The Road Trip(6)

‘I’m really happy for Deb, anyway,’ Dylan says, when I don’t respond.

‘And a little surprised?’

He smiles, and I start smiling too, before I catch myself.

‘Aren’t you going to ask who the father is?’ I say.

‘I assume she didn’t require one,’ Dylan says. ‘Like Gaea, you know, when she gave birth to Uranus?’

The smile grows despite my best efforts. ‘You know I don’t,’ I say dryly.

‘Right,’ he says hastily. He brushes his hair back, like it’s still long enough to fall in his eyes – an old tic. ‘Greek mythology, very pompous, arsey reference, forgive me. I just meant Deb’s never needed a man, has she? Not that anyone needs a man, but . . . ah, Christ.’

‘Let’s get this show on the road!’ comes a voice from behind us. Marcus barges past and opens the door to the back seats. ‘You might want to start up the engine. Rodney’s coming at quite a pace.’

I turn just as Deb appears, sliding her phone into her hoody pocket. She climbs in after Marcus as I move to the driving seat. I panic: does that mean Dylan is going to sit up front with me?

‘What’s Rodney doing?’ Deb says.

I look over my shoulder, back towards the green. Rodney is running towards us in a great flail of long arms and legs, hair flying. Behind him is the Alsatian, dragging its owner by the lead.

‘Oh, brilliant,’ I mutter, clambering into the car and fumbling to turn the key in the ignition.

Marcus whoops as Rodney scrambles into the back, breathing hard.

‘Sorry!’ he calls. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’

Deb makes a squished sort of oof sound. ‘Watch those hands, please,’ she says. ‘That one strayed very close to my vagina.’

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ says a mortified, breathless Rodney.

Dylan climbs into the front seat. He’s trying to catch my gaze again.

‘No harm done,’ Deb says. ‘I pushed a baby out of that thing, it’s sturdy.’

‘Oh, no,’ Rodney says. ‘Oh, I didn’t – I’m so sorry.’

‘I forgot how much I like you, Deb,’ Marcus declares.

‘Really?’ Deb says, sounding interested. ‘Because I don’t like you at all.’

I pull out of the service station. I can’t resist – for a second my gaze flickers towards Dylan in the passenger seat.

‘Only three hundred and fifty-eight miles to go,’ he says, quietly enough that only I can hear him.

Marcus is explaining to Deb that he is ‘often misunderstood’, and is ‘actually in the process of reforming, much like a rake from a poorly written nineteenth-century novel’.

‘Three hundred and fifty-eight miles,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it’ll fly by.’





Dylan We speed along the A34. Already the heat is as thick as honey, viscous and sweet. It’s turning into a glorious summer morning: the sky is a deep lapis lazuli blue, and the fields are sun-kissed and yellow-bright on either side of the road. It’s the sort of day that tastes of crushed ice and suntan lotion, ripe strawberries, the sweet head rush of too many gin and tonics.

‘Chocolate’s going to melt at this rate,’ says Addie, turning the air conditioning as cold as it’ll go.

I perk up.

‘Chocolate?’

‘Not for you,’ she says, without looking away from the road.

I sag back in my seat. I thought we’d made a little progress – earlier she turned to me and offered half a smile, like the smallest bite of something delicious, and my heart soared. A real smile from Addie is a true prize: hard to win and utterly heart-stopping when it comes. Disturbingly, this seems to be no less true now than it was two years ago. But she’s gone cold again; it’s been thirty minutes since we left the services and she’s not spoken to me directly until now. I have no right to object, and it shouldn’t make me angry, but it does – it feels like pettiness, and I like to think we’re better than that.

I shift in my seat and she glances across at me, then reaches to turn the radio up. It’s rattling out some pop song, something bouncy and repetitive, a compromise between Addie’s tastes and Marcus’s; at this volume I can’t quite catch the inane chatter in the back seat. Last I heard, Rodney was explaining the rules of real-life quidditch to Deb, with the occasional amused interlude from Marcus.

‘Go on,’ Addie says. ‘Whatever you want to say, just say it.’

‘Am I that transparent?’ I say, as lightly as I can manage.

‘Yes.’ Her voice is frank. ‘You are.’

‘I just . . .’ I swallow. ‘You’re still punishing me.’

The moment I’ve said it, I instantly wish I hadn’t.

‘I’m punishing you?’

The air con is a slow, warm breath frittering away on my face; I’d rather crack the windows, but earlier Marcus complained about what it did to his hair, and I don’t have the patience to go through that conversation again. I shift so the lukewarm stream of air hits my cheek side-on – this way I can watch Addie driving. The tips of her ears have gone red, just visible through the ends of her hair. She’s wearing sunglasses now, and her other glasses are propped up on her head, pushing her sweeping fringe back from her face; I can just see the brushstrokes of her old hair colour at the roots.