‘No, I decided to, er…’
‘Quite right. It can be a nightmare, the motorway around Birmingham…’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree, wondering when we might tear ourselves away from our respective modes of transport and move on to the reason we’re here, back in our West Yorkshire home town. Because our friend Ravi – Pam and Kamal’s beloved daughter – died.
‘So, which train did you get?’ Shane asks.
‘Oh, I actually got the bus,’ I say brightly.
‘From London?’
‘Yes.’ I smile to demonstrate how great it was. ‘I actually prefer it,’ I add.
‘Right. Yeah.’ He nods uncertainly and sips his beer, his green eyes catching the late evening light. ‘Buses can be, erm… really pleasant.’
‘And they’re so comfy these days!’ Now I’m a resurrected Victorian lady entranced by the Megabus. They have engines now! They’re not drawn by horses! ‘And we stopped at Donington Park services,’ I babble on, ‘which was great as I hadn’t brought any food or drink with me. Nothing at all. Stupid, huh? It’s an awfully long way to survive on your own saliva’ – Shane’s eyes widen – ‘and I hadn’t realised we’d stop, that we’d get a proper leg stretch…’ Shut up, you loon!
‘At the, erm… service station?’ Looking wary now, Shane has taken a step back.
‘Yes,’ I enthuse.
‘Oh, yeah. They’re better than they used to be, aren’t they?’
‘Definitely…’
‘Much more choice now.’
I nod, not quite understanding.
‘Of food places,’ he clarifies. ‘There’s Burger King, Costa…’
‘The Cornish Pasty Company,’ I chime in. ‘It’s a dilemma!’ Nearly four decades since we last saw each other and we’re discussing motorway food options. And never mind saw. It’s not as if I merely glimpsed him in passing that last time. We were nakedly entwined in a lumpy little single bed, having just had sex.
Don’t even think about it! I tell myself. It’s a spent conviction, wiped from your record. It no longer counts. My entire body tenses as I try to stop the image flooding my brain. But it bursts through anyway and now it’s all I can see. And somehow this causes my hand to spasm and my plate tips forward, and as I try to grab the tumbling pakoras and samosas, my glass flips towards me and empties all over my chest.
‘Christ!’ I cry.
‘Oh no.’ Shane looks aghast. ‘Let me get you something to dry off with.’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘Thank God it was white.’
‘Yes, lucky, that?—’
‘Terrible waste of wine, though!’
Shane laughs uncertainly and his gaze flickers around the garden. He could be admiring the cherry blossom, but I suspect he’s willing someone to come and take me away. Help me! is the message beaming out from his panic-stricken eyes. Get me away from this crazy woman?—
Then his attention is snagged, and a small miracle happens. Pam has appeared at the back door, dinging a glass with a teaspoon. ‘Everyone?’ she calls out. ‘Would you mind stepping inside now, please? We’re having a little bit of a speech.’
1
FOUR WEEKS EARLIER
Josie
I can’t believe it when the news first breaks. It’s one of those random social media posts when you think: hang on, is this true? You hope almost immediately that another post will appear: Reports of my death are grossly exaggerated!
Soon, though, tributes start to appear on Facebook.
