by Hayley Doyle
‘No. No. Sorry.’
‘Twenty-four hours, James.’
‘Twenty-four hours.’
So, I’m going to make Zara pay for everything. And in return, I’ll take her all the bloody way to London.
21
Zara
Jim is talking to me.
Not grumbles or mumbles or a simple yes or no. Actual sentences. What’s more, he isn’t giving off that Jim thing where when forced to speak more than two words, it’s as though speaking is like passing gallstones. He is coherent. Melodic, even.
‘I have an offer for you,’ he says. ‘One that you can’t refuse.’
My laddered tights itch the back of my thighs and I wriggle on the suitcase I’m sitting on. Jim is dressed again, having done some bizarre striptease for a hideous bachelorette party across the road. Disturbingly, he’d looked pretty hot in doing so. I spotted him half-naked, chatting on the phone, and nothing about his behaviour made an ounce of sense. Now, he’s back in my space. By choice.
‘I want you to hear me out,’ he says.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Good. Because you should.’
Who does he think he is, speaking to me this way? Hardly a word from him all day as I sat just inches away from him in his squeaky posh car, oh, except to tell me how much I needed to eat a paper bag full of greasy, fatty fries.
Today, all I needed was a friend. Okay, so it’s not ideal that it’s the guy I catapulted into, especially since I can’t help feeling pretty awful about it. But Jim has been my companion for the majority of today. Being in such close proximity to another human for – what? – four hours, it’s only polite to engage in conversation. To be kind. To be nice. Unless you’re a total psychopath. Or sociopath. Jim shows signs of both. Every now and then, I get this pocket-sized blast of him being this nice guy, a kind of down-to-earth philosopher, and then he’ll turn, like the aftermath of a bad storm, screaming eerie silence. And now. Oh, now. Now, Jim wants to talk.
‘I’m gonna to make this very simple for you, girl. There’s no negotiation. I want you to pay for damages caused to me car. It’s only fair. You crashed into me. And I want you to pay for me car to be released from the pound—’
‘How much is that going to cost?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Two hundred pounds?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why can’t you pay that? I don’t care if you get your car back or not.’
‘It’s your fault the police took it away.’
‘How?’
‘Because it was parked illegally.’
‘I didn’t park it.’
‘No. But I only parked there so you could get on a bloody train.’
‘Surely someone like you can afford two—’
‘I asked you to listen, Zara. Will you let me finish?’
I fold my arms but almost lose my balance on the suitcase, so I steady myself with my hands. I can tell I’ve annoyed Jim by cutting in on him, but he’s being so unbelievable with his demands.
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘So, you’ll pay for the damages. And to get me car back. And … five hundred quid.’
‘WHAT?’
‘You heard.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘Not at all. I’m gonna take you to London. Now. Soon.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve got another car. We’ll go and get it, then I’ll get you to the airport.’
‘But what about the car in the pound?’
‘That’ll take too long, we can’t risk the time, especially with Friday traffic.’
‘So, why five hundred pounds on top?’
‘If – and I use the word if hypothetically here ’cause we both know there isn’t a taxi in Liverpool who’ll take you all the way to London – but, if you were to get a taxi, it’d cost you more than two hundred quid. Easy. Then, you’d have to pay for the driver to get back. So, five hundred. You pay me. I get you there. Deal?’
The rain begins to calm, to spit.
Math was never my strong point, but I try to work out the figures in my head. If I stay overnight in Liverpool tonight, even in that cheap hostel again, with food and a few much-needed drinks, that will be about a hundred pounds. Then, I’ll have to get to London tomorrow, somehow, and book another flight at full price. The costs are soaring as each raindrop falls from the sky. No matter what way I look at it, Jim’s right. He’s making me an offer I can’t refuse. Unless I decide to just bum around in Liverpool for the next chapter of my life, something I believe that the universe is advising me not to do.
‘Time’s ticking, love.’
How dare Jim be right.
