Chapter 7
I should know never to utter words like that ever again. It does nothing but invoke a jinx from the universe.
After Reece has gone back up to the Kingfisher Arms with strict instructions not to overdo it on his leg, which I’m certain he’ll ignore, I decide that I’ve been living in yesterday’s clothes for far too long, and if I’m going to continue hiding out here, I might as well do it with clean hair.
The van’s shower-cubicle-slash-toilet is…
cosy. And by cosy, I mean that I have to inhale to slide the door closed, and there’s a very real possibility I’ll get trapped in here like a particularly incompetent Houdini.
But I remember Jared saying it’s got hot water and there’s a bottle of shower gel and one of shampoo, which is enough of a luxury for now.
I wrestle myself out of my clothes and dig through the binbags to find something else to put on.
I shake out a pair of trousers and a T-shirt and hang them up on the curtain rail over the van’s windows because they’ve got a distinct odour de black plastic about them, having been tied up in bags for over twenty-four hours now.
I get into the shower cubicle, planting my feet on either side of the toilet in the minuscule space, and turn on the water. The pressure’s not brilliant, but it’s warm, and it’s going to make me feel like a functioning human who can tackle the day ahead and whatever it may bring.
I’ve just worked up a proper lather with the shampoo when the water stops. Not slows down or gets a bit cooler. Stops. Completely.
I stand there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as the shampoo runs into them, trying to process what’s gone wrong.
Maybe it’s temporary. Maybe the water pressure’s just having a moment.
Maybe if I turn the tap off and on again, everything will go back to normal and I won’t be standing naked in a cubicle the size of a rabbit hutch with enough foam in my hair to wash a small car.
I turn the shower knob but nothing happens. I turn it harder. Still nothing. I don’t know the first thing about this van or how its water system works. I know Jared has done something fancy with it, and it’s a luxury to have a working shower onboard… If only it was working.
Right. Don’t panic. Maybe there’s bottled water somewhere in the van.
Squeezing out of the shower cubicle is significantly more challenging when I’m wet, soapy, and trying not to get shampoo all over everything.
I slip-slide in the most undignified way possible towards the van’s only decent towel, which covers the essentials if I don’t breathe too deeply or make any sudden movements, and try the sink tap, but that’s dead too.
I start hunting through cupboards for water, but I come up with nothing. The situation is so dire that the only thing I can rinse myself off with is the carton of long life milk I opened last night, which does not sound like a good plan at all.
There’s only one thing for it. I’m going to have to go up to the pub and ask Reece if I can use his shower. There must be a shower and running water up there, and he was kind enough to bring me breakfast; surely he’d be kind enough to let me use it.
I peer out of the van’s window towards the pub. There’s definitely movement up there and I can hear buildery-type noises. Right. Quick dash up to the pub, explain the situation, hopefully borrow his shower, dash back. Simple. Dignified.
The towel slips slightly as I open the van door, and I grab it just in time to avoid flashing the Yorkshire countryside. I have a quick scout around for any dogwalkers I might be about to leave a lasting impression on, but the car park is thankfully empty.
This is fine. People have had to ask for help in more embarrassing situations than this, even if I’m struggling to think of any right now.
The higgledy-piggledy steps up to the pub are steeper than I remembered, and by the time I reach the back door, I’m out of breath, partially blind from the shampoo dripping into my eyes and clinging to my towel which feels like it’s shrunk to the size of a Post-it Note.
I knock loudly and call out, willing him to answer before the next hiking group comes past. ‘Reece? Are you there?’
‘Dolly?’ His voice comes from somewhere inside, followed by the sound of tools being dropped. ‘What are you—’
He appears in the doorway and stops dead, taking in the sight of me standing there in a towel, looking like I’ve gone through the wrong end of a car wash.
‘It looks like there’s story here,’ he says in a carefully neutral tone that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
‘The water stopped mid-shower.’ I try to sound casual, like this is a perfectly normal situation. ‘I was wondering if I could possibly use your shower to rinse off?’
‘Ah. Slight problem there.’
‘There’s no shower in the pub?’ I ask, looking around for any waterfall walkers who might get more than a glimpse of what the towel doesn’t cover.
