Chapter 2
The first thing I tell Frankie on the phone is that she mustn’t panic, as if I am not almost radioactive with stress myself.
I won’t repeat the expletives that splutter from her mouth like a backfiring lawn mower; suffice it to say that I hope she is not sitting near anyone of delicate sensibilities.
Still, I take the same approach as with all domestic disasters that have befallen us over the years and mentally flick through a Rolodex of possible solutions, plump for the least-worst option and set about making it work. Somehow.
The plan I come up with involves Frankie and Milly jumping off at the next station, while I cancel my Zoom, bomb it down the motorway and deliver the passport in time for them to catch the next available London train.
This should only put them an hour or so behind and let them still just about make it to their Eurostar booking.
If not, they’ll have to blow the budget for the first two weeks on a same-day ticket.
But I’m not going to let that happen. Sweat prickles on my brow. This will be fine.
I leap into the car, pull up my boss’s number on my phone and throw the gearstick into reverse. I press call as I yank off the handbrake, glance in the wing mirrors and start to back down the drive.
‘Angus Whittingstall’s office,’ says his secretary as she answers, at the precise moment when I get a proper look in the rear-view mirror.
‘Fuck!’
‘Pardon?’
I slam on my brake. ‘Carole! Sorry.’
I swivel in my seat to look through the back window, in the hope that my eyes might be deceiving me. But no. Someone really has chosen now to park on the yellow lines and block me in. A bolt of anxiety shears down my centre.
‘Carole, it’s Jules. I’m due to meet Angus at one o’clock but something’s come up. I’m going to be late.’
‘Nothing serious I hope?’ she asks, concerned.
‘No. I mean . . . yes.’
‘Is someone ill? The wait in A&E is enormous at the moment.’
‘No, it’s not—’
‘There’s a lady I do Zumba with who sat in a waiting room for hours with her husband last week.
Bad chest. They were there most of the day, before being sent away with a packet of paracetamol and some Vicks VapoRub.
Can you believe that? Still, he did play golf the next day so it can’t have been that bad. ’
‘Carole, I’m sorry. Can we just rearrange the meeting?’
‘Of course! Let me just have a peek at Angus’s diary.’
‘Could I phone you later to rearrange?’
‘Better to sort it now. I’m going on my lunch soon.’
The next few moments are punctuated with the tip tap of Carole’s nails on her keyboard. My palpitations begin to roll like a snare drum.
‘Carole, I—’
‘February 28th at 3pm?’
‘Great!’
‘Oh no.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the volunteer community clean-up day.’
‘Right.’
‘You should have it in your diary already. I put you down for plastics. I still haven’t decided who I’m giving the poo bags to yet. I’m torn between Nigel in accounts and Gillian in—’
We’re interrupted by a call from Frankie’s number. I mutter an apology to Carole and cut her off.
‘Just wondering how long you’re likely to be?’ my daughter asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I sigh. ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’
‘Could you give us a rough estimate? Only, I thought we could go to Pizza Express but Milly isn’t sure we’ve got time?’
I try not to sound too exasperated, aware that this is already far from the touching farewell I was hoping for.
‘Frankie, I don’t know. I’ll have a better idea if you let me get off this phone and on the road.’
‘Haven’t you even left?’
‘I’m trying to!’
‘All right!’ she huffs, as we end the call and I leap out, striding across the road to the dark blue saloon that’s causing the problem.
My nerves are now so frayed that my hair is almost standing on end and I feel a surge of annoyance at the anonymous Hyundai-driving wanker responsible for this.
Parking might be at a premium around here, but how selfish do you have to be to abandon your car without a thought about who you might be inconveniencing?
I peer in through the window and spot a fuzzy yellow ball on the passenger seat.
I might have known.
I march to the entrance of the tennis club, imagining the type of person who might be responsible for this.
I’ve met their kind at the school gates, the ones who swing a top-of-the-range 4x4 – because it’s always a top-of-the-range 4x4 – onto the no-parking zone, leaving kids, strollers and crossing guards to dive for cover.
I’d simmer with disapproval with the other parents, but never went as far as challenging anyone.
I’ve never had the time to be a vigilante, let alone the guts.
But today’s different. Today, I have the guts, the inclination and a genuine emergency to contend with.
