argue with that.’
The cafe is more of a sandwich shop, in an industrial block of factories and offices. Jim sits down on one of two wooden chairs at the single table for customers, making it clear that I’m buying. Fair enough. I mean, he is giving me a ride. Most people are ordering meaty baguettes dripping with thick mayonnaise. I get one for Jim – bacon and egg – then plonk myself down onto an empty chair, placing two polystyrene cups of coffee on the table. I push the paper bag, leaking with grease, towards him.
‘For me?’ he asks, his eyes lighting up.
‘I couldn’t eat a thing.’
He thanks me. Twice. He looks much nicer when he smiles. Although I’m horrified when he opens the baguette and drowns the contents with thin, brown sauce, squeezed from a brown plastic bottle that looks as though it’s been sitting on this table since 1972.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking myself off to the single bathroom.
My hands are shaking. Yes, it’s cold, but my nerves are shot. There’s no mirror in here either, so I put the lid of the toilet seat down, sit and touch up my mascara, eyeliner, concealer and lip gloss using a compact. The frizz in my hair will just have to remain. There’s no winning against this drizzle.
Jim hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Sure, he asked for an address, but hadn’t he presumed I was going to the airport? Maybe he thinks I’m going on vacation, that he’s giving me a ride to a friend’s house. It’s kind of him not to ask about the mop – what bizarre excuse would I invent? That I’m going on a bachelorette weekend and the mop is part of a game? Or I guess I could pretend that I’m an actress and the mop is a prop for my one-woman show. One that I’ve written, of course. These musings are a damn good distraction for what lies ahead. It won’t be long until I see Nick again, perhaps within the next thirty minutes.
I allow his full name to settle in my mind for the first time since last night. Nick Gregory. I recall his voice from our previous chats, smooth and drawn out, never in a rush to get anywhere. It’s different to Jim’s accent, only tickled Scouse around the edges of certain words. I need to give him the chance to explain. How unfair that I bolted off. He’s never seen me behave like that before. I wonder how I seemed? Angry? Disappointed? Childish? Any of those reactions would be enough to make him step back, give me space. If he’s done nothing wrong then I’ll struggle to forgive myself for spoiling what should have been a wonderful surprise. Not to mention what a bad judge of character I’ve been.
Adding an extra coat of mascara, I pinch my cheekbones, an old-fashioned trick, but worthwhile. Answers are imminent. I might as well look my best – or as good as possible within the circumstances – when I get them.