‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’ he cuts in. ‘You were in a right mood when you came in.’
‘No I wasn’t!’ Why does he say this? Why do women have a monopoly on ‘moods’?
‘Did you know Jarvis has been sick?’ In the background there’s a babble of voices and a thumping beat.
‘Has he?’ I ask innocently.
‘Andthe bathroom door jammed shut,’ Vince goes on. ‘No idea how that happened...’
‘It did that before, remember?’
‘Yeah, well, anyway, I’ve been having to deal withallof this...’ There’s a female voice now, jabbering urgently, clearly very close to Vince. ‘Erm, are you anywhere near the garage?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘The garage. Are you near it?’
The bus is crawling past a vast office block – all glass and steel, its signage a swoosh of blue neon. ‘No. Not really,’ I reply.
‘Can you swing by, though?’
‘Whatfor?’
‘Just wondered if you could pick up some oat milk?’
I catch my breath. No,Can you just come home now? I’m worried about you, darling. Is something wrong?
‘Uh, unsweetened, Gail says,’ he adds, dropping his voice to a hiss. ‘You know what she’s like. If you can’t get that, she says almond’s fine but not soya –definitelynot soya – and if there’s only sweetened oat...’ the shrill voice pipes up again ‘...she’d rather have unsweetened almond than sweetened oat,’ Vince clarifies. ‘But if they only have sweetened almond then get pea milk—’
‘Pea milk?’ I repeat.
‘Yeah.’ A scathing laugh. ‘Who knew it existed? I mean, what’s that all about—’
‘Vince, I’m nowhere near the garage.’
‘—For feeding little baby peas?’ He snorts. ‘There’s potato milk too, apparently. For baby potatoes. Anyway, just get whatever you can. I’m sure she won’t keel over dead if it’s the wrong kind—’ And that’s all I hear because I end the call.
‘Pea milk,’ I mutter out loud, realising we’re pulling into the station and I haven’t a clue as to what to do next. It had seemed like the right – no, theonly– thing to do; to run away like Mum with George and me. But now, as I leave the coach station on this drizzly night, I’m hit with a wave of panic.
A hotel! That’s what I’ll do. I’ll check into a cheap place, get my head together and figure out what to do in the morning. If Vince calls back I’ll just ignore him, I decide, fury bubbling up inside me now. Maybehecan go out and get the fucking pea milk!
Using my phone, I find the nearest chain hotel. It’s a grim slab of stained grey concrete, chequered with tiny windows. The automatic glass doors slide open and I glimpse the bar, which seems to be entirely empty and dominated by an enormous TV.
Of course the place looks bleak. It’s a wet Sunday night at 10:15p.m. Wishing now that I’d at least brought a jacket, I huddle under the canopy at the entrance, where I’m soon joined by a very thin young man. He smiles broadly, sidles towards me and bites into a dripping kebab. ‘Like some?’ he asks.
‘No thanks.’ I stride away, the feeling of panic rising in me again.
‘Bitch!’ he yells after me. All those years I lived in this city I always felt fine and unafraid, because I belonged here. But tonight I’ve found myself alone in the rain, having an unwanted kebab thrust at me – and now an angry driver toots his horn as I step into the road without thinking. Has London turned against me?
So far I’ve held off calling anyone. I didn’t want to alarm my friends, or have them thinking I’ve gone mad. I needed to process what I’d done – to make some sense of it – before transmitting the news far and wide.
However, now I realise the last thing I want is to spend the night alone in a hotel room with a miniature plastic kettle and a miserable packet of biscuits.
‘Kate, honey! Everything okay?’ Tash picks up my call immediately. Although we message frequently we rarely phone out of the blue – especially not at night.
‘Not really,’ I start, my voice cracking. ‘Can you talk? I know it’s late...’ As if my best friend would say,Sorry, it’s not convenient.
‘’Course I can. What’s wrong? Where are you?’
