Chapter 3
SARAH
My leg is aching so I decide to perch a little on the front fence, my suitcases at my feet.
I feel a little like I used to on the first day of school, waiting for the bus.
For me, the bus was the worst part of the school day.
Teachers, I could handle. Algebra, not a problem.
But other kids, in a barely supervised metal box? Nightmare.
To be fair, not a lot actually happened on the bus. It was more a case of sniggers when I got on, comments whispered among more popular girls that I assumed were about me. I could never be sure, but had a tendency to imagine the worst back then.
But I’m doing this for Louis and Summer, I remind myself. Plus, it’s kind of Hal to let me ride along. I have to be the bigger person here.
‘Off on a luxury holiday?’ comes a voice. I realise that I’ve been staring at the boot and haven’t even noticed the rusty heap of a camper pull up. Hal is leaning out of the window, a great grin on his face.
‘Oh yeah. With all the trimmings!’ I say back, sarcastically.
‘Two suitcases?’ he nods towards the neatly zipped luggage at my feet. ‘You do realise we’re camping, right?’
I shoot him a look and he kind of closes up. It’s nice to know that what works on difficult clients works on Hal too. Peter calls it my ‘don’t fuck with me’ face. He says I’m wasted in law – should have been a teacher.
Hal heaves my cases into the back then opens the door for me and I hobble around. I can see him watching me, head tilted at a sympathetic angle. ‘Looks painful,’ he says.
‘It’s OK.’ I manage to clamber into the seat, and he checks I’m in properly before shutting the door.
Inside, Betty smells of leather and oil and a kind of old smell, like an ancient house that’s been locked up for months.
There’s another scent there too – a kind of chemical scent, like some kind of cleaner – and I notice that Hal’s hung one of those pine-tree scented cardboard air fresheners over the wing mirror. I wonder if it’s in my honour.
Then Hal is at my side, his smell taking over Betty’s.
A kind of wholesome scent of laundry detergent and soap and…
I know this sounds crazy but – optimism, somehow?
He turns to me and grins, and I can see that he’s genuinely excited about this trip.
I feel a little guilty that I’m probably going to disappoint him by being my usual, crabby self.
I try to smile. ‘Thanks again for this,’ I tell him.
‘No problem!’ He starts the engine and pumps his foot on the accelerator a few times, as if he’s checking the thing still runs. So far, so good. Only, God, a thousand miles or so to go.
‘Sure the camper’s going to make it?’ I ask. It’s a genuine worry, but I cringe as soon as I say the words. It sounds so much like a dig.
‘She,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Betty is a she!’ But he’s grinning good-naturedly, so I don’t think he actually cares that much.
‘God I’m sorry, did I misgender your car?’
‘She’s very sensitive!’ Hal pats the dashboard before hitting the indicator and pulling out onto the road. ‘You have to believe in her or she’ll let us down.’
‘Wait, are you telling me that this car is powered by optimism? Because I have to warn you…’ I look down at my leg and make a face at Hal. His features crease into a wide grin, and for some reason it feels quite good to have earned that reaction from him.
We drive in silence for a few miles. Hal’s left the windows open and despite the fact it’s just after 8 a.m. and the temperature hasn’t kicked in properly yet, it’s pleasantly fresh outside.
We’re soon off the beaten track, trundling down a route he’s chosen that avoids the worst of the motorways and gives us the chance to see the countryside or whatnot.
Basically, the exact opposite of any route I would have planned.
I’m more of a ‘get there in the fastest possible time’ girl.
‘How long to Dover?’ I ask innocently.
‘About four hours, give or take.’
I bite back a comment. I know that if you go there directly, it should only take a couple of hours from Cambridge. Four hours just to get to the ferry? I let out a slow, calming breath and when I glance back at Hal, he seems amused.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Your face,’ he says, shaking his head.
This does not put me in a good mood. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
He turns back towards the road and I flick through emails on my mobile phone – there are a few in today, but I can see that my assistant Claudia has picked up most of them.
I shuffle slightly in my seat – the VW has no air-con and even though the windows are open, it’s built up a kind of sticky humidity.
My leg itches and I long to open the boot and scratch – but I’m not doing that here in front of him.
Watching Hal as he drives, I notice he’s smiling – just slightly, his mouth turned up at the corners.
