Chapter 59
Problem number one with hitchhiking in a small village on the outskirts of Warrington: there is not exactly a lot of passing traffic.
As I stand outside the station, holding up my thumb flaccidly, the only thing I’ve seen so far is a milk float and a kid on a BMX.
I admit I am also having second thoughts.
No matter how much I repeat Frankie’s mantra – ‘Most people in the world are not out to harm me’ – this feels like a bad idea.
But I’m committed now. All I can do is go with my gut so that if anyone who stops looks shady, I’ll just walk away and decline the lift.
And even if I do decide someone looks harmless enough for me to get into their car, I’ll keep my trigger finger on the Dove deodorant in my bag, ready to spray in their eyes and make a run for it.
I consider checking Uber again, but am momentarily distracted by a woman on a mobility scooter, tootling over the hill.
As she approaches, she slows down and peers at me curiously.
I’m half hoping she’s going to tell me to hop into her shopping basket.
Instead, she turns into the car park of the pub opposite, climbs off, pops the key in her pocket and heads inside.
I glare at the scooter, gripped by a singular thought: why have I never learned how to hotwire a vehicle?
Next thing to come along is a Mondeo, which pulls in alongside me.
The window lowers to reveal a driver in his early sixties, with an extravagant comb-over.
Definitely a serial killer, I decide, probably the kind that love-bombs sweet, elderly virgins and swindles them out of their life savings.
But as he leans across to address me, he doesn’t look in the mood for seduction.
‘Is this about Brexit?’ he asks furiously.
‘What?’ I reply, taken aback.
He nods at the sign. ‘Are you protesting against Brexit? Because 55% voted to leave the European Union, you know. And Leave means Leave.’
‘I’m not protesting about anything,’ I argue. ‘I’m hitchhiking. The sign says, “Roebury”. Look.’
He peers down his nose. ‘It’s barely legible.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. It was the best I could do with an A4 pad and a biro.’
‘No need to be like that.’
I scan his back seat for blankets, ropes and duct tape, but there’s nothing.
‘So . . . are you going in the direction of Roebury?’
He considers the question. ‘I might be.’
And then . . .
‘Jules!’
I look up to see a car pulling in behind the Mondeo. Which is not a Hyundai.
My heart skips a beat at the sight of Sam in the driver’s seat, one arm resting on an open window.
‘No need now, but thanks anyway!’ I tell Mondeo man. He looks disconcertingly crestfallen. ‘Oh, and by the way . . . it was 51.9%. Just for future reference.’
I skip towards Sam’s car and open the door to get in, unable to recall a single moment when I’ve felt happier to see another human being.
Then he smiles and a shiver sizzles up my spine. ‘Someone told me you needed a lift.’
As we hurtle towards Roebury, we talk about the tennis. It’s the most pressing matter, of course, and feels easier than the multiple bigger and more difficult issues that I know I’d really like to get off my chest at some point.
‘How did you know to come and get me? Did Rose give you a call?’
‘No, I was watching the action.’
‘You went to support the team?’ I ask, unable to keep the smile off my face.
‘Me and half of Roebury.’
Now I’m sceptical. ‘Seriously? Nobody ever goes unless it’s the Men’s A team.’
‘Well, it’s a full house tonight. I didn’t realise you weren’t playing though. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I’d have brought as many banners just for the others.’ He grins, glancing over at me.
Even then, I feel a sudden urge to get something straight in my head, whether I look like an idiot finding out or not.
‘Sam, can I ask you something?’
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. ‘Go on.’
‘Do I give you . . . the ick?’
A laugh gusts out of him. ‘The . . . what? What are you talking about?’
‘The ick. You know. A sudden pang of revulsion. Once you’ve got it, there’s no going back . . .’
We pull up at a red light. He puts on the handbrake. Turns to look at me. ‘I know what the ick is. I’m just wondering how you can possibly think I have it about you?’
The sight of his beautiful face suddenly makes my mouth go dry. ‘My angora socks.’
‘You have . . . angora socks?’
‘I did. I got rid of them.’
‘Right. Let me get this straight. You think that all the stuff I said, about how I thought your heart wasn’t really in this – you think all that was a smokescreen and the real cause of me breaking up with you was . . . your socks?’
‘Well, they did have a hole in the middle toe.’
The corner of his mouth turns up. ‘No offence, but that might be the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Is it?’
He nods. And in that moment all I want is for him to reach out and brush his fingers across my cheek, lean over like he did the first time and kiss me.
But he doesn’t move. A car beeps.
‘Come on,’ he says, taking off the handbrake. ‘Let’s get you to this game.’