by Beth O'Leary
She leans into me then, pressing her body against my chest, and I close my eyes and hold her close as she cries.
We sit in the bathroom for another five minutes, maybe. Addie’s head is tucked beneath my chin, and I can feel Deb behind me, her leg against my spine, and there’s Marcus with his back to us, hunched, broken.
Deb moves first. ‘We should . . .’ She nods towards Marcus. Addie and I shift, getting up slowly; Marcus remains motionless. We leave him there. Deb leads us all out of the bathroom, all shuffling in a line. In the street light that seeps between the crack in the curtains, I catch sight of Rodney. He’s starfished in the middle of the double bed, mouth open, snoring.
Addie
As far as I’m aware, Marcus sleeps in the bathroom – or maybe just stays sitting there on the edge of the bath all night. I don’t know. I’m not sure I care, either.
I don’t know how to feel about it all. I’m not convinced it was love, what he felt for me, whatever Deb thinks, whatever Marcus says. I think Marcus just wanted what his best friend had. Even more so when he didn’t get it.
Deb shoves Rodney over and makes do with a third of the double. I take Marcus’s bed and lie on my side, watching Dylan sleep.
He looks so gorgeous in the darkness. The light from between the curtains catches on the tips of his eyelashes and leaves long shadows across his cheeks. Before I really clock what I’m doing, I push back the covers and cross the floor between us.
He wakes as I climb into the bed beside him, and for a split second – as he looks at me, eyes all sleepy and confused – I hesitate, feeling a pang of that old anxiety. For so long I thought Dylan wanted that sexy summer girl. A woman he could chase, the way he chased Grace. Someone out of reach. It’s hard, even now, to come to him for once, be the first to lay my weapon down.
But then he smiles and pulls me into him, tucking his body behind mine.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I will always be so, so sorry.’
‘Please don’t,’ I whisper back. ‘We can’t be sorry for ever. That’s what forgiveness is for, isn’t it?’
He pulls me in with the arm that’s looped around me, the way it always was when we slept like this. The smell of him makes my throat tighten with emotion.
‘I’ve got you,’ he whispers, as he tucks me in. It’s something he used to say, I can’t even remember why. I know what it means, though: I’m here. I’ve got your back. I’m yours.
I lace the fingers of my good hand through his, pulling his arm into my chest. I used to just kiss his hand when he said it, maybe, or smile. But I’ve had a lot of time to think over the last year and a half and when I remember all the times he said he loved me and I didn’t say it back, it makes me furious with myself. As if I was winning, somehow, by holding that back. As if there was some weakness in showing him I cared.
‘I’ve got you,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve got you too.’
I’m woken by the buzz of my phone. It’s in the pocket of my pyjamas. Dylan is still holding me, fast asleep. I smile. I start to second-guess – what was I doing, climbing into his bed like that – but shut myself up before I can really get going on it.
The message is from Deb.
Are you OK? Xx
I’m good. I’m in bed with Dylan xx
I hear her exclamation over the other side of the room and bury my smile in the pillow.
Well what does that mean?!
Haven’t a clue. But . . .
But smiley face, eh? Did you . . .
We just cuddled.
Disgusting.
Deb hates the word cuddle. I used to agree, until I didn’t have anyone to cuddle me, and then I realised hating the word cuddle was a luxury of actually getting them.
‘Are you messaging Deb?’ Dylan whispers beside me.
There’s a moment. I can feel the decision waiting to be made. Now that he’s awake, should he let me go?
He shifts as if to pull away. I drop my phone and lace my fingers through his again, the way I did before. I can feel him smiling as he settles back into position.
‘I said cuddle. She said disgusting,’ I whisper back.
His laugh is so low it’s almost inaudible, just a rumble against my hair. I feel almost panicked with happiness, and I tighten my grip on his hand so it doesn’t slip away.
‘Are you OK?’ he whispers.
‘I’m good. I’m really good.’
‘I’m glad we talked. That wasn’t exactly how I imagined that conversation would go, but . . .’
‘Less vomiting?’
