Chapter 6
A knock on the door wakes me up with such a jump that I sit bolt upright and clonk my head on the campervan’s ceiling because the bed is so close to the roof.
I panic as I untangle the bedding from around my legs and scramble for the ladder.
First thought – police. Second thought – dogwalker asking me my business here.
Third thought – random local who saw this van on the news last night.
Fourth thought – Reece has died of his injuries and the coroner wants to know if I saw anything. Fifth thoug—
Before I have a chance to form a fifth thought, I hear Reece’s voice outside. ‘It’s just me. I come bearing breakfast.’
The ladder only comprises of two steps but my foot slips on one of them, and I grab wildly for something to stop my fall, but I land in an undignified heap on a pile of binbags.
‘You all right in there?’ Reece’s Yorkshire accent comes from outside.
‘All good,’ I call back, like this was exactly the way I intended to get out of the cabin bed.
I disentangle myself from the binbags and slide the door open to find him looking ridiculously awake and alert for what feels like the crack of dawn, holding a mug of steaming coffee and a plate piled high with hot toast with butter slowly melting into it.
‘Gooooooood morning,’ he says cheerfully. ‘It sounds like you just fell out of bed.’
I glance back at the chaos inside the van. The binbags are in disarray and the bedding has artfully arranged itself halfway down the ladder. ‘Not an inaccurate description.’
‘Sleep well?’
I go to grunt a response, but I realise something. ‘I did, actually. Better than I have in months.’
‘It’s the Yorkshire air. Good for the soul.’
Well, I don’t think it’s the whole stealing a campervan and running someone over thing. I doubt that’s good for much, especially the soul.
‘What time is it?’ I squint at him like he’s personally responsible for turning the sun up to maximum brightness. There’s no clock in the van, I don’t have a watch and no longer have my phone. It could be anywhere between 6 a.m. and 3 p.m. at this rate.
‘Nearly eight.’
It’s not even 8 a.m. Of course it isn’t.
I should have known he’d be a morning person.
Everything about him screams morning person, from the bright pyjamas he was wearing last night to the cheery optimism and the fact he’s coherent at this time of day when most people are still trying to batter their alarm clocks into silence.
He holds up the coffee and plate of toast as if silently apologising for being a morning person. ‘I guessed you might not have much in the way of breakfast options. And no, a Pot Noodle is not breakfast.’
‘Oh, trust me, anything is breakfast if you don’t have a friendly local builder to bring you food. You seriously made me coffee and toast?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘Because I could have killed you last night!’
‘But you didn’t, so I thought you might be hungry.’
Hungry is another one of his understatements.
I had a cup of tea with him last night, but the last thing I ate was the service station sandwich yesterday afternoon, and I’m about to tell him I’m starving, but the smell of the toast and coffee is making my stomach react so loudly that I don’t need to say a word, and he laughs at the gurgle it lets out.
I take the mug of frothy latte from him and sip it gratefully, and as he hands over the plate of toast, he snags a slice off the top for himself.
‘Oh my God,’ I say with a mouthful as I take a piece of toast, and I’m so hungry that I eat the whole thing in three bites. ‘Thank you so, so, so much. The competition isn’t very stiff, but you’ve just become my favourite person in the whole world.’
He laughs at that as he eats his own toast in far more civilised bites, and I’m a little bit floored by how thoughtful he is, especially considering the way we met last night.
‘Let me guess,’ I say as I take another sip and try to eat the next slice of toast normally as opposed to ripping it apart like a wild boar. ‘You’re one of those people who springs out of bed at dawn, belting out showtunes.’
‘Who, me?’ He takes a step backwards, flings his arms out and belts out a few lines of ‘Good Morning, Baltimore’ from Hairspray, which is probably the most infuriating song to hear at this time of day.
‘Alright, alright, your revenge for last night is complete,’ I mutter, trying to ignore how his grin is making something stir in my belly that has nothing to do with hunger pangs. ‘It’s not normal to look so happy at this time of day, you know that, right?’
‘So people tell me.’ His smile gets impossibly wider. ‘What’s wrong with being a morning person, or an afternoon person, or an evening person?’
I already know that he is all three. ‘And don’t tell me, a night person too?’
‘I’m an everything person,’ he says with a cheerful shrug. ‘What do I have to be sad, grumpy, or resentful about? There are enough angry people in the world without me being one of them.’
I can’t deny that there’s something infectious about his smile and his outlook on life. ‘If I’d murdered you last night, why do I feel like your ghost would pop up and say, “Not to worry, these things happen!”?’
‘Well, as long as it wasn’t intentional.’ He does that happy shrug again. ‘Besides, I quite like being alive. Gives me an excuse to be thankful.’
I’m about to ask how his leg is, but I get stuck on that thought. When was the last time I felt thankful for anything? When did I last feel sheer, unadulterated joy? When did I last wake up and look forward to the day ahead?
While I’m lost in thought, Reece starts walking around the outside of the campervan, admiring it for the first time in daylight, but it’s more of a limp than a walk. His leg’s clearly bothering him, but he’s doing his best to pretend otherwise.