‘There was. A couple of weeks ago, I was fixing floorboards and I may have cut through a water pipe, flooded two rooms and had to turn off the water to the whole upstairs. Got a quote from a plumber and nearly keeled over. Do you have any idea how expensive plumbers are? Luckily it’s summer and showering under the garden hose is no hardship, and there’s still water downstairs.
Bathrooms are a luxury that no one really needs, right? ’
‘Right…’ I glance up at him, shampoo stinging my eyes, and he’s still trying to hold back a laugh. ‘Aren’t you worried about getting fired for making mistakes like that?’
‘Nah. My boss wishes he could fire me. And you’re welcome to use the garden hose.’
The garden hose. Because the day is not done with opportunities for humiliation yet, is it?
‘Round the side of the building. Bit cold, but it’ll do the job. It’s that or jumping in the river where your suds will poison all the fish and you’ll be arrested for public indecency if any families come along.’
The towel is making increasingly optimistic bids for freedom already, and I’m standing in full view of anyone who might be hiking past with binoculars and a camera. Public indecency is not far off anyway. ‘Where is this hose?’
‘I’ll show you. But first…’ He makes a ‘stay there’ gesture and limps back inside, and then returns with a proper towel – a big, fluffy blue towel that makes mine look like a face flannel, and then motions for me to follow him round the side of the building.
At one end of what used to be the beer garden, there’s a trellis that looks like a makeshift shower screen with a hosepipe hanging over it. The yellow hosepipe trails across the patio to a rusty tap on the wall, and Reece puts the clean towel down on a nearby table.
‘There you go.’ He bends to turn the tap on and grunts when it seems to need some persuasion. Eventually, it creaks and squeaks, and water spurts out in sharp bursts that splatter onto the concrete behind the mostly see-through wooden trellis. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
And with that, he disappears back inside, leaving me alone with a garden hose and what’s left of my dignity. I have another quick scout around for passersby, and then let the towel drop and step behind the trellis.
The water is not just cold. It’s arctic.
It hits me like a liquid sledgehammer and I let out a shriek that probably frightens wildlife for miles around.
I squeal as I dance from foot to foot, like I’m trying to dodge the jet of water, even though I know the best thing I can do is rinse myself off as fast as humanly possible.
Reece must have been showering here regularly because the hose is clipped onto the trellis so it functions like a proper shower, and the thought of him out here, naked, with freezing-cold water cascading over big buildery muscles and whatever else was hiding underneath the neon pyjama trousers of last night, makes something stir inside me again.
Embarrassment, I tell myself. There’s the trellis behind me, and only a low hedge in front. If anyone came to the front of the pub and ventured far enough around the side, there isn’t much to hide any modesty.
It only takes me a couple of minutes to rinse off but it feels like a lot longer before I’m soaked, shivering, and there’s enough water on the ground to start my own duck pond, but my hair is blissfully free of shampoo and my body is free of shower gel.
I grab the towel Reece lent me and turn the outside tap off, and stand there dripping in the mid-morning sunshine, trying to process everything that’s happened since yesterday morning.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was on my way to open a business that I’ve been planning for months.
I had a best friend, a boyfriend, a business plan, and now I’m half-naked in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, hosing myself off like a muddy dog behind a derelict pub.
Through an open window, Reece’s cheerful whistling filters out and it makes me smile involuntarily. Garden hoses and stolen campervans and men in pineapple pyjamas who think being run over is the highlight of their week. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing after all.
I wring out my hair, adjust my towel with as much dignity as I can muster, and check for walkers before I make the walk of shame back to the campervan.
After getting dressed, I gather Reece’s wet towel in my arms and go back up the stone steps to the Kingfisher Arms and knock on the door again. This time, there’s a yelp from inside and when Reece limps to the door, he’s shaking his hand like he’s just hammered his own fingers.
‘Last time was better. I prefer it when people who knock on my door are half-naked and soaking wet.’
I do a pretend laugh as I shove the towel back at him, but he refuses. ‘Keep it, you need it more than I do.’
I’m surprised and touched, and I can’t argue with him. I do, indeed, need a decently sized towel. ‘Thank you for this. And for… being such a gentleman and not making that any more awkward than it was.’