‘What?’ I ask him.
He visibly jumps and I suppose it’s true we haven’t spoken for a while. ‘What?’ he repeats.
‘You’re smiling. Don’t tell me, you’re so in love with the car it’s a joy to drive,’ I say teasingly.
He glances at me as if to ascertain my mood. ‘Something like that.’
‘Really?’
‘No. Not really.’ He looks at my face again, his eyes skirting across it. ‘If you must know, it was you.’
‘Me?’ If he comes out and says something like travelling with me is such a pleasure, then I’ll seriously consider leaping from this thing. Because I know I am far from great company right now.
‘Yeah. Fidgeting. It made me remember. You know.’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘Just, back in the day. You were like that. Always on the move. Couldn’t relax.’
He doesn’t mean it this way, but his words sting a little. ‘Well, at least I didn’t spend most of my weekend bed-rotting.’
‘Bed-rotting?’
‘Yeah, you know. Festering under your duvet.’
Despite my slightly aggressive tone, he barks out a laugh. ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong there.’
He takes the dig easily, absorbs it with his good nature. I’d be obsessing over a comment like that for days. I try to take a similar attitude with the fidgeting thing. But no. I can’t. I have to say something.
‘Actually, I’m fidgeting because of my leg.’
He turns to me briefly, brow furrowed, before returning his eyes to the road. ‘Hurting?’
‘No. Well, not much. Itching.’
Hal sucks air between his teeth. The corners of his eyes crease. ‘That sucks.’
‘Yep!’ I say then. ‘So you’re wrong. I’m not a fidgeter, as you put it. In fact, it may not have occurred to you but I’m not the same person you knew twenty-two years ago. Some of us have evolved.’
He laughs again, a little uncertainly. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. Look, I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’re right. I am a bit on the lazy side. I’ve always admired your drive.’
Now it’s my turn to snort.
‘What?’
But I don’t know how to explain it, even to him.
People are always accusing me of being ‘driven’.
And I know that’s what it looks like from the outside.
Thirty-nine and a partner in my own law firm, attending meetings, going to the gym after work, meals with clients.
Never a moment to myself. I probably come across as driven.
Only I don’t feel driven. I feel… a lot of the time, I’m not exactly sure how I feel.
‘Oh, nothing.’ I turn my gaze to the window and watch the countryside slip past: green and brown grazing land, a crop of butter-coloured wheat, then maize, a riot of almost luminous yellow.
I’ve always loved living in Cambridge because, while it’s a city, it’s nestled in some amazing countryside.
Only these days I don’t often venture into it.
My world is all hard surfaces – concrete and brick, glass and wood.
Marbled worktops and plastic screens. Something in me relaxes as I watch the undulating fields with their patchwork of colour.
It amazes me that it’s someone’s job to tame the rich brown earth each year, plant seed. Bring order to the natural world.
‘Enjoying the view?’ Hal pipes up, and I instantly stiffen.
‘It’s OK,’ I say nonchalantly. ‘Not too late to take the M25 though – we could be there in an hour from here.’
He shakes his head; it’s almost a pitying movement. ‘Have you ever thought about what it was like to travel before we had all of this?’ he asks.
‘All of what?’
‘Modern transport.’
‘What? Betty? Modern?’
‘Hey!’ he looks at me, but although Betty is his pride and joy, he’s smiling. ‘She’s a vintage classic.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘I know, but I mean, what would we do if we’d wanted to get to the south of France, say, a hundred years ago,’ he muses. ‘Coach and horses, I guess. And a boat.’
‘So pretty similar to what we’re actually doing.’ I quip. ‘Except we’d probably have arrived a bit more quickly than we’re going to.’
It’s brief, but I see the corners of his mouth turn down, just for an instant before he resets into a neutral line. I’ve fired a few near-insults at him already during this journey, but somehow this one’s stuck.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I am grateful for the lift, obviously.’
‘It’s fine.’
Initially I’m relieved that he hasn’t taken it to heart.
I don’t want to spend twelve days peppering him with little digs.
But then, as I look at his contented face from the side, I feel a flash of annoyance too.
Hal is a chilled-out dude because life has enabled him to become one.
I am a stressed, fidgety overachiever because my life never lets up.
And I know that none of it was intentional, but in many ways it’s All His Fault.