And as for the damages: well, yes. I am liable. A niggling worry has been eating away at me that if I didn’t somehow rectify this, then karma would come back to haunt me. My savings were to spend on my new life with Nick. Now that’s gone, they’re simply for a rainy day. And God, that just so happens to be today, doesn’t it?
‘You’ll get me to the airport?’ I ask. ‘All the way? And on time?’
‘I will.’
‘And then this is over?’
‘Yeah.’
I hold out my hand. All thoughts of building a little nest will have to disappear, for now, until the universe sends me the next positive sign.
‘Deal,’ I say.
‘Deal,’ Jim agrees.
He keeps my hand within his grip and waves his free arm at a black cab, which surprisingly stops, despite us not waiting in line. I guess I’m going to see where Jim lives, which will be interesting. I love seeing people’s homes, although it always makes me daydream about what my home will look like when I’m in a place where I truly belong.
Inside the cab, we sit together on the backseat and grasp the suitcases between our knees. Ridiculous as it is, I suddenly miss the mop. It seems so far away now, and so long ago since I held it. Oh God, my mission has failed in all its forms, hasn’t it? I’m only realising that now, somehow. Jim gives his address to the driver, and the driver whistles before repeating a word Jim said; ‘Caldy’. That must be the name of the town we’re going to.
‘Is that the house next to the golf course?’ the driver asks.
‘Yep. Sure is,’ Jim says.
Holding back tears, I try to feel good about the progress we’re finally making. But, as the taxi crawls through the rain-sodden streets, up a hill lined with small pubs and even more kebab takeaway places, I spot the hostel where I stayed last night. Through a window dancing with a million raving raindrops, I see large posters for club nights plastered against cafe walls and bus stop shelters promising the biggest party on the planet. I wonder where the Tate Liverpool is, not that I’ll be paying a visit anymore. The plan to finish my degree here is now in the past. Taking a turning into a more sophisticated area of town, I see an intimate Indian street food restaurant beside a bustling wine bar with wicker lanterns and fairy lights, vibrant and pretty, even on a miserable Friday afternoon. Oh, these are the kinds of places I would’ve loved to socialise in, talking the night away over lots of wine and nibbles. I think about the friends I was looking forward to finding, the ones I’ll never meet.
‘I missed out a small part of the deal,’ Jim says, jolting me back to reality.
‘What?’
‘You’re also paying for this cab fare.’
Un-fucking-believable.
We go through that tunnel again.
The cab driver isn’t much of a talker, whistling along to the songs on the radio, and Jim is having forty winks. Then the radio crackles with interference and the driver switches it off, discontinues his whistles. Wow. It’s so lonely in the back here now, a vacuum of car engines and tyre tracks, two vacant people in my confined space.
What am I doing? Where on earth am I? My hands cover my eyes and silent tears fall, trickling in between my fingers, soaking my cheeks. I can feel my scar, its rough edges impossible to ignore.
I’m not supposed to
be here. I’m supposed to be with Nick.
From fighting, to fainting, to figuring out how to leave Liverpool, there hasn’t been any time to grieve the loss of my love, or what I believed was love, until now. The mop is in some strange old woman’s house. And my heart is aching.
God, it hurts. It really hurts.
It should be Nick inside this cab with me, not Jim. We should be on our way into central Liverpool, to some place called the Pier Head where he wanted to take me on a ferry across the Mersey. Apparently, that shows the city in its finest glory. Then, we were going to go to a Lebanese restaurant on Bold Street – wherever that is. Nick wanted to take me there for our first date, hoping I’d find the food authentic. Except he’d had no intention of taking me on a ferry and eating shawarma with me, had he? He’s a total liar. Were the signs always there, just like Mary had suggested?
‘You alright, love?’ the driver asks, looking at me through his rear-view mirror.
I dab my cheeks and nod, not wanting to indulge, as the tunnel comes to an abrupt, but most welcome end. I close my eyes, too, thinking it best to avoid seeing the scene of my crime, and possibly my abandoned little Peugeot. It must still be there. I’m tired, so, so, tired …
Next thing I know, the driver shouts ‘wakey, wakey’, and demands to know how to get through the gate.
