The Road Trip(67)

‘I’ve got it,’ Dylan says, leaning forward between the seats. His hand settles over mine and I goosebump. The hairs stand up on my neck as he slides my phone from my back pocket.

‘Hello?’

I wait, tensed.

‘Deb’s fine,’ Dylan says to me, and I flop back in my seat.

‘Thank God,’ I mutter.

Dylan rings off. ‘Unbelievably, Rodney found her,’ he says.

‘Where was she?’

‘Guess,’ Dylan says.

‘Umm . . . at the Budget Travel already?’

‘No.’

‘Walking up the motorway?’

‘Nope.’

‘Hitchhiking?’

‘Incorrect again. You’re underestimating your sister’s knack for seeking out the absurd.’

‘I give up,’ I say. ‘Where was she?’

‘She was having a pint with Kevin the lorry driver.’



Kevin had written his number on the back of her hand, apparently. In the lobby of the Budget Travel, Deb tells us cheerfully that it was a damn good job she hadn’t sweated it off. The first person she passed on her trails across Lancashire lent her their phone, and she called him right away to rescue her. The only hold-up was that he was in Lancaster and there was a lot of stationary traffic around the area. Obviously.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask, giving her arm a quick squeeze. ‘I’ve been beside myself.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says.

‘How did Kevin get as far as Lancaster?’ is my second question. ‘We left the picnic at the same time as him! And we only got to bloody Preston!’

Deb shrugs placidly. ‘Kevin is a talented man.’

‘And where’s Kevin now?’ I ask, looking between her and Rodney.

They both look terrible. Deb has her other breast pump – the non-battery-powered one – plugged into the wall and chugging away at her chest, but there are milk stains on the front of her dress, plus a long streak of what I hope is mud down the front of her shin. The sole of one of her shoes has come off. Meanwhile Rodney has actual pondweed tangled in his belt. His jeans are sodden. They’re starting to dry from the top down, creating a sort of tie-dye effect. He totally reeks. God knows what everyone thought when he stumbled into the pub where Kevin and Deb were having their pint.

‘Back on his way to Glasgow, with his chairs,’ Deb says. ‘He did offer to take me to the wedding, but I thought I should wait for all of you, really,’ she says graciously.

‘Oh, thanks.’ I check the time on my phone and swear. This is just my standard reaction to checking the time now. ‘It’s eight. How is it already eight? Where is the time going?’

‘Well, you went to A&E,’ Rodney begins, ‘and it took Kevin a little while to . . .’ He trails off under my glare. ‘A rhetorical one?’ he says.

‘Yes, Rodney, a rhetorical one. We need to get back on the move as soon as Deb’s done.’

‘But I’m starving,’ Marcus whines. He’s lying on his back on the carpet, arms and legs outstretched like a star. Gone is the subdued man in the car, the strange new Marcus who cared when my wrist hurt. He’s disappeared as suddenly as he came.

‘We haven’t eaten in a really long time,’ Deb points out. ‘Shouldn’t we get some food, at least? There’s a Harvester right next door to this place.’

‘A what?’ Marcus and Dylan chorus.

I laugh. ‘A Harvester. Come on. You’ll love it.’

Marcus sits up. ‘If it’s food,’ he says, ‘I’m delighted with it.’

This mentality lasts until we’re settled in a booth at the Harvester’s and he’s looking at the menu.

‘What the fuck?’ he says.

I hide my grin behind my menu. ‘What?’

‘What is this place? Pizza and cooked breakfasts?’ He looks genuinely nonplussed. ‘Is it, like, fusion?’

Deb snorts with laughter. ‘It’s food,’ she says.

‘And what, you go and get meat from there?’ he says, pointing in the direction of the roast laid out in trays in the centre of the restaurant. ‘This is monstrous. This is wonderful. Can I have as many Yorkshire puddings as I like?’

Forty minutes later and Marcus sits back with a groan, rubbing his stomach.

‘That should keep him quiet for a while, at least,’ Dylan mutters to me. ‘How’s the traffic looking, Rodney?’

I’m not sure at what point Rodney became chief of travel news, but it’s stuck. He loves having a job to do. He’s already whipping his phone out to check Google Maps.

‘Ooh,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘Umm . . .’

‘Not good?’ I say.

‘The M6 north is closed.’

‘That sounds . . . bad . . .’

‘It’s not great,’ Rodney says apologetically. ‘Google’s redirecting us through the North Pennines.’

‘What’s it saying time-wise?’ I say. It’s nearly nine now, and the light is fading through the windows of the Harvester.

‘Six hours.’

I lay my head down on the table. ‘Gnnh.’

‘There’s no point getting there at three in the morning, Ads,’ Deb says. ‘Let’s just see if there’s rooms at the Budget Travel and set off early tomorrow. The roads will have cleared up and we’ll actually have some sleep before the wedding.’