Someone Else's Shoes(94)

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Sam is so deep in her thoughts when she drives back that she does not see the lights change. She and Andrea had treated themselves to a coffee at a local café, sitting at a rickety table outside where, for the first time in a year, Sam had gazed at her friend and not felt a vague, underlying panic at the possibility that Andrea would catch a chill, that her lack of appetite suggested some sinister development, that she would inhale some random bacterium floating by and be felled by it in her fragile, neutropenic state. They sat and ate a sticky bun in happy silence, enjoying the unseasonal sun on their faces.

They had decided by tacit agreement to put off all the difficult discussions, about Sam’s marriage, Andrea’s finances, the task ahead of recovering the shoes, and just talk instead in small bursts of the deliciousness of the bun, the glorious strength of the coffee, the simple bliss of the unexpected warmth of the day. Today Andrea is well and everything else has become small and insignificant. It was the best coffee Sam can remember.

And then she runs the red light. She only realizes when she hears the outraged blare of the horn, the sound of the elongated skid as the other driver is forced to brake.

“Jesus,” says Andrea, grabbing at her seatbelt. “This is not the time to get me killed, Sammy.”

Sam pulls across the junction, her heart thumping, one hand raised in an apology to the other driver.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her body hot and cold with the shock of what has just happened. “I just—my mind wasn’t—”

“I mean you could give me one day of being alive and well.”

They laugh, with terrified eyes.

And then Sam looks in her rear-view mirror and sees the blue light. “Oh, great.”

She pulls the camper-van over into the nearest space, struggling to steer its bulk in safely, then maneuvering it back a foot in case the policeman says she has parked unsafely too. She looks in her rear-view mirror and sees the police car pull up behind her, the blue light still flashing. An officer climbs out. The other, whom she cannot see clearly because of the glare on the windscreen, remains in the passenger seat.

Sam lowers her window as the woman approaches. She is fifty-something, stocky, her walk slow and deliberate, and her expression that of someone who has seen seventeen different kinds of bullshit already this morning and is so not ready for yours.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam calls, before she can speak. “It was entirely my fault.”

“You just ran a red light. You nearly caused quite a pile-up back there.”

“I know. I’m really sorry.”

The officer peers in at Andrea. She turns back to Sam, scanning the interior of the van with a practiced eye, then leaning back on her heel to regard the giant sunflower on the side panel. She squints. “This your vehicle, is it, madam?”

“Yes,” says Sam. “Well, mine and my husband’s.”

“And it’s insured? Roadworthy?”

“It was MOTed last week.” Phil hadn’t told her. She had only found out because he had left the certificate on the side in the kitchen.

“Brakes work, do they?”

“Yes.”

“And your eyesight is good?”

“It’s—it’s fine.”

“Then would you like to explain to me why you just ran straight through a red light?”

“No excuse,” says Sam shaking her head. “But my friend here just got the all-clear from her cancer treatment and I—I hadn’t slept last night for worrying about the appointment and I guess I was just so happy and maybe tired, I don’t know, that . . . I lost focus for a moment.”

The woman stares at Andrea, taking in the wrapped head, the pale skin.

“It’s probably my fault too,” says Andrea. “I was talking too much. I always talk too much.”

“You know what?” says Sam. “Just give me the ticket. It’s fair enough. I should have been paying better attention. Let’s just get this over and done with.”

The officer frowns at her. “You’re asking me to give you a ticket?”

Sam doesn’t know what has come over her. She lifts her palms and gazes directly at the officer. “Yes.”

Then, when nobody says anything, she says: “You know what? I just lost my job because my boss thinks I’m a waste of space. My daughter isn’t speaking to me. My husband is leaving me because he thinks I have a lover. Most days I wish I bloody did. And I’m probably menopausal. If I’m not menopausal I’m in real trouble because I cry pretty much every day. I’ve missed two periods and most mornings I wake up with what feels like a juggernaut pressed on my chest. But right now I can deal with all of it because my best friend here has got through cancer. Everything else is just my own stupid crap. So just give me the ticket. Let’s get this over with.”

The officer looks between the two of them. She peers down at her feet for a moment, thinking, then up again. “Menopausal, huh?”

“I’m still a safe driver,” Sam says hurriedly. “I mean, I still drive safely most of the time. You can check my record. I just . . . it’s just been a really weird couple of days.”

The officer keeps gazing at her steadily.

“Sorry,” says Sam again.