The Road Trip(5)

Marcus swallows, side-glancing me, and I can tell he already wishes he’d been better behaved, but I’m too irritated to acknowledge it. After a moment he forces a laugh.

‘We want road-trip music!’ he says. ‘Put on some Springsteen, will you?’

For a long moment Addie says nothing.

‘Deb,’ she says eventually, ‘take the next services, please.’

‘Do you need a wee?’ Deb asks.

‘No,’ Addie says. ‘We need to drop Marcus off. So he can hitchhike. As requested.’

She hits play on the country song again.





Addie It turns out there are no services for ages. When we eventually reach a petrol station, I really do need a wee. And some air. This is suddenly feeling like the smallest car in the whole bloody world.

‘Are we actually dropping Marcus off here?’ asks a worried voice from behind me.

I’m power-walking across the petrol station forecourt to the building. The aim is to move fast enough that Dylan can’t catch me up for a chat. So far I have managed to avoid direct eye contact with him since we all got in the Mini. I reckon this is a sustainable plan for the next four-hundred-odd miles.

Rodney can move very fast for such an ungainly man. I glance over my shoulder at him.

‘Probably not, no,’ I say. ‘Marcus is prone to dramatics. Best to nip them in the bud or he’ll act out all day.’

‘How do you know him?’

Rodney dashes forward to hold the door open for me as we reach the services. I blink. He’s so gawky. There’s something adolescent about him, but he’s got to be at least thirty.

‘Dylan and I used to date.’

‘Oh. Oh. Oh my God, how incredibly awkward!’ Rodney says, pressing both hands to his mouth.

I laugh, surprising myself. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

I grab a handful of chocolate bars from the end of the aisle. Me and Deb packed enough road-trip snacks for two, but Dylan eats like a horse. We’ll run out of food by Fareham if he sniffs out the treats.

‘Sorry you’ve got stuck in the middle of things a bit,’ I tell Rodney. ‘It’ll be fine, though. Dylan and I can be civil for a few hours, don’t worry.’

‘Oh, so it all ended, you know, amicably?’ Rodney asks, holding out a basket for me. I drop in the chocolate bars, plus five packets of biscuits and a bunch of grab bags full of sweets.

‘Uh, amicably?’

The night that Dylan left me, I’d screamed at him. Not in the way people usually mean it – like, yelling – but actually screaming: mouth open wide, the sound clawing at my throat. I’d pounded his chest with my fists, sobbed until my whole body was wracked with it. I didn’t eat for three days afterwards.

‘Ish,’ I say. ‘Amicable-ish.’



When we walk back to the car, Dylan’s leaning against the side, arms folded, staring off to the left. The sun is rising behind him. He looks like he belongs on a poster for something. An indie band or an expensive cologne. He’s still scruffy and dreamy-eyed, but he’s more grown-up now – his edges seem cleaner cut.

I keep my eyes on him a little too long, and he catches my gaze for just an instant before I look back down at my feet.

‘Addie,’ he says, as we approach.

He steps forward to help me with the bags. I twist aside, moving past him to the boot of the car.

‘Addie, please,’ he says, more quietly now. ‘We should talk. We’re going to be stuck in a car together for the best part of a day. Don’t you want to – you know – just . . . make it less . . . awkward?’

I slam the boot closed. I’ve just about fitted the extra snacks in, but there’s not much visibility out the back window now. Dylan and Marcus have packed like Mariah Carey, by the looks of things, and then there’s all Deb’s breastfeeding paraphernalia: two pumps, the cooling bag, bottles . . .

‘I’m going to go for a wander, stretch out the legs,’ says Rodney. ‘See you both in five minutes?’

I shouldn’t have said amicable-ish. He wouldn’t have left me alone with Dylan if I’d told him he ruined my life.

‘Addie . . . can you not even look at me?’

I’m honestly not sure I can. Trying to look at Dylan hurts. It feels like we’re two magnets with the same force skidding away from one another. Instead I look out towards the green where a few people are exercising their dogs. A little poodle going around in circles, a sausage dog in a ridiculous pink harness. The sun is inching up behind them, drawing long shadows on the grass. I spot Marcus, crouched low to say hello to an Alsatian. I hope it’s an unfriendly one. I don’t want Marcus to get bitten or anything, but maybe he could get growled at a bit.

‘Where’s Deb?’ I ask.

‘She got a call from your mum about Riley.’

I glance at him. ‘She told you about Riley?’

His gaze is soft. ‘Just now. I thought you’d . . . I thought you would have told me, you know. Things like Deb having a baby.’

‘We said no contact.’

‘You said. Not we.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

I fiddle with my bracelets. My nails are newly painted for the wedding, but they’re so short they look a bit ridiculous. Little stubs of red.