The Road Trip(17)

Deb already has the car bonnet open and is rummaging around in there. Rodney sidles over to the Good Samaritan.

‘So,’ he says to him, in the bright tone of someone who does not have a natural gift for small talk. ‘What do you do?’

I close my eyes. This is not how this weekend was meant to go. Why aren’t I speeding down the motorway singing Dolly Parton at the top of my voice, with Deb eating Minstrels in the passenger seat? That was the plan. And that sounds so good right now.

Dylan calls the number out to me as he walks back to the car. His T-shirt billows in the breeze and his hands are tucked in his jean pockets. He looks too good – it hurts. I turn away, staring out at the traffic as I ring our breakdown cover.

This is dangerous. Not the car troubles, I mean, but Dylan. For a split second there, as I watched him strolling across the tarmac with his hair blowing in the wind, I didn’t mind missing out on Dolly Parton and Minstrels with my sister. I wanted to be here. With him.



Two hours. Two hours.

‘My breakdown cover guarantees roadside attendance within thirty minutes,’ Marcus says as we spread a blanket out on the verge.

God, I hate him. And he still unsettles me. If anyone else had said what he said before the car broke down – that shit about how I broke Dylan – I would have left them on the side of the road. But with Marcus, even now, I have to fight not to slip into old Addie. Little Addie, forgettable Addie, Addie who’s always second place. He brings out the worst in me in pretty much every way.

‘Yes, well,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I bet my breakdown cover is a lot more affordable than yours.’

‘That’ll be your mistake,’ he says. ‘You get what you pay for.’

He’s still not quite meeting my gaze, I notice. Dylan, Rodney and Deb have all set off in different directions for a wee, and right now, stuck setting up the picnic with Marcus, I wish I had a weaker bladder.

I just have to rise above. Be an adult.

‘Me and Dylan can put the past behind us for one day, Marcus. Maybe you should try and do the same?’

He snorts. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’ll just . . .’ the Good Samaritan says from behind me. ‘I’ll just be getting on, then, eh?’

‘Oh, God, sorry.’ I blush, swivelling to look at him. ‘Thanks so much for your help.’

I just don’t have the headspace to be polite to guests right now. Rodney’s bad enough. He gives off this vibe of total ineptitude. As if he needs constant looking after, like a toddler, or my dad at a party.

‘I didn’t catch your name, sorry?’ I say.

‘Kevin,’ the Good Samaritan says. The rush of traffic creates a constant wind. We’re all raising our voices a bit, like we’re in a noisy pub. ‘I drive lorries.’

‘Kevin who drives lorries,’ Marcus says, ‘you look like a man with stories to share – why don’t you sit yourself down with us and tell us some tales?’

I double take. Somehow while I’ve been facing the other way Marcus has found my bag of top-up snacks. He’s already snapped off half the fruit-and-nut bar, which he is now gnawing. I narrow my eyes and then look back at Kevin.

He isn’t smiling, not technically, but he’s kind of . . . smiling without smiling. Like how dogs do. Now that I’m calming and the sun’s not behind him, I take a moment to look at him properly. He’s short and stocky and weathered. I don’t reckon Kevin spends much time on self-care. His body is dotted with tattoos: a Union Jack on the front of his leg, just above the knee; a date, 05.09.16, at the side of his neck; a small and surprisingly cute dog on his forearm, labelled Cookie, RIP.

Kevin’s eyes drift to Deb as she walks back towards us. ‘Why not? This job’s only a favour for a friend. I’m not really on duty,’ he says.

And so Kevin who drives lorries comes and joins us on the picnic blanket.

It’s a fairly tight fit. We’re in a circle around a mound of snacks. The sun is high enough to burn me, and I slather on sun cream while Deb lifts the bottom of her T-shirt to tan her stomach.

‘We’re almost two hours behind schedule,’ Deb says, squinting as she checks her phone screen. ‘We’ll never make it in time to help set up for the barbecue now. We’re still in . . . where are we?’

‘Just past Banbury,’ Kevin supplies, swigging from the large bottle of lemonade he and Deb have been passing back and forth.

‘Bloody hell,’ Deb says, lying back on the blanket again. ‘We’ve barely got anywhere! Shouldn’t someone call Cherry to give her a heads-up?’

Dylan and I exchange glances. Cherry is not going to be happy if we’re late for the start of the wedding celebrations.

‘Let’s wait a bit,’ I say. ‘The breakdown recovery guys could be early. They said two hours at the worst. Plus we budgeted loads of time for stops, Deb.’

‘What’s your story then, all of you?’ Kevin asks, eyes on Deb. ‘Seems like a lot of people to fit in a Mini.’

Dylan coughs. A lorry shoots past in the left lane and Deb’s hair flies up in response.

‘Should I not ask?’ Kevin says.

Marcus points at me. ‘Addie broke Dylan’s heart’ – he turns to point to Dylan – ‘about a year and a half ago and then totalled his car this morning. She feels guilty for ruining his life so she’s giving us a lift because we’re all going to the wedding of Cherry, the only person in the world who has ever liked both Dylan and Addie.’