I look at Shane, wondering how he really feels, being stuck here in Grimsby with me. If it was ever top of his wish list – ha! – or if he wonders what possessed him to come. Because it’s still a little weird between us as we stroll back towards Paradise Vale, with that sole mattress awaiting us. I’d have suggested another drink, if only to put off that terrible moment of going to bed together. But I wasn’t picking up the vibe that he’d be keen.
Back at the campsite, feeling grubby after the journey, I head for the shower block. After shivering beneath the feeble dribble, I towel myself briskly, telling myself it’ll be okay. He’s probably feeling as weird about all this as I am. Still, to avoid any getting-changed-in-front-of-Shane awkwardness, I’ve brought my night-time attire out with me. First, it’s big knickers, which I’d never wear under PJs normally – I mean, who does? But to not wear any would seem… unseemly. Then it’s pyjamas, selected for maximum plainness, baggy and faded and way past their prime. Lloyd has never witnessed them. For all he knows I always sleep either naked, or in a slippery, highly flammable cami set.
At the mirror above the basins, I brush out my wet hair, registering how drawn I look. The flickering strip light is harsher than my bathroom light, and I perform a quick inventory of the coarser grey that’s pushing its way through my highlights. Seemingly deepening creases – geographical faults – run from my nose to the outer corners of my mouth.
Is this what I’m really like now? Is this what Lloyd sees when he wakes up next to me? No wonder he smokes a lot of weed. Leaning against the bank of washbasins, I ping a ‘Night honey!’ message to him. He doesn’t reply and it remains unread. Now I’m thinking I’ll just go with his plan to monetise my feet. I could certainly do with the cash. My friend Gaby has been on at me, insisting that Rupert ‘can’t just sack you, especially for something you didn’t even do.’ I can get legal aid, she’s assured me. As a high-ranking HR person, she can advise me on employment law.
I rub at my face, wondering how my skin has turned so papery in the few hours since we left London, and whack on a blob of cheap moisturiser. I clean my teeth and pull on a sweater over my PJ top. Finally, like a child trying to avoid bedtime, I take a meandering route back to the van.
On the lake, a lone duck is gliding slowly. The moon is high and bright, and I watch a gauzy cloud passing over it. I’m grateful for the slightly hazing effect of a single large glass of wine – although it’s not enough to dampen the crackling sensations happening in my brain right now, like tiny fireworks ricocheting off my skull.
So this is what happens as the last traces of those magical antidepressants leave the body. If I focus hard enough, could I make those precious pills fly north to me and land in my hand? For his whole life, my father has been devoted to his homing pigeons. I try to picture the flat white packet as one of Dad’s beloved birds, miraculously finding its way from a bathroom cabinet in east London, delivers it to a campsite on the outskirts of Grimsby.
When that doesn’t work, I quicken my pace and climb into the van. ‘Hey,’ Shane says. He is sitting up on the mattress in a plain white T-shirt, his bottom half already tucked into what looks like a box-fresh sleeping bag. Although he appears to be immersed in that book again, I’m not sure how he is managing to read in the feeble glow of the lamp.
‘Hey,’ I say, shutting the door firmly behind me. I notice that already, he has positioned himself on the farthest edge of the mattress. If this were a raft, I’d worry about him toppling off. I tug off my sweater, feeling horribly self-conscious in my awful pyjamas (this is not how I dreamed I’d look, if our paths ever crossed again!) and rummage in my rucksack for my book. Once I’ve located it, I plonk myself down on ‘my’ side, shivering as I pull my own sleeping bag round me as best I can.
‘Broken zip,’ I explain.
‘Ah.’
‘Haven’t used it since me and Cora used to go camping when she was little.’
A look of concern crosses his face. ‘Bit chilly, isn’t it? Want to use mine?’
‘No, it’s fine!’ Calm down, for God’s sake. He didn’t say, ‘Want to get into mine?’ We play the pretending-to-be-reading game until finally Shane murmurs, ‘Let me know when you want to go to sleep.’
‘Yeah, I will.’ I close my book and focus instead on the silvery moonlight struggling through the rank, brown material taped up over the two rear windows. ‘I’m pretty tired, actually,’ I add.
‘Me too.’ Shane reaches for the lamp and clicks it off, and in a flurry of self-conscious shuffling, we wriggle fully into our sleeping bags. Shane, I notice, has fashioned a sweater into a pillow, so I grope for mine and do likewise.
All is quiet, apart from the sharp cry of a bird and the whisper of wind tickling the trees. I close my eyes, breathing in the sleeping bag scent of long-ago camping trips with Cora. I’m not sure if I can really smell it, or it’s like the way you sniff at your wrist hours after squooshing on that perfume you loved but couldn’t really afford, hoping to catch a hint of it. But I think it’s still there, embedded in the faded peach-coloured fabric.
We went all over, the two of us, long after our little car had died: to Kent, Somerset, Wiltshire, even Wales one time. Anyplace we could get to by train, and then walk or catch a local bus to a campsite. I inhale the sweet, warm smell of my daughter and me, happily cuddled up together in our tent on a warm summer’s night. I picture us cooking plump pink sausages over a fire and heating up spaghetti hoops in a little pan over our stove. Calming thoughts of blissful days, once Dale was permanently off the scene.
He’d pretty much broken off all contact by then, which was something of a relief. Although friends urged me to chase him for regular money, we were managing fine without him. Better than fine, in fact – and I’d rather we were left to our own devices rather than having him muscling in. We’d created a new way of living, just the two of us.
All is quiet now, apart from faint, distant voices somewhere on the campsite. Trying not to breathe weirdly, I will myself to tip over into sleep. ‘Night, then,’ Shane murmurs.
‘Goodnight.’ I lie there, as still as a rock in the darkness, calculating how many hours it is until dawn, and how many further hours until I am home again in my little flat. Already, Shane’s breathing has slowed and deepened. I flick a terse gaze in his direction. What is it about men and their ability to just conk out like that, even in the most bizarre situations? A wave of resentment surges over me. He’s probably in REM sleep already, dreaming blissfully! Good for him?—
‘Josie?’ he says.
My heart thumps. ‘Yes?’
‘You awake?’
‘No.’ I smile, and a pause hangs in the still night air.
Shane turns and looks at me, his eyes gleaming in the dark. ‘What d’you reckon Ravi’s thinking now?’
I can’t help smiling at that. ‘I think she’s laughing her arse off,’ I say.
He chuckles softly and I close my eyes, thinking about Cora and me, tucked up cosily in our little tent. And somehow a small miracle happens, because the next thing I know, it is morning.
19
SHANE
