“Then what’s—”
A loud noise ripped through the car, followed, just a second too late, by another cough.
I closed my eyes briefly, understanding. This cycle continued for a few more minutes, each time Graeme getting worse and worse at timing his coughs until he might as well have given up altogether.
I wound down the window. The GPS had corrected its estimate of when we’d arrive. Our destination was now five hours ahead of us. Until then: hell.
MARIA: how’s it going?!
EVIE: we’re at his favorite service station
MARIA: so he’s quirky
EVIE: it’s Milton Keynes, home of the concrete cows
SARAH: give him a chance, Evie
EVIE: he’s also a misogynistic arsehole
MARIA: oh god! I’m so sorry, Evie. I thought he was a good one. I even told him you were single
EVIE: to be fair, I think romance is the furthest thing from his mind. He just announced he was going to “clear the pipes”
I shouldn’t be mad at Maria for setting me up with Graeme. It’s just that she wasn’t the one who was stuck in a car with a man who genuinely believed he had successfully disguised his farts. I sent my mum my new arrival time, thinking longingly of the moment I’d be pulling onto my old street. We weren’t getting back before nine. I shivered, turning the heat up.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
A very damp-looking Graeme waved at me through the glass. Thinking we were swapping seats, I got out and stood back to let him past.
Which was when Graeme grabbed me by the shoulders and snogged me like his mouth was a plunger trying to unblock a drain.
My response was pure reflex and entirely justifiable.
Graeme jerked back. “You bit me!” he said, astonished. He stuck his tongue out. “Is it bleeding? Why would you do that?”
“You shoved your tongue into my mouth!” Was that . . . dead fish? Ugh!
“I was being romantic. You were the one going on about it being kissing weather!”
Great, so now that was ruined for me. “Consent is romantic, Graeme.” I wiped the drizzle from my eyes, breathing hard and seriously considering leaving him there. “Just get in the car,” I said finally, climbing into the driver’s seat. A minute later, he got in beside me.
He produced a new bottle of water, moaning as he sipped it. I turned the music up. His fingers moved toward the radio.
“No,” I said shortly. He dropped his hand. Twisting away from me, he curled up in his seat, clutching his water like a teddy bear. Unbelievably, he started to snore.
I enjoyed almost an hour of relative peace before he woke up. “The problem with women like you,” he declared, startling me, “is that you never go for the nice guys. It’s always the arsh-holes. Then you complain to ush when they treat you badly.” His tongue must really be swollen. Good.
I checked the GPS again. Four hours to go.
A sensible person would have kept the peace. I wasn’t feeling particularly sensible. “The problem with nice guys, Graeme,” I said, “is that they don’t realize they’re the arseholes.”
“The problem with—”
“See?”
He glared at me, gulping his water like it was an act of defiance. Ahead of us, the traffic was finally starting to break up. I accelerated, feeling freedom was at last on the horizon, when the car engine let out a rattle.
What was that?
The whole car shuddered. Was something burning?
“Graeme, when was the last time you checked your oil?”
“Shorry, Mum. ‘Graeme, have you checked your oil?’ ‘Graeme, why are you making your female colleagues uncomfortable?’ Women always ashk such irritating questions.”
Black smoke billowed out from under the hood and all the warning lights went off on the dash.
“Whoopsh!” Graeme said. The car juddered and his hand jerked, spilling his drink over me. Which was when I realized the water was, in fact, vodka.
Chapter 15
The Arsh-hole
EXT: THE HARD SHOULDER, M1—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 23, 5:42 P.M.
A fire engine’s flashing lights turn the night an artificial orange as police officers wave a slow procession of cars past the hard shoulder. An ambulance pulls away from the scene just as a tow truck arrives. EVIE is wrapped in a silver space blanket and is talking to an officer. GRAEME is also wrapped in a blanket, arguing with the firemen.
“Are you okay, miss?” asked the concerned police officer, her eyes on Graeme. “Your partner seems agitated.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, shivering in the drizzling rain. “And he’s not my partner.” I hadn’t told her that we were actually complete strangers and that I’d orchestrated the road trip to get a screenwriter to write a rom-com. She already suspected I was drunk.
I returned the Breathalyzer. She checked it. “Thank you, miss. Everything looks fine. We just had to be sure.”
“I completely understand,” I said. I had, after all, been covered in vodka.
She left me to go and rescue the firemen from Graeme. I sat down heavily on the barrier, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to be with my mum eating homemade mince pies with steaming-hot mulled wine. It was looking highly unlikely that I was going to get home now, and tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
My cold fingers could barely type.
RED: you were right
NOB: I know. Wait. Have you tried faking an orgasm?
NOB: Red?
RED: I’m on the hard shoulder on the M1, while Graeme—who’s drunk, by the way—shouts at a fireman for hosing his engine because it was on fire. So in short: no
NOB: you’re not the ones driving that blue piece of crap, are you?
My heart hammered as I glanced up at the blue Skoda, which Graeme was currently draped over, much to the annoyance of the people from roadside assistance. Yes, why? I typed out. No response.
The Skoda had been successfully attached to the tow truck and Graeme scraped off its hood when the red sports car pulled up onto the hard shoulder.
I squinted at its tinted windows, wondering what kind of person drove their car onto the scene of an emergency.
The passenger window started to slide down, revealing blond hair styled to look effortless, achingly blue eyes, and an irritatingly beautiful, extremely welcome face.
“Hey, Red.”
Am I really seeing this? NOB. On the side of the M1. My heart was a hummingbird in my chest.