The gate?
I bat my lashes, stretch. We’re stopped before a set of electronic double gates with a fancy sign on the front saying, ‘White Oaks’. Through the intricate metal frame, I can see the house in the distance, standing tall, wide and ever so grand behind a huge sweeping driveway, complete with a round, manicured lawn, a fountain in the centre of it.
Jim leans forward to speak to the driver.
‘Gimme a sec, mate,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the gates open.’
He gets out and walks to the intercom. The gates both scroll aside, making an opening for the cab to drive through. The driver whistles again, but this time it isn’t to any tune on the radio. He’s as impressed as I am. Although the fountain is beyond tacky. White cherub statues are so Eighties.
‘That’s twenty-five quid, love,’ the driver says.
Oh yeah. This is on me.
The house is more of a mansion. Many of my friends in Dubai live in villas of a similar size, but they’re rented, or company owned, plus space is just cheaper out there. My mom’s house in the states isn’t much smaller than Jim’s, but that’s also a standard East Coast family home. Not a Victorian, brick-built double-fronted delight that oozes money. Only those with excessive cash have two lifesize gold-plated lion figurines on each side of the front door. I linger on the door step, my bags by my side.
‘Wait here,’ Jim tells me.
I’m a little taken aback. It’s freezing and this is Jim’s house, so I’m essentially a guest.
Still, I’m not here to be invited in for coffee. We’re rushing against the clock, on a tight deadline, and all Jim has to do is grab some keys and get a car out of the garage. Oh, the garage. What an understatement. Five cars are sitting on the driveway, none that would look out of place cruising up and down the beach road in Dubai. Behind the two convertibles is a garage to rival an aircraft hangar.
Jim doesn’t fumble for a key or ring the bell. The front door swings open.
‘Jim-Jim!’ A lady says with a musical accent – possibly Portuguese – wearing sweat pants, t-shirt and flip-flops. She throws herself at Jim, giving him a hearty hug. I kind of want one, too.
‘Hey Gloria,’ Jim says, kissing the lady on the cheek.
‘Jim?’ I ask, before he leaves me outside in the cold. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’
Jim looks at Gloria, who covers her mouth and tries to hide behind an unsubtle giggle.
‘Please?’ I ask, rage beginning to simmer.
‘Is that okay, Gloria?’ Jim asks.
What an odd question. Although what Jim’s doing now is even more odd. He’s placed his hand on my lower back. I’m convinced he has no idea he’s doing it. Yet, there it is, his hand lingering, touching me.
‘Will you show her the loo by the study while I go and grab the keys I need?’ he says, darting off.
Gloria claps her hands in front of my face. ‘Come in, darling.’
‘Excuse me, just one minute.’
I open one of my suitcases. I want to get out of my damp clothes, the ladder in my tights spreading longer, wider. Taking out a pair of black skinny jeans and a pink sweater printed with zebras, I also grab some clean pants, socks and a bra, and my toiletries bag.
‘You got a lot of stuff, darling.’
‘Well, it’s all I’ve got,’ I say, and follow Gloria indoors.
The interior isn’t surprising. In fact, it’s exactly how I predicted it would look from the second I saw the cherub fountain. Everything from unnecessary sculptures to heavy mahogany furniture shiny enough to act as a mirror, a black and white tiled marble floor dancing through the wide hallway and a double staircase leading to a mezzanine with lots of fresh, colourful carnations in large vases. There’s no style to this place whatsoever. Just lots of big, clean things. If I were Jim, I’d spend less money on flashy cars and pay an interior designer to do something special with this place.
‘Through here, darling.’
Gloria leads me through a study, fitted with thick beige carpet and a giant desk, plenty of filing cabinets and shelves filled with photographs, golf trophies and model cars. I roll my eyes – then hope Gloria didn’t notice – and scurry into the bathroom and lock the door. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I gasp, shocked at the state of my face. Jim had told me I looked ‘great’ at the train station. I let the cold water run and splash my face, removing the traces of mascara from beneath my eyes and injecting some life into my cheeks. I change quickly, not wanting to be the reason I miss my own flight.
