‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Robyn had almost spluttered when I eventually told her what was going on over the tying up of my daffodils, a job I hated. (Theywouldspring back at me instead of lying down and behaving, like they always did for Mum.) ‘Just go for it. I know George feels the same way.’
‘Howdo you know?’
‘I’m a woman of the world.’ Robyn had tutted. ‘Trust me, I’m a teacher.’
‘But has he said anything to you?’ I’d probed, sounding not unlike my thirteen-year-old self, asking Serena Atkinson the same question when I’d fancied Alistair Hewitt in Year 8.
‘He does nothing but talk about you,’ Robyn had said, elbowing me in the ribs. ‘Get in there. He’s gorgeous. And a very lovely person to boot. Can be a bit full on at times, I grant you, but honestly, Jess, what have you to lose?’
‘My nerve?’ I’d replied. ‘And what a mess it will be if we sort of start something and then realise it isn’t going anywhere. All a bit weird at family dos at Mum and Kamran’s if that happens.’
‘Just go for it. Enjoy it for what it is.’ Robyn had tutted once more. ‘Stop thinking about the future and live in the moment. Once the restaurant opens, you’re not going to have the time or energy for luuuurve!’ Robyn had pulled a daft face, laughing and elongating the word. ‘Enjoy a bit of a fling.’
So that’s why I was dressed in my new white all-in-one jumpsuit, but slightly concerned that my – also new – bra and fancy knickers could be seen through the thin cotton.
‘Do you really think this looks OK?’ I asked Lola again, wishing Robyn was here for inspection duty.
‘Fine, honestly,’ Lola said, impatient now, overnight bag to hand and more than ready for the off up to Kamran’s place. ‘Come on, or I’ll have less time in the walk-in wardrobe.’
* * *
Once I’d dropped Lola off with Mum, I left straight away, not wanting them to see I was dressed up to the nines. Although Lola, I knew, would be singing like a canary on my behalf even before I’d exited the long drive. I set off again, heading into town and George’s apartment.
It was a warm, sultry evening and I was early. Much too early. Twenty minutes before kick-off and I was already hot and damp. I pulled up on a small garage forecourt to kill some time and adjust my lippy, leaning over to pull down Vera’s nearside window (the only one that was working) to let in some air in an effort to cool down.
Fifteen minutes still to go. And then a lightbulb moment! I’d treat Vera to the car wash. Bad enough pulling up at George’s fancy apartment in my decrepit old van amongst the boy racer cars I assumed would be parked there. At least I could have her clean. I jumped out, bought a bottle of water to help cool me and my nerves, as well as the necessary tokens and, admiring my lovely new pink heels, climbed back into Vera.
I pulled into the car wash at the far end of the forecourt and, leaning back in my seat, took the bottled water, pressing the icy plastic against my hot forehead before concentrating on opening it without it spilling, while the car wash machinery bumped and clanged into action.
What was that tagline?No one in space can hear you scream… I now knew the same applied when you were in a car wash and you’d left the nearside window wide open. I somehow managed to throw the open bottle of water onto the passenger seat before battling the stream – no, let’s be pedantic here – the absolutetorrentof soapy water that was gushing into Vera through the window. Sudsy, chemical-filled water that was soaking me from the top of my newly washed and blow-dried hair to my new pink, strappy high heels.
With one great valiant effort I managed to lean over through the torrent, battling and spitting suds and bubbles, pressing the nearside window button as if my life depended on it. Nothing happened. Electrics had obviously shorted. And then the window suddenly shot up and an eery calm cocooned me inside the van. This lasted maybe three seconds before the bloody great brushes with their accompanying roar rolled up and on to Vera, battering her sides and windows. I sat there soaked, heart racing.
And then it was all over, the water and brushes retreating to a trickle and a green light indicating I should start the engine and drive through and away. Thank God, the engine started immediately and I was able to drive back onto the forecourt where I sat, in a state of shock.
I would have to return home, get changed, redo my make-up. Cry. I howled in despair at my mascara-streaked face and wet hair in the rear-view mirror, dithering. I rang Robyn. No answer. What I thought she might do to help, I’d no idea.
I looked at my watch; I was now late. I sat there another minute, looked down at myself and realised I’d have been a sure winner in a wet T-shirt competition. Wet, white, cotton jumpsuit competition. And I was frozen and smelling of detergent. I shivered, snivelling for a good minute; knew I had to ring George and then retreat back home, our date cancelled. I twisted round in my wet seat to see if there was anything in Vera I could use to get dry. Arthur’s blanket. Great stuff! Now I was going to be covered in hair and smelling of dog as well as chemicals.
And then I remembered. Dean’s wetsuit. The black, red and purple monstrosity he’d paid a fortune for and abandoned after the disastrous Morecambe dive, and which I’d cleared out of the cottage months earlier. I’d put it into the back of Vera, along with some tasteless vases and the remains of a chipped and cracked dinner service to take to the charity shop. Which I’d never got round to.
I squelched my way round to Vera’s back door, opening it up and grabbing the garment from underneath the crockery, making my way back into the garage where the acne-faced attendant deigned to glance up for a mere second.
‘Do you have a bathroom, please?’ I asked.
‘’Fraid not, no.’ He turned back to his phone.
‘So where do you pee?’
‘Sorry?’
‘No need to apologise,’ I said loftily. ‘You musthavea loo.’
‘Private, love. Not for customers.’
‘Well, the alternative is for me to strip off, right here in the garage and right down to my pants in order to put this wetsuit on.’
The kid looked terrified. ‘First on your left. But I shouldn’t really… or everyone will want to use it…’