I go to push open the metal gate, but it’s locked and, as I’m not a member, I’ve never been given the key code.
I rattle it a couple of times, to no avail.
Then I see someone through the netting: a guy, alone on one of the middle courts, next to a tub of tennis balls.
He is about to serve, his arm stretched high.
I clear my throat as his body begins to unfurl.
‘EXCUSE ME!’
When the ball catapults into the net, he turns to look in my direction, as if it was my fault.
He is tall and lean, dressed in dark sportswear, the sleeves of his tracksuit top pushed up muscular forearms. He’s wearing a beanie and sunglasses and has a clipped salt-and-pepper beard.
I can see enough of his physique to recognise that he’s attractive, if you like that sort of thing.
I, however, am immune to hotness. It’s one of my superpowers.
So when I address him, it’s with the same air of authority that I’ve always secretly admired in the receptionist of our GP surgery, who accepts zero bullshit and probably took part in the Spanish Inquisition in a previous life.
‘Do you drive a Hyundai?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says, cupping a hand to his ear.
‘A HYUNDAI,’ I repeat. ‘There’s one blocking me in. Is it yours?’
He shakes his head, apologetically. ‘Not me I’m afraid.’
‘Urgh,’ I mutter to myself, before remembering the tennis ball on the front seat. ‘Is anyone else here? Apart from you, I mean?’
He starts walking in my direction. ‘Just me. Is there anything I can do to help?’
But it’s not a knight in shining armour that I need right now, not unless it’s one who drives a tow-truck.
‘I need to find the owner of that,’ I say, pointing at the offending vehicle. ‘Honestly, people like that shouldn’t be allowed on the road. What a sense of entitlement. No thought for anyone else whatsoever.’
‘Are we . . . talking about the dark blue one?’ he asks, reaching the edge of the court.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a Lexus.’
‘I . . . is it?’ My brow wrinkles as I peer to identify the badge, then remind myself this isn’t the point. ‘Look, I don’t care what it is, only that whoever owns it blocked me in. Idiot.’
He reaches for the back of his neck and scratches it, looking away awkwardly. I glare at him in realisation. ‘So it is yours?’
He winces. ‘I’ll get my keys, shall I?’
‘Thank you,’ I snap, turning away.
‘I’ll be a minute. I left them in the clubhouse.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I mutter, which he clearly hears.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he says, indignantly. ‘But I don’t see how I could have blocked you in. I just parked next to the pavement, like anyone would.’
‘On yellow lines,’ I say tersely. ‘They’re there for a reason.’ If there is one thing I haven’t got time for now, it’s a lengthy explanation about the problematic distance between my gateposts.
‘But I didn’t see any . . .’ His voice trails off before he can finish the sentence and he raises his hand to his sunglasses as if he’s about to adjust them. ‘Do we know each other?’
There is something vaguely familiar about him now that he mentions it, but I’m not about to stop and try to work out why.
‘No. Look please just get your keys and move the car,’ I plead, before walking away decisively and getting back into my vehicle.
He moves his a minute later.
As he drives down the road, looking for somewhere else to put it, I pull out and look at the space he’s vacated. It’s then that I realise Bill’s hedge has shed most of its bronze beech leaves in last night’s wind. The yellow lines are completely covered.
I feel a twinge of remorse, but not enough to apologise. My only priority now is delivering that passport.
The traffic is terrible and the journey not helped by another call from Carole to tell me that Angus has made a gap for me in an hour, adding another deadline and layer of stress.
I arrive at the station with minutes to spare, abandon the car outside and sprint cinematically along the platform, zigzagging through passengers and leapfrogging someone’s handy shopper.
None of this is easy, even in Converse and especially after I stumble into a flock of pigeons having a dinner party outside Subway.
They promptly take flight, directly into my face.
‘Cheers, Mum. And sorry! You’re a star!’ Frankie calls out, as I thrust the document at her and she jumps through the sliding doors of a train for the second time.
I back away, snorting a feather from my nose.
I then limp back to the spot where I parked, blisters already forming on my little toes, only to find a traffic officer taking down my registration.
I make a flaccid attempt to explain, then give up, slinking into my seat with a shameful pang of nostalgia for the nineties, when a quick flutter of my eyelashes might have made this go away.