I do dawdle back through the study, keen to catch a glimpse of the photographs on the shelf. Jim’s chatting away to Gloria outside, telling her how he’s taking a ‘mate’ to the airport as a favour. Gloria asks if he wants dinner when he returns. He declines, but not without praising her cooking, which does smell delicious, zesty spices filtering from the kitchen. The photos are mostly from a wedding on what looks like a beach in Bali, the couple a bit older, as if they’re perhaps getting married a second time around.
And there’s Jim.
A teenage Jim with that strange blend of puppy fat and gauntness around the face, but so clearly Jim. His messy curls have stuck around for twenty odd years and he’s doing that one-sided smile, unsure about committing to being happy or not. He’s pictured with three other boys of a similar age, maybe brothers, but more likely to be cousins or friends. One, with jet black hair, is holding a guitar up in the air. They aren’t in Bali. That photo looks like it was taken in a British pub.
‘Zara,’ Jim’s voice shouts. ‘Ready?’
I roll my damp clothes into a tight ball under my arm.
‘Ready.’
Jim hugs Gloria again, and she points to her cheek indicating her desire for a kiss.
‘Tell your mama I say hi,’ she says.
‘Will do, Gloria. Thanks.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s been better, but she’s also been worse.’
Gloria brings her hands to her heart and gives Jim a slow, sympathetic nod and all I can do is wonder. What is wrong with Jim’s mom?
‘Hop aboard,’ Jim says.
‘Really?’ I ask.
He’s lugging my suitcases into the back of a vehicle that isn’t one of the sports cars or SUVs. Instead, the back doors to a minibus fly open, the back seats pushed down.
‘We’re going to London in that?’ I ask.
‘Not good enough for you, your highness?’
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘Come on, girl, I can’t go more than seventy in this thing so we better get a move on.’
I wish I could be subtler, but like magnets, my eyes are drawn to the array o
f cars standing motionless to my right. I don’t even care for fancy motors, so why am I giving off the air that I do?
‘You don’t even have to sit by me,’ Jim says, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Take your pick, get some kip, spread your legs … I mean put your legs up. Sorry, love.’
‘Are you blushing, Jim?’
‘Get in the bus.’
I laugh and open the passenger door, settling beside him up front.
‘This is the only thing I’m insured on,’ Jim tells me.
‘Oh, of course. I don’t care.’
‘You do.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You wanted a lift in the Audi TT.’
‘I don’t even know what that is.’
‘Sure you don’t, princess.’
‘You know what, don’t start the engine yet. I think I will sit in the back.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Ha,’ I huff. And I clamber between the passenger and driver’s seat, taking the double seat on the second row. ‘I’ll get some sleep. Wake me up when we get there.’
But strangely I don’t feel tired. Hugging my knees to my chest, I stretch my pink sweater over them, the zebra print stretching. My mom always told me off for doing this, for ruining my clothes.
‘I like your unicorns,’ Jim says, looking at me through the rear-view mirror.
‘They’re zebras.’ I’m shocked he’s noticed I changed.
Jim fiddles around with a few leads, takes out his phone and plugs it in, keeping it on charge. Sensible. At least one of us now has a means of communication. It was kind of Jim to offer to get my phone back earlier and I didn’t react graciously, I know. But I’m glad he didn’t get it; there’s no way I could have allowed him to venture over there again. A lost phone is nothing compared with what I’ve actually lost today, and besides, who do I need to contact? Katie, so she can gloat and tell me she told me so? Trawling through social media will depress me: far too many people relishing in gin o’clock and Nick’s favourite word; Fri-yay. And I bet Abi has unlocked my phone by now, anyway, her supportive girlfriends all plying her with white wine, telling her again and again what an ugly whore Zara Khoury is. Oh, how the photos of her husband’s cock will shock them all.