In his brand-new sleeping bag, bought to demonstrate to Josie how sorted he is these days, Shane didn’t sleep a wink. Yet weirdly, it didn’t seem to drag on for weeks like the normal kind of sleepless night. Compare, say, a shop day with virtually zero customers and bugger all happening, with one that’s filled with complicated orders for strings for a ukelele group in Toronto and an orchestra in Belarus and a kid having a blast on every saxophone in the shop and various men of a certain age ambling in to try this guitar and that guitar, with endless permutations of amp and pedal.
Last night was that sort of night. It was hectic, and not with urgent requests from orchestras and string ensembles, but with thoughts bouncing chaotically around in Shane’s head, such as:
My God, I’m lying on a mattress in an ambulance with Josie.
Is this really happening or just a bizarre dream?
So, what happens tomorrow? (He checked the time, taking care not to wake her with the glow of his phone. 4.58 a.m.)
Am I going to be okay to drive this thing tomorrow?
Of course I am. I’m so wired right now I could drive to the moon.
Am I taking over with the driving, though?
Does she think I’m a sexist twerp who doesn’t like being driven by a woman?
Josie said she’s happy to do it. But does that mean she wants to?
Am I acting weird? Was that mad of me, to offer to sleep in the cab? He’d sleep out there on the grass if she wanted him to.
We’re being overly polite and not talking about the stuff that really matters. Do we need to go over it all? Or is it better to pretend that none of it ever happened?
And – while all of that was rolling around in his brain – another more pressing line of enquiry was simmering away underneath.
What was that stuff going on with her boyfriend last night?
While Shane wasn’t eavesdropping, he couldn’t help overhearing certain fragments. ‘I’m a deformed peasant?’ ‘You never mentioned videos.’ ‘Lloyd, I’m not showing anyone my tits!’ He knows that Josie is currently out of work, and he’s furious on her behalf with that arsehole at the bookshop. He is also trying not to make any wild assumptions over alternative career plans that her boyfriend might have in mind for her.
However, at precisely 6.04 a.m., Shane decided that he had already taken a strong dislike to this Lloyd person. Should I ask if she’s okay? his thoughts raced on. Tell her how sorry I am about what happened between us? Finally, at around six thirty, he knew there was no point in lying there any longer. The sun was already squeezing its way through the grubby sack-like curtains at the van’s back windows. Shane eased his exhausted corpse from his sleeping bag and delved into his neatly packed rucksack for a notebook and pen.
He tore off a sheet and wrote a note.
Going out for a walk, won’t be long, hope you slept well.
He thought about adding ‘Shane’ or even ‘Shane x’. But who else would it be from? Father Christmas? So he left it like that, placed next to the still-sleeping Josie, and as quietly as possible he opened the ambulance’s back door and blinked in the retina-searing morning sun.
He crossed the campsite, breathing in the cool, fresh air and marvelling at the quietness of the place. Seemingly, not another soul was up and about yet. In the rumpled T-shirt and joggers he’d slept in – he hadn’t wanted to disturb Josie by faffing about with his clothes – he left the site and walked in the direction of the pub they’d stopped off at last night. From there he continued into town, where neatly kept terraced cottages soon gave way to small businesses. A pet shop, a grocer’s and a post office, all closed. Then finally he spotted a greasy spoon café. He checked the sign listing its opening hours and decided to wait.
This is where Shane is now, his spirits lifting at the thought of hot coffee and something to eat. Finally, a blonde ponytailed woman appears, smiling at him through the glass door and beckoning him in.
‘Thanks,’ he says, conscious of his dishevelled state. He runs a hand over his unkempt hair and asks for a couple of takeaway coffees and bacon rolls, wrapped in foil to keep them hot.
‘There you go, love,’ the woman says with a cheery smile.
By the time he arrives back at the campsite, Josie is up and showered, judging by her still-wet hair. ‘You needn’t have done that,’ she says, as he hands over her coffee and roll. ‘But thanks.’
‘No problem,’ Shane says. ‘I was awake early and fancied a walk. Also, I realise I don’t know if you eat bacon, or if you’re vegetarian or?—’
‘I eat bacon,’ she says with a grin. They perch on the lumpy stone wall and as they devour their breakfasts, Shane glances down at his T-shirt and joggers. ‘I really need a shower,’ he says apologetically.
‘The facilities are fantastic.’ Josie smiles. ‘Five-star.’
He chuckles. ‘Compared to Doris’s, you mean?’
She nods, knocking crumbs from the front of her sweater. ‘There’s hot water at least.’
‘Glad to hear it. So, how did you sleep last night?’