‘Fewer bystanders.’
I smile.
‘But I’ve wanted to say all of that to you for a really long time,’ he says.
He tightens his arm against me for a moment in a brief hug. Obviously I’ve no idea what any of this means. It’s just cuddling, and when we leave this bed, God knows where we go from here. Dylan and I had all kinds of problems aside from Etienne and Marcus. There’s a hundred reasons why we . . .
‘Stop,’ Dylan whispers. ‘It’s OK. Relax.’
I loosen my shoulders. I hadn’t even noticed I’d stiffened up.
‘Let’s just enjoy the last few minutes in this bed,’ he says. ‘And we can deal with the real world when we get out of it.’
‘Dylan Abbott,’ I whisper. ‘Are you telling me to live in the now?’
Dylan
The morning is a flurry of activity – we plan to set off at seven, but Deb loses track of time Skyping her mum and Riley, and Marcus has locked himself in the bathroom and fallen asleep so none of us can get in to shower until he wakes up, and Addie can’t find her glasses. Behind it all, I can hardly think straight for the joy of catching Addie’s eye across the chaos and watching her smile. A poem begins to grow as we settle in the car and Rodney cheerfully hands around slabs of his flapjack for our impromptu breakfast. The new words come spooling: the quiet blossoming, the rebloom/the hint of a wish of a chance.
Addie, Rodney and I are in the back; Marcus is sitting up front, uncharacteristically quiet, his bruised face turned outwards towards the day that’s just beginning through the window. If I was aware of Addie’s skin against mine yesterday, today it burns me. I can hardly think of anything else, and I’m dangerously happy, so very hopeful, and then she reaches across and takes my hand and I really think I might cry with joy.
‘Isn’t that lovely!’ Rodney says, beaming at our linked hands.
Addie laughs; her fingers lace more tightly through mine.
I mustn’t get ahead of myself. We have so much to talk about. But – the hint of a wish of a chance – it’s so much better than anything I’ve had for the last year and a half, and that great fissure in my chest is like a crack in dry soil, closing up at the first hint of rain.
The drive suddenly seems easy, as if the roads have heard the news – Addie and me, holding hands in the car – and agree that all should now be right in the world. It’s only when we finally take an extreme-desperation break (Deb has banned comfort breaks and will only stop driving for ‘anyone who will otherwise wet themselves’) at a tiny services near Carlisle that I recall the other crisis currently occupying Deb’s Mini.
‘Someone go with Rodney!’ Deb hisses at me and Marcus as we wander over to the service station shop. ‘Don’t leave the man alone!’
Oh, yes. Rodney the stalker. I remember.
‘Not even to piss?’ Marcus says.
‘Especially not to piss! What if he escapes through the bathroom window?’
I’m not sure quite what Marcus and I are going to do about it if he does.
‘Quite hard to have eyes-on when he’s in the bathroom, Major,’ Marcus says. His drawl is a little lacklustre today.
‘What about urinals? Isn’t that what they’re for?’
Marcus and I exchange a puzzled glance.
/> ‘Just go! Go!’ Deb says, shoving us towards the toilets.
‘She’s really not interested in me, is she?’ Marcus says, turning to look at Deb again as she hurries off to rejoin Addie by the snacks.
‘She’d rather have sex with Kevin the trucker than with you. So I think it’s a no. And you’re only chasing her out of habit, anyway.’
Marcus kicks a stone with his toe. ‘Hmm. I preferred it when you always agreed with me. You know. Back before you got all independent-woman and friend-dumped me because your therapist told you to.’
‘No, you don’t. Back then our friendship was . . .’ I trail off.
‘Oh, I know,’ Marcus says, still looking at his feet. And then, after a long moment, he says, ‘Even before Addie. It wasn’t healthy.’
I blink in surprise. ‘Yeah. That’s true.’
He shoots me a look. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. You’re not the only one having therapy.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just glad to hear you say that. And it wasn’t a friend-dumping, by the way, we weren’t ever really . . .’
‘Over?’ he says, quirking an eyebrow.