‘This really is a beautiful beast to be nearly crushed to death by.’ He runs his hand along the van’s flank like he’s patting a large animal. ‘Shame about the colour.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I mutter. Never before has anyone driven a getaway vehicle in the colour of a neon lettuce.
‘You’ve got to be incredibly confident in your transport choices to drive a highlighter pen on wheels.’ He completes his circuit and comes back to lean against the doorframe, being careful not to put too much weight on his injured leg. ‘Does it have a name?’
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone refer to the campervan in a gender-neutral way. Jared named her Genevieve, and now I wonder why. Was Genevieve the name of someone else he was cheating on me with? Or someone he wanted to cheat on me with?
‘No.’ We’re on the run. She can assume a new identity. ‘It’s like the cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. We are independent creatures who don’t belong to each other because neither of us belongs to anyone. What right do I have to give her a name?’
His quirked eyebrow makes me wonder if I’ve gone too far, because unlike Audrey Hepburn and her nameless cat in the film, the last thing I want to do is go against the general assumption that this is a vehicle I own. I quickly amend my previous sentence. ‘It’s just Campervan.’
‘Creative and practical, I like it.’
He’s the type of person who could find something positive to say about a broken sewage works.
I study his smiling face while I finish my toast. He’s wearing plain black joggers and a navy T-shirt this morning, and I’m relieved to see nothing with cartoon pineapples on it.
His light brown hair is parted at the side and swept backwards like he’s pushed it back multiple times.
Even in the morning light, there’s something about his persistent good humour that doesn’t quite add up.
Nobody maintains that level of exuberance without substantial effort. ‘How’s your leg?’
‘It’s fine. Just a bit… janky.’
‘I think the words you’re looking for are extremely painful, hurting, probably infected?’
‘It’s fine, Dolly. A bit stiff, a bit bruised, but there’s no long-term harm done, so don’t worry about it.’
‘You’re going to let me have a proper look at it later and re-dress the wound, yes?’
He goes to protest that he can do it himself, but I cut him off by using his apparent hatred of hospitals against him.
‘It’s me or A&E. You’re doing that thing where you’re pretending it doesn’t hurt, but I’m not buying it.
You keep shifting your weight and trying not to wince.
I don’t even know how you’re walking this morning. ’
‘Very carefully, and with more grimacing than I like to admit.’
I don’t intend to laugh, but his deadpan tone catches me off-guard and I snort into my coffee. ‘Why are you so optimistic? I didn’t say anything last night because you can’t insult someone’s personality right after running them over, but there really does appear to be something wrong with you.’
‘Wrong with me?’ He grins, and it’s one of those lovely grins that reaches his blue eyes. ‘Maybe I’m just sunnily dispositioned. Glass half full and all that.’
‘Nobody’s that sunnily dispositioned. It’s not natural.’
He throws his head back and laughs like I’ve told him the funniest joke he’s heard all week. ‘Maybe I just choose to be happy.’
‘Nobody chooses to be happy at eight in the morning after being impaled by a tent pole.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because most people would be angry and resentful, and you’re being inexplicably nice about it.’
‘Where does being angry and resentful get you?’
‘It’s a perfectly normal response to being run over by a campervan.’
‘Right, but after that. Once you’ve been angry and resentful, then what? You’re still injured, but now you’re injured and miserable instead of just injured. I don’t see the point. Being angry won’t help my leg heal any faster, so why bother?’
I stare at his beaming face. ‘That’s either very wise or completely deranged.’
‘Thank you.’ His smile gets wider and I can’t help smiling back.
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the morning mist rise from the distant hills. It’s beautiful here. There’s a timeless quality to it. Medieval knights probably stood in this exact spot and looked at this exact view, and there’s something magical about that thought.
‘This was the first place I ever felt like I belonged,’ I say without meaning to say anything. ‘Not just me personally, but all of us. My family, the other families who came here. We were all part of the community, part of the landscape. We all just… fitted.’
‘And now?’
‘Until yesterday, I thought I knew exactly where I fitted. Now I don’t think I fit anywhere any more.’
He nods like this makes perfect sense, which I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. ‘What changed yesterday?’
I look around at the van that’s become my temporary home, at the beautiful view outside and this strange man who’s made being run over seem like a minor inconvenience. ‘Everything.’
‘Then maybe’ – he winces as his weight shifts to his bad leg – ‘yesterday was exactly what needed to happen for you to be able to move forwards.’
‘Even the bit where I nearly killed you?’
‘Especially that bit. Best introduction I’ve had in years.’
Despite the chaos of yesterday, the uncertainty of everything and the complete upheaval of my entire life, I find myself laughing. Really, truly laughing, for what feels like the first time in months.
He might be right. Yesterday doesn’t feel like a mistake – it feels like something that had been waiting to happen for a long, long time, and all I needed was a push in the right direction, and despite being on the wrong side of the law, it might’ve been one of the best things I’ve ever done.