‘That’ll change one day,’ I told her.
And that day has arrived. Today.
Bingo! I find my new car. A small Peugeot 106. Haggard, and much more used than simply a ‘used car’, it’s the most hideous colour on the planet: not red; not brown; somewhere in between, like old dried blood. The pictures that guy posted online had told a different story. But, if this car gets me from A to B today, then so what? I love it. Plus, it’ll give me independence, which is key when moving to a new place. I don’t want to be too dependent on Nick, despite what Katie thinks.
I open the trunk and get a rush of excitement at the reality of what’s happening.
‘I need to see you,’ Nick had told me yesterday via Skype. ‘Now.’
‘If only that were possible,’ I teased.
Little did he know my bags were packed and waiting downstairs by the front door of my papa’s villa. I told Nick I was going camping in the desert with friends, not to be offended if I didn’t reply to his messages that evening, as it would be unlikely I’d have signal. He pretended to sulk, sticking out his bottom lip, then edged closer to the screen and realised something was missing from beside my bed.
‘Where’s the mop, sweetheart?’ he asked.
It was downstairs, of course, with my luggage.
‘Lulu found it in my room and used it to clean the floor,’ I said, thinking on my feet.
‘No way!’
‘I know, right. Can you believe it? So it’s drying out in the utility room.’
And now, I’m fitting that mop into the Peugeot, sliding it through the trunk and letting the handle poke through to the passenger seat. Its accessories – wigs, hats, novelty spectacles – are stuffed into the holdall. I was prepared for some drama getting the actual mop through check-in, expecting the odd glance from other passengers, but it’s all been smooth sailing. My plan is actually going according to plan.
I settle into the driver’s seat and make a phone call to get myself insured.
Then, I turn the key, start the Peugeot’s engine.
I’ve driven a manual before, but not for years. I stall twice and hear my papa’s voice saying, ‘Why drive when you can catch a cab?’
By some sort of magic, I get the car going on the third try. Chugging out of the parking lot, the planes groaning overhead, I pull over into a temporary stopping bay to set up the portable satnav. I found it in a kitchen drawer at my papa’s villa. It was there amongst old phone chargers and a toaster with a European plug socket, so I figured he wouldn’t miss it any time soon. I enter the address for my final destination, one that’s imprinted on my mind, my heart.
I set off and once I’m comfortably in fourth gear, I squeal in delight.
Nick Gregory is going to get the surprise of his life.
4
Jim
At three o’clock, when my shift at the tunnel finishes, I catch the bus to my ma’s.
My family moved into this red brick terrace when I was five. Two up and two down, with a back yard and no front garden, we Glovers embraced the move, elated that we finally had our own staircase. The house hasn’t changed much in thirty years, except for the addition of them slogan cushions with things like, ‘Home Is Where the Heart Is’ littering the settee. One whole wall is covered with family photos, mainly of our Lisa and Emma, my sisters. I’m not offended. They’re a right pair of posers, all dolled up in high heels and massive feathers, dancing on cruise ships. Imagine me doing that? No ta. I find the opposite wall more appealing anyway, carpet to ceiling with bookshelves. We all love a good paperback. Well, me and my ma still do.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I cry, letting myself in. ‘Do you really need to whack the central heating up this high?’
‘Sorry, love, it’s been on all day,’ my ma says, swallowed up into my dad’s old armchair, the telly blurring.
‘All day?’ I bend down to pick up the mail.
‘Oh, calm down, will you? Go and put the kettle on.’
During the week, I clean my ma’s house, make her tea, watch The Chase with her. I make sure the mobile hairdresser comes to set her hair. Thursday’s usually corned beef hash, but I just swung by the Asda to get a couple of microwave cottage pies. I’m picking up my brand-new BMW in an hour. I’ll have to give The Chase a miss and hope the excitement of my win isn’t too much for her. She’s got a chronic irregular heartbeat.
‘There’s no catch,’ the producer had said.
God, I keep replaying those words over and over. Commercial radio stations are a bitch for pulling pranks on their listeners. How can I be so sure that this competition is legit? What happens if there’s no car wrapped in a red ribbon for me to take home? I should prepare myself for another phone call in the morning, Connie and Carl laughing their arses off, informing me that I’m the biggest joke on Merseyside.
‘Ethel brought some Jaffa Cakes round,’ my ma says. ‘Put them on a plate, love.’
I strip off my fleece and head into the kitchen. Clothes remain damp in the washing machine, a bowl with the dregs of soggy cereal sits in the sink. The bills, held up against the fridge by a novelty selection of magnets, are in the wrong place for me to ignore. Debts. My ma’s run up a fair few since my dad died, not quite registering the way a credit card likes to work, to bite you in the backside. She’s still paying for birthday pressies for our Emma’s kids years after they’ve outgrown them, but she’s too delicate to know, to be told. So, I take care of it. I glance at the mail: bills, more bills, and a postcard from Florida.
‘What you reading at the mo?’ I ask, placing a cup of tea and a plate of Jaffa Cakes on the little side table next to my dad’s armchair. ‘Anything decent?’
‘It’s upstairs on the bed, the name of it escapes me. Something about a family buying an old farmhouse in Scotland. The mother’s gonna have it off with the recluse who lives on the other side of the loch. Obvious. Bloody good, though.’
I turn the heating down and perch on the arm of the settee, eat a Jaffa Cake whole.
‘How’s the Gene Wilder one going, love?’
‘Great. He was really into the craft of acting.’
‘You’re the spit of your dad, loving all them real-life stories. I prefer the made-up ones.’
I wonder if my sisters are still passionate about reading. Their faces look directly at me from the wall – Lisa drenched in white lace at her Holy Communion, Emma’s senior school portrait, the shoulder pads of her blazer shrinking her head to the size of a pea. And how they both look now, Christ. I haven’t seen either of them in person since our dad’s funeral. After their cruise-ship days, they settled in Florida and set up a dance school, the promise of a stateside get-together still in the pipeline. I bloody hate this shrine to them, their American teeth and blow-dried hair a lifetime away from the Scouse girls they once were.
Which reminds me.
‘A postcard came today,’ I say.
‘Ooh, go and get it then, soft lad!’
My ma holds the postcard an inch away from her face, squinting, then after studying the sketch of Mickey Mouse holding a pumpkin, turns it around to read our Emma’s writing.
‘She says, “Tell Jim I’ve emailed him photos of the kids in their Halloween costumes”.’