That gets a reluctant laugh out of me. ‘What can I say? I believe in second chances. Besides, you need someone who reminds you to be a human being when you’re inclined to be an arsehole. And you’re very lucky I am enough of an idiot to keep trying.’
The bathroom door swings shut behind us. Rodney is at the urinals, wide-eyed, as if we’ve caught him doing something X-rated.
‘Oh, gosh, umm, hi,’ he says, lifting one hand in a wave.
‘Presumably I’m not allowed to flush his head down the toilet?’ Marcus asks me.
‘Correct. Well done.’
Marcus sighs. ‘Reforming one’s character is very tedious. Can’t I just carry on being a dissolute reprobate?’
I smile slightly. ‘No,’ I say, looking at him carefully. The hollow cheeks, the hunched shoulders, the hunted, haunted eyes. ‘No, I don’t think you can.’
Addie
‘I told you! We need a dastardly plan!’
‘You know, we’re saying dastardly a lot, but I’m not actually sure what it means?’ I tell Deb. She’s expressing again – the battery-powered one has run out, so she’s plugged the other into a socket next to the storeroom. The two teenage boys behind the tills are staring at her like she’s escaped from the zoo. ‘Can’t we just drive off without him? Or drop him somewhere?’ I say.
‘Like in a lake?’
‘What? No! Why can I never tell whether you’re joking?’
‘It’s the deadpan delivery,’ Deb says, adjusting the poncho covering her top half. ‘Don’t blame yourself.’
‘I was thinking we could just leave him somewhere, maybe, you know, take his phone . . .’
‘I can’t believe we’re talking about this.’
I glance over towards the counter. Marcus and Dylan are trying to keep Rodney occupied while we come up with some sort of strategy. Marcus is doing a really shit job of pretending to be interested in whatever Rodney’s saying.
‘Maybe we can just talk to him? Reason with him?’ I say.
Deb tilts her head, watching Rodney. ‘He does seem . . . pretty harmless.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I know Cherry was freaking out, but she’s in crazy wedding mode. I’m sure if we just ask him not to come to the wedding, it’ll be fine.’ I feel a surge of relief at the thought. This is much more rational. It was the madness of that Budget Travel family room. We lost our heads.
‘A sensible conversation,’ I say. ‘Yeah. I mean, he seems a bit odd, but he doesn’t seem dangerous.’
Deb catches Dylan’s attention and waves the boys back over.
‘What, right now?’ I say.
‘Well, there’s not a lot else I can do while attached to the wall,’ Deb says. ‘Might as well make use of the time. Hi, boys. Rodney. We just want to have a little chat with you about your plans regarding Cherry’s wedding.’
Rodney’s eyes widen. His body goes stiff. He looks frantically from me to Dylan to Deb to Marcus and back again. And then, very suddenly, he lunges towards Deb.
She lets out a squawk, recoiling. Dylan shouts, a sort of hey, and he’s moving forward, arm outstretched to shove Rodney, but Rodney’s too fast. He’s snatched the car key from Deb’s lap and he’s already ducked past Dylan.
Marcus is the first to react when Rodney starts running. But Rodney’s long, gangly legs are coming in useful – he’s fast. Marcus only manages to snag the end of Rodney’s T-shirt between his fingers before Rodney slips from his grasp, leaving Marcus staggering into a stack of bourbon biscuits.
I’m running before I’ve even thought about it. I can hear Deb swearing behind me as I push through the glass doors of the service station, and I’m with her, it is annoying to be plugged into a wall expressing breast milk when everyone else is chasing a potential criminal across a petrol station forecourt.
‘Go on, get him!’ she yells, like Delia Smith at a Norwich City match. ‘Go on!’
Dylan is closest – my legs are too bloody short for this, and Marcus is tangled up somewhere back there in a heap of chocolate biscuits. I dodge a woman coming to pay for her petrol – ‘Oi!’ she yells – and duck between cars. Rodney’s just metres from the Mini. Dylan is a few steps behind him, and he gets to him just as he opens the door, but Rodney turns as he gets in and shoves Dylan backwards, right into . . .
