The Woman Next Door(51)

Melissa scrunches sideways in the seat, her back almost facing me. It feels as though she is trying to get away from the interior of the van, but maybe that is just the tiredness showing again.

Wordlessly, we drive out of the car park and onto the narrow road that runs past the big house. I think she is trying to sleep but when we reach the main road, I crane my neck to look and see that her eyes are open. She stares glassily ahead like a very tired, beautiful doll. Her pale skin is shadowed under the eyes and I get the odd notion that I would like to press my fingers there to cool and soothe her. This flusters me because it’s such a strange thing to think. I give myself a little shake and try to concentrate on the road.

It is difficult though, as sunlight spears through the windscreen and jabs my eyeballs. I pull down the sun visor but it only helps a little bit.

The traffic is much thicker now, of course. I find that I can just about cope if I stretch my eyes wide and blink as much as possible. But the truth is that any exhaustion I felt before is nothing to what I’m experiencing now. The thought of reaching the M3 makes all the adrenaline that has sloshed around my poor body all night curdle like stale milk. I’m really not sure that I can go any further without a nap.

But how will I break this news to Melissa? She might insist on driving and that frightens me even more. I clear my throat and decide to brave it.

‘I really am very tired, I’m afraid,’ I venture. ‘I’m not sure either of us should be driving unless we can have a small rest first.’

‘Yes,’ she says, to my astonishment. ‘I think we should stop at the next services and see if there is one of those Travelodge Inns or whatever they’re called. Even if it’s for a few hours. I want a shower.’

It’s all I can do not to exclaim. I never expected her to agree. But I’m not sure it will be that easy.

‘The only thing is, I’m sure we’ll need some sort of identification to check in. And that’s not a good idea. And also, what about Bertie? I can’t leave him in the van.’

I’m mulling over this conundrum as the first sign for the dreaded M3 appears ahead. Melissa yawns noisily before replying in a strangled voice.

‘Look it’s not the bloody Ritz,’ she says. ‘It’s the sort of place salesmen go for a quick afternoon shag, so I’m sure it will be fine. And you can sneak the dog in under your coat or something.’

Wincing at her terminology once again, I say nothing and Melissa speaks again.

‘I am so desperate to wash. I feel so—’

She doesn’t finish but starts to scratch both her arms at the same time, surely hard enough to be sore. It’s as though she has insects crawling on her, the way she’s doing it, and my badly behaved imagination immediately throws a horrible image of maggots into my mind. Then I see that man, Jamie, with maggots coming out of his hollowed, sightless eye sockets and my mouth fills with saliva.

Oh dear, I must not be sick. I breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, until I have to focus on getting us onto that motorway again. Bertie is whining a bit now, which is very out of character for him. He must need to go again, and he isn’t the only one. Melissa may have been happy doing that in the woods but it’s not something I would ever contemplate.

I indicate right and turn down the slip road to the motorway. The traffic is quite heavy, even though it is so early, and I blink hard, forcing myself to be awake and be alert.

Thankfully, the services are only about half an hour away but I do feel every second of the journey. I cling to the slow lane as cars thunder by. At one point a lorry comes so close to our bumper in the side mirror that I am sure we will crash. But with a flash of lights and a rude blare of the horn, the lorry passes, and I can breathe again.

When the sign for the services appears it feels like a beacon of light on a dark night, even though it is, of course, a sunny morning now. But it is as if I have been holding my breath the entire time I have been on this road. I’m a little nervous about whether we are going to get away with booking a room as we pull into the car park of the Travelodge and I’m still fretting about the Bertie issue. But I don’t mind admitting that it’s just a tiny bit exciting too. I know it’s not, as Melissa put it, ‘the bloody Ritz’, but it’s still a hotel.

I must say, there is something pleasing about hotels. It’s the sensation of everything laid out specially just for your use, from the tiny soaps, to the chocolate on the pillows at the better establishments. I have quite a collection of shower caps and sewing kits at home.

And yes, if someone had said to me just thirty-six hours ago, ‘You and your old friend are going to book into a hotel together after having the most extraordinary day and night of your life,’ I probably would have told them they needed to lie down in a darkened room for a while.

I can add this one to the very long list of new experiences I have had since yesterday.

When we have parked, I realize I had better try to tidy myself up a little.

I would have expected Melissa to want to put some make-up on because she is usually immaculately turned out. But she doesn’t seem to have any interest in this until I point out that we ought to make the effort to look respectable.

Using the mirror in the sun visor, I try to tidy my hair. After a short pause, Melissa gets out her make-up bag and applies some foundation and eyeliner, listlessly gazing into a small mirror.

‘Want some of this?’ she says, offering the bag towards me, and I shake my head. I’ve never really known how to apply it, is the truth of the matter.