And it sounds soft, but I’ve felt forever 10p short.
Now, Zara’s picking at her nails, little flecks wafting about my car like fucking dandruff.
I swear, if any of that touches the interior, falls onto the leather—
BEEP!
‘What the fuck’s your problem?’ I shout at the driver behind, scowling at him through my rear-view mirror.
‘You can go,’ Zara tells me.
‘Y’what?’
She points to the traffic light. It’s green. She was right. I can go.
Shit.
I give a wave to the driver behind. My bad.
15
Zara
Jim’s breath is heavy as he drives, regular huffing going on and the odd sigh, the scratching of his stubble. I’m trying to remove my pale blue nail polish. It started by peeling off both thumbs, but I can’t handle the inconsistency of my nails not matching. It makes me feel off balance. With care, I drop the bits of dried polish into my lap, for despite the battered trunk, the inside of Jim’s car looks – and smells – as good as brand new.
The Electric Light Orchestra sings through the speakers about Mr Blue Sky. A few songs follow that I’ve never heard before and as much as I want to listen, I’m restless.
‘So, are you from Liverpool?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you live around here?’
‘No.’
‘So, you live closer to the city than the suburbs?’
‘No.’
‘This is my first trip to Liverpool.’
Jim doesn’t reply. It could be my paranoia, but I think the music has become a little louder. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, playing along with the beat of the song. I press the button to open the window and with care, throw my bits of nail polish out into the passing air. Once the window shuts again, the tension magnifies.
‘Where are you from?’ Jim asks, with a pained expression as if he’s yanking out his front teeth.
‘The States. Originally.’
Jim raises his eyebrows and continues to tap the wheel.
‘So, what is it you do?’ I ask, running my fingertips lightly across the shiny buttons on the inbuilt stereo, the swanky navigation system.
‘Do you have to touch that?’
‘I’m guessing you run your own business. Or you work for your dad.’
‘Right. Yeah.’
‘So come on, are you some mysterious entrepreneur?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m a professional people-watcher. I’ve spent a lot of time in airports and living with people I barely know. So, what’s your success story? Is it something to do with IT? Or selling data on the internet? Not that I know anything about that sort of shit. But that’s how most dudes I know make their dollar and drive around in cars like this.’
Jim shrugs, elaboration clearly not his strong point. A barrier of ice forms between us again and I can’t bear the ache swelling in my forehead. I’d rather talk to anyone than be left with my own thoughts; I’m just not good with them. And now, I’ve got the chance to have an actual conversation with somebody, after the emptiness of yesterday, of last night.
‘So, you probably invented some kind of adhesive picture hook and made a small – or large – fortune,’ I muse. ‘Or you’re a drug dealer.’
Jim continues to tap the wheel in time to the song on the radio, some Nineties hit that’s all intense drums and angry vocals. I can’t remember the name of the singer or the song. The lyrics keep repeating over and over.
‘I guess that was pretty offensive, huh?’ I admit.
‘What?’
‘Me accusing you of being some sort of drug dealer?’
He laughs. Not exactly from his belly, or even as if he’s been tickled. Still, a jovial flash. He checks his mirrors, he indicates, changes lanes. The ice has melted just a little.
‘I don’t have a job,’ I tell him, whether or not he wants to listen. ‘Currently.’
He nods once.
Out of the passenger window, rows of semi-detached brick houses pass us by, all identical in shape, in size, the front doors and front gardens presenting a glimpse of individuality. Life here would certainly be different to anything I’ve ever been used to, but what does that matter if I’m happy? If I’m loved?
‘I’ve had loads, though,’ I go on. ‘Jobs.’
‘Boss,’ Jim says.
‘Once I had to dress as a cheerleader to promote these new overpriced hot dogs and guess what?’
‘You never got a free hot dog?’
‘I never got a free hot dog.’
Jim returns to his tap-tap-tapping.
‘Would you mind not doing that, Jim?’
‘Doing what?’
‘That tapping.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s making me really anxious.’
He stops.
‘Thanks. I’m just nervous.’
He doesn’t ask why.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve had the most awful twenty-four hours … well, twenty hours, to be precise. God, it hasn’t even been a whole day since everything fell apart. It’s funny how time plays tricks on you, isn’t it? Like how some days just go by in a flash, and some drag on forever, like everything you thought can change in the space of just a few hours, minutes even. Do you know what I mean, or am I just chatting shit?’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I can shut up if you want. It just feels better to talk. Makes me less nervous.’
Jim still doesn’t pry.
‘Don’t you think it’s worth trying to get answers though, rather than spend your life wondering? I do. I’d rather just know. I’d rather get the facts. Move on. Otherwise there’ll always be a niggle, a sort of unsettling buzz in my brain. And also, there’s two sides to every story, right? I like to think that most people in the world are good people, that there’s always an explanation for their actions. I might seem like a terrible person to some people – like to you, I’m sure you think I’m a terrible person – but, despite my faults, I’m not. I never mean to hurt anyone, or annoy anyone, it just seems to come across the wrong way. Like when my friend Katie threw a baby shower for her sister. All the girls were cooing over the bump and Katie said to me, ‘What do you think, Zara?’ and I said, ‘Wow, it’s huge!’ Which was the absolute worst thing to say, apparently, except I’d worked with a woman once who got upset whenever people told her that her bump was tiny, she was so anxious that she’d have an abnormally small baby. Okay, that’s a really bad example, but—’
‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t what?’
‘I don’t think you’re a terrible person.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
The city sights are long behind us and the rundown independent shops and warehouses have disappeared, replaced by more appealing rows of houses with an almost quaint cottage look about them.
‘You familiar with around here?’ I ask.
Jim shakes his head in disapproval, as if he’s just sniffed a fart.
What’s his problem? This place seems pretty nice; there are even horses in the field we’ve just passed. I bet he lives in a huge apartment, ultra modern and gleaming with sharp greys and blacks and whites. A real bachelor pad.