I didn’t think for one moment anyone with a modicum of survival instinct would be wanting to use this garage loo. The odorous toilet, in need of a good seeing to with brush and Toilet Duck, had me holding my breath as I closed the cubicle behind me and stripped off the soaking rags that were all that was left of my purchase from Leeds. I unzipped and climbed into Dean’s wetsuit – a Viking Men’s Hooded Front Zip, according to the suit’s inside label.
Apart from a surplus of purple rubber hanging down incongruously between my legs and what can only be described as sartorially inelegant, I didn’t think I looked too bad. I even pulled the zip down to reveal a bit of cleavage, but decided that was a step too far and pulled the zip back up and over my chin. I gathered my wet clothes and whatever dignity remained and, still in my high heels, saluted imperiously in the open-mouthed attendant’s direction before making my way back to the van.
‘Please start,’ I implored Vera. ‘Please!’
At the second attempt, accompanied by a manic tantivy of my heeled foot on the gas pedal, the old girl coughed and spluttered into life and carried me the five minutes down to George’s apartment.
* * *
By the time I’d parked, the rain that had been threatening all day was coming down in stair rods, bouncing off the path that led to the apartment’s swish reception area. I pulled up the wetsuit hood (though why I bothered I don’t know. Could I actually get any wetter?) and went for it.
‘I thought you weren’t coming…’ he said, smiling as he opened his door and then stared. ‘Listened to the weather forecast, did you…?’ He bent slightly, staring further at what must have appeared a dripping seal on his doorstep, peering closely at my eyes, the only bit of me not covered by black, red and purple rubber. ‘Itisyou, isn’t it?’ Obviously unsure, he stepped back slightly in alarm and then, as I pulled down the hood, he said, ‘Right, OK.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feigning surprise, the whole ridiculous events of the last thirty minutes rendering me slightly hysterical, ‘have I got it wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ George asked warily.
‘Robyn told me you were into rubber.’
‘Er, don’t think so. Although I’m not averse to pink high heels…’ He glanced at my dripping, squelching, too-high sandals that were now rubbing and hurting like hell.
‘Relax, George!’ I started to laugh. ‘Just let me get my clothes off.’
‘I rather thought we could eat first…’ he started, still not allowing me over his doorstep.
‘George,’ I said patiently. ‘I set off looking rather gorgeous, even though I do say it myself. I stopped to wash Vera…’
‘Vera…?’ George looked even more worried.
‘Myvan.’ I sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I left the nearside window open, got utterly soaked to my pants and, rather than go home and change and be an hour and a half late for your dinner’ – I sniffed appreciatively at a delicious smell drifting down the hallway – ‘I pulled on the only dry garment in the van which happened to be Dean’s abandoned wetsuit.’
George started laughing. ‘No orange Sainsbury’s carriers involved?’
‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘So, while I don’t wish to appear high-handed, could you pour me an extremely large gin, find me, perhaps, a pair of trackie bottoms and a T-shirt? And lead the way to your shower? Iwasfrozen but now I’m absolutely boiling in this thing as well as smelling of wheel shampoo and wax…’
Without another word, George took me along the wooden-floored hallway, opening a door on the left which led to an obviously male-owned bathroom. All black tiles and chrome with a massive walk-in wet room (Lola would have been in her element) and a pile of black fluffy towels. The shelves were filled with expensive – very masculine – toiletries.
I was pleased to see there was nothing even slightly feminine on the bathroom shelves. Outside, he’d left a pair of rather-too-long navy joggers, a navy T-shirt and – naturally, not having a spare bra on me – I was relieved to see a large navy hoody, a 2019 tennis tournament emblazoned on its back. I found a somewhat soggy lipstick and blusher in my wet handbag, fluffed up my black curls the best I could and stepped out.
I made my way out – my doorstep bravado having gone down the plughole with the remains of my make-up and perfume – and turned right.
‘I’ve put some newspaper in your shoes,’ George said, passing me a huge glass of gin and tonic. ‘Get that down you’ – he grinned – ‘and tell me the whole story again.’
Later, much later, when we’d eaten a simple but utterly delicious mushroom risotto and green salad followed by a slice of the famous Victoria sponge (and yes, George was right, it was knockout), we lay together on his vast sofa (one of those that took over the whole of the room, involved two ninety-degree angles and was so typically male). And I realised, even though I’d little make-up (as well as no bra and knickers) on, I felt utterly at ease with this man; almost, if it doesn’t sound pretentious (and, to be honest, the gin probably played a part), at peace.
‘What’s happening with Mina and Ruby?’ I asked, turning to George. ‘D’you know?’
‘She’s gone,’ George said. ‘Seemingly taking my car with her.’
‘Oh blimey! D’you mind?’
‘About the car? Yes, I do! I loved that car. Mind you, it would always remind me of that poor kid, Blane, so probably better it appears to have gone for good.’
‘And Mina?’
‘Relieved that I won’t be bumping into her.’
‘Because you still… you know…?’ I held my breath.