Me. We stumble backwards on to the bonnet of the car behind. The alarm goes off. The back of Dylan’s head cracks into my collarbone with a dull, painful thud and my sprained wrist hurts so much I feel as if my hand must have fallen off. I roll free from under Dylan’s body and I look up just in time to see Rodney driving off, in our car, with all our belongings.
‘I knew it was a mistake to leave the dastardly planning to you ladies,’ Marcus says from behind us. I can only just hear him over the alarm of the car we fell on. I turn to look at him. He’s doubled over, bracing his hands on his thighs.
As I turn and watch the Mini’s erratic path along the A7, the pain of my wrist comes rushing back. I let out a gasp and bend over, cradling my arm. Dylan’s hand is on my back. By the time I’ve blinked away the tears and looked up again, Deb is here. Her outfit is once again stained with breast milk and her expression is thunderous.
‘My cool bag was in that car,’ she says, and somehow her voice cuts over the sound of the car alarm, no trouble. ‘Now where the hell am I meant to store this?’
She waves a bottle of breast milk at us. We blink back at her.
‘Next time,’ she says, stalking back towards the petrol station, ‘run faster.’
Everyone is grouchy. We don’t talk for a while. Marcus pays for all the biscuits he crushed, and we just sit there next to the newspapers outside the shop, eating broken bourbons in the small patch of shade.
‘At least we know where he’s going,’ Dylan points out, sipping his coffee. Thank God all of us had our phones and wallets in pockets. I think after Deb’s experience yesterday nobody will ever leave their mobile in the car again.
‘So what do we do now? Call the police?’ I ask, pulling a face.
‘That’ll take for ever,’ Deb says. ‘Waiting for them, witness statements . . . I say we just catch him ourselves. Like Dylan says, it’s not like we won’t be able to find him.’
‘But your car!’ I say.
Deb waves a hand. ‘We’ll get it back. We just need to find a way to get to the wedding.’
‘Can’t we order a cab?’ Marcus says.
‘How far away are we?’ I ask.
There is a long silence, until we all realise it was Rodney who used to do the directions. I pull up Google Maps on my phone and make a face.
‘An hour and a half of driving. And it’s a bank holiday weekend. That’s going to cost a fortune, assuming we
can even get a cab here within the next . . .’ I check the time and whimper. ‘Oh, God, we’re going to miss the wedding if the cab takes longer than half an hour to get here.’
Deb calls as many local cab services as she can find. Nobody can get here sooner than an hour. We are not surprised by this. I’d say we’re basically unsurprisable by now.
We sit in silence again. Every minute counts, obviously, but somehow all I have the energy to do is eat bourbons and cradle my sore wrist. I think I’ve felt a record number of emotions in the last twenty-four hours.
‘There is one other option,’ Deb says after a while. ‘It’s a long shot, though.’
‘We’re desperate,’ I say. ‘Long shots are all we’re going to get.’
‘Did anyone save Kevin the trucker’s phone number?’ Deb says. ‘Because that man drives fast.’
Dylan
I’m not entirely convinced Kevin the trucker is a real person. I think he may be a special wedding-day sprite – no, hang on, goblin – who is sent to wedding guests in their time of need.
He was at the services within twenty-five minutes, and we are now somewhere between Carlisle and Ettrick, going at a speed that I am convinced should not be possible in a vehicle of this weight and size.
We have quickly learned that lorry cabs are not very spacious; Addie and I considered riding in the back with the chairs, but then realised once the doors shut, it would be pitch-black, and we might get impaled by a chair leg when Kevin went around a corner, and this would be an extremely bad time to die. So instead, all four of us are occupying the two passenger seats beside Kevin: Deb is sitting on Marcus’s lap, and Addie is sitting on mine.
This is exquisite torture. Every time the lorry jolts, she bounces a little on my lap; I am trying to concentrate extremely hard on the presence of Marcus and Addie’s sister beside me, but Addie is so close I can taste her perfume, I can hear the slight hitch in her breath when she feels my hardness under her, and—