Million Love Songs(17)

Giving him a quick wave from my balcony window – which sounds considerably more grand than it is – I grab my bag and a bottle of water, then run downstairs. To be honest, the running is more akin to a painful tiptoe. But in my head, it’s running. Every movement of my skull makes it throb. I hope I’ve got some paracetamol lurking in the bottom of my bag.

I slide into the car next to Joe and am not so hungover that I fail to notice, once again, that he’s a very handsome man. I also clock that there’s a whole heap of scuba-diving gear on the back seat.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Rough night?’ he asks.

So I clearly look as bad as I feel. It’s a good job that I’m not trying to impress this man. ‘Vodka was taken.’

‘Ah. I remember late nights and getting hammered,’ he says fondly. ‘Just about.’

‘I was in London with a couple of friends watching Take That at the Maida Vale studios yesterday.’

‘Big fan?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod and instantly regret it. ‘Well, I am now.’ It was great fun – apart from the queuing part – and I can see why Charlie and her friends are so dedicated. Up close and personal they’ve got great energy and charisma. Would that someone might say that about me.

‘I’ll drive slowly,’ Joe says. ‘Not too many fast bends. It’s mainly motorway. We’ve got plenty of time to get up there.’

‘I don’t even know where we’re going,’ I admit. Not only did I not read the small print, I didn’t take much notice of the big print either.

‘Quarry Hill Cove,’ he tells me. ‘A nice dive centre in the Midlands. It’s a flooded gravel pit and there’s a sunken boat in the water and the cockpit of a plane.’

I raise an eyebrow at that. ‘Why?’

‘It makes the dive more interesting,’ he explains. ‘There are things to look at and explore. Otherwise, it’s just an exercise in getting wet.’

If you’re like me, you’d have imagined that, once qualified, I’d be diving in aquamarine seas with dolphins and pretty angelfish and shit. Metaphorical shit, not actual shit, obvs. Destinations like the Maldives, the Seychelles and the Caribbean were my dreamed-of go-to places. A gravel pit in this country wasn’t necessarily that high on my list.

Joe laughs, clearly able to read my mind. ‘It’s a great place,’ he insists. ‘Wait and see.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘If nothing else, it’ll give you a good chance to meet some of the other members of the club. They’re nice people. We always have a laugh.’

‘I’m regretting the vodka frenzy now,’ I admit. ‘I wish I was at my sparkling best.’ I start to rummage in my handbag. ‘Painkillers,’ I mutter. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some buried in here.’

‘There’s a packet in the glove box,’ he says. ‘I’m a dad. I can always supply aspirin, tissues and plasters. Though now the kids are getting older, it’s usually only money that they need. Unfortunately, that’s in shorter supply.’

‘Where are they today?’

‘I’ve dropped them off at Gina’s yesterday. She’s got them for the whole weekend. She remembered this time, which is never a given.’ He gives an unhappy snort. ‘Sometimes they come on the dive days with me. Very reluctantly, it must be said. They get bored quickly and I can’t concentrate properly while I’ve got one eye on them. Daisy’s at the age where she just wants to be at the shops with her mates and trying to drag Tom away from his computer is a life’s work.’

‘They sound like most children.’ As if I know.

‘They’re good kids,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘Though it is nice to have a day to myself for a change.’

I find the painkillers in the glove box, knock back a couple and wonder how long they’ll take to kick in. Not long, I hope.

We turn on to the M1, but swinging left and heading north today rather than right and into London.

‘Close your eyes if you want to,’ Joe says. ‘Have a nap. We can listen to some music.’ He grins at me. ‘I haven’t got any Take That.’

‘I’ve got pretty eclectic taste.’

‘Ed Sheeran?’ he suggests. ‘My kids hate it. They call it Old Fart music. I have to listen to One Direction when Daisy’s in the car and some hideous, headache-inducing rapper grime stuff when Tom has control of the iPod.’

‘Ed Sheeran’s fine.’ He flicks on the music and ‘Shape of You’ fills the car. He turns it down to a civilised level.

I text Charlie to thank her for a great day. In return she sends two kisses and a selfie of us both with Nice Paul in which two of us look all pink and drinky. Then I let my head rest back and that’s all I can tell you.





Chapter Sixteen





I jerk awake as we come to a halt in the car park.

‘We’re here, sleepyhead,’ Joe says.

I try to blink myself to full consciousness.

‘Feel better?’

I’m struggling to marshall my thoughts into cohesive speech, but eventually croak out, ‘I think I will do when I’ve had a cuppa. Or two.’ Suddenly, my stomach springs into life and rumbles noisily. ‘And maybe a bacon sarnie.’