Now
I smile in a way that’s shooting for charming, but possibly lands short in creepy. ‘I’m getting there.’
‘You couldn’t just skip ahead?’
‘Where do you have to be, exactly?’
Marianne pauses in the act of putting the water bottle back in her bag, then offers it to me. I’m not particularly thirsty – and I have my own bottle – but I take a sip anyway. It feels like a bonding move, to willingly embrace someone else’s germs.
‘Fair point,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’
‘Maybe we should ration it?’ she says, shaking the bottle.
‘The guy said twenty minutes,’ I remind her. ‘We’ll be fine.’
Neither of us mention the lack of a handy bucket in case we have to wee. Or worse.
‘You’re not sick, are you?’
‘No.’
‘I thought I heard a sniff.’
‘Hay fever.’ I lick my suddenly dry lips. ‘Where was I?’
‘After the funeral.’
‘Right. We can skip ahead to the next day, at least. That’s when things start to get interesting.’