Then again.
Being without the mop means going back to who I was six months ago. What will I do with all the hope that’s been growing within me, blowing up like a balloon? I don’t want it to burst and disappear into thin air. Every minute, somewhere in the world, two people fall in love. So, when’s it my turn? My heart is honest. I’m not cynical enough to have presumed Nick was lying. If I discard the mop, will it turn me into a cynic? Or strip me of my confidence? What will happen if I let go?
The cat is sleeping, snoring and purring in unison.
‘I could do with a new mop,’ Mary says. ‘Or I could sell it on Ebay. If that mop’s from Dubai, it’s probably gold plated and worth a small fortune. Today could be my lucky day.’
I sling my canvas tote bag over my shoulder and pick up one suitcase. Jim follows me, lifting the second suitcase and the broken holdall. The mop stays flat on Mary’s thick carpet, a dead man awaiting his burial.
‘No, Mary,’ I say, watching Jim load up his ruined car. ‘I think today is my lucky day.’
20
Jim
Lodged deep within my soul, a glimmer of hope had been shining. Today was supposed to be my lucky day. You see, as I was sitting in Mary’s rocking chair, I thought about getting my car to Griffo’s dad, with minimal mileage, and maybe he’ll tell me that the boot can be fixed. An easy job. Common, perhaps. It might still be worth something. And something is better than nothing. I’ve promised my ma Florida. There’s no way I can take that away from her, not if there’s the tiniest chance that Griffo’s dad will give me something for this car.
Except, ha. Oh, ha fucking ha. Now, now I’ve been roped into going across the whole country, being some skivvy taxi driver, and for what? What’s in it for me? Why didn’t I say no? Who does Zara think I am; Robert bloody De Niro? But how could I stand in Mary’s house after drinking her tea and eating her biscuits, after taking her paperbacks and using her loo, and look like the bastard who won’t help the damsel in distress? Knowing women like Mary, she’d beat me senseless with that mop before sending me on a guilt trip that’d take years to return from.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Zara says, pulling the seatbelt across her. ‘Road trip!’
I sigh. This is absurd.
‘Plus, I get to travel in style. Your car is so comfortable, Jim.’
With my foot on the accelerator, a harsh rev unleashes my need to swear.
‘How’s your hangover?’ she asks, grinning.
God, I want to wipe that grin off her face.
‘How’s your love life?’ I ask. Result.
That was a bit mean, wasn’t it? The girl is broken, her ripped clothes making that deep scar on her face more prominent for some reason, and her long hair, so lush with loose curls this morning, is now a mass of frizz. I glance across at her, petite like a little doll, shrinking into the black leather seat. One leg is crossed over the other, a huge ladder in her black tights exposing smooth, bronze skin. She clearly gets to enjoy the sun. I dislike myself for eyeing her legs longer than necessary. Oh, so what? She’s pretty. Doesn’t mean I have to like her. And she’s sulking after that last comment; her enormous, dark eyes studying her lap.
The traffic’s not moving fast. We hit three reds in a row. A flashing light from behind the steering wheel distracts me.
‘Shit,’ I say.
I’m almost out of petrol. And there’s nothing like a fuel strobe to trigger a bout of anxiety. Hitting the wheel with my fist, I shut my eyes. I hate how something as simple as filling a car up with fuel is a massive ball ache. Only hours ago, this would’ve been the least of my problems. In fact, with fifty grand in my pocket, I couldn’t even begin to imagine having a problem. Now, I’m drowning in them.
‘Do you go to London often?’ Zara asks.
‘Oh yeah. All the time,’ I say, totally relishing in my own sarcasm.
‘Business or pleasure?’
Heavy rain patters down, blurring my visibility. I’m going to have to tell her that this ‘road trip’ is about to end. Very, very soon. She might cry, and I’ll feel like a right dick. But, I owe her nothing and the sooner our ordeal is over, the better. I can’t afford to fill the tank up. It’s as simple as that. The flashing light is urging me to speak up, begging me to get rid of Zara and get to Griffo’s dad’s before the car comes to an embarrassing halt.
The windscreen wipers go into overdrive. I pull into a slip road and park up outside a row of shops consisting of a newsagents, a betting shop and a takeaway called Pizza Perfecto that isn’t yet open for business. I tell her simply that I can’t take her to London and give her no excuse. I feel one hundred per cent shitty. But I remind myself that if Zara hadn’t pissed on my chips, then I wouldn’t be pissing on hers. Christ, there’d be no chips to piss on at all if she’d just been watching the bloody road this morning.
I wait for her tears to come. Instead, Zara starts to rub her hands together.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ she says. Taking the liberty of fidgeting around with the various dials and buttons beneath the radio, she finds the heating and turns it up full blast. She’s completely ignored everything I’ve just said to her.
‘Zara?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
She nods.
‘I can’t take you to London,’ I reiterate, my words delicate.
‘I’m not stupid, Jim. I knew you weren’t going to take me.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. I mean, why would you do that? Really? What’s in it for you?’
I’m stumped. ‘Nothing. Exactly.’
‘It’d be weird if you did that.’
‘It would.’
‘So just drop me off at a train station. If it’s not too much trouble.’
But, it is. It’s indeed too much trouble. Driving from the outskirts of Liverpool to Lime Street station means hitting Friday traffic, which also means not making it to Griffo’s dad’s without having to fill up. And the way she said if it’s not too much trouble. Christ, it’s wound me up in corners I didn’t even know I had.
No matter what way I look at it, I’ve got two choices: I can either ask Zara to pay for the petrol, which is humiliating, or I can swing by my flat and take the money from the biscuit tin.
And both choices suck.
It sits on top of the microwave in my kitchen.
Technically, it’s not even a biscuit tin. It’s an empty Quality Street tin, the last chocolate eaten sometime between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day twenty-odd years ago. As a kid, I used to put my spare change – or my slummy, as my dad would call it – in there, because it was more transparent than a piggy bank. I liked to see my money, not guess how much might be in there. That way, there was no disappointment. Back then, the slummy saved would be spent on my favourite magazine, or with enough will power, games for my Sega; Sonic, Golden Axe. They were replaced by hardback books, videos, and eventually DVDs, my vast film collection still presented across three shelves in my bedroom (in alphabetical order, too).
These days, the slummy is saved for less entertaining essentials such as bleach and toilet roll, a pint of milk. I dip into the biscuit tin more often than I’d like, so I’m not holding out for a miracle, just enough to keep my dignity intact. There might be enough in there for a bit of petrol, but nowhere near enough to get my ma to the airport, never mind bloody Florida.