I’m driving because I don’t want to be the pathetic ninny in the passenger seat. I’m driving because I want to show Shane that I’m capable of handling an ambulance from the era of Ginger Spice in her Union Jack dress.
And I can do this, dammit. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Don’t be like dear, sweet Mum, too afraid to use the Soda Stream that had been presented to Dad as a long-service award from Smith & Parker, the engineering works. ‘I don’t like the way it gushes out, Billy. You do it!’
Actually, I’m not driving it properly yet. I’m manoeuvring the ancient heap extremely badly as we leave our parking space by the docks. It seems crucial, as I grapple and wrench the gear stick, to appear the epitome of calm. Although obviously I don’t care one jot what Shane thinks of me! I’m not at all disgruntled that I packed only my ugliest clothes and no hair conditioner and one set of PJs which is going to be rank by the end of this trip.
I don’t care that I have not one single attractive piece of clothing with me and no make-up whatsoever. Even though I love my make-up and have dutifully applied it daily since 1985! Why would I need a dab of concealer or a slick of lipstick on this trip? Why would I want to be attractive? It doesn’t matter what you look like, I told myself this morning as I surveyed my bleak, scrubbed face in the dreaded shower-block mirror. It’s not a date.
We lurch out of the relative quiet of the docks and through the confusing town centre where people appear to be driving normally, without fear. And finally, we are on the wild highway to Bridlington. It’s like sex, I decide, gripping the gear stick with an iron fist. That first time with Lloyd, it had been ages since I’d last done it – eighteen months by my reckoning. I was worried that I might have ‘changed’ down there, that he wouldn’t be able to get it in, or that my vagina would act like a grizzly bear, woken abruptly from hibernation, and bite him.
I glance at Shane, who’s clearly pretending to be fully confident in my abilities as the engine revs and growls and the gears screech. But I can tell he’s crapping himself by the way he keeps flexing his fingers, his gaze darting this way and that, as if he’s assessing potential hazards. I suspect he is also formulating tips for me, and that at any moment these tips will be dispensed. He certainly looks on the verge of saying something.
‘What?’ I bark at him.
‘Nothing! What?’
I shoot him a quick glare. I don’t need your tips, thank you very much!
We reach the end of the road and I stamp on the brake, causing us to lurch forward. Shane does an excellent job of pretending that didn’t happen, that everything is perfectly normal and we are just two middle-aged people enjoying a pleasant drive to the seaside.
I fumble for the indicator. ‘Er, if you just—’ he starts.
‘It’s fine!’
‘The indicators are?—’
‘I know, Shane, I know!’ Without indicating, I perform a clumsy right turn, the engine battling against the slight incline, then whining plaintively as we hit the straight, like a child tugging at his mother’s skirt. But rather than wanting a biscuit, it needs me to change gears, urgently, triggering more gear stick grappling until I finally jam the fucking thing into the correct position.
In the event, that first-time sex with Lloyd was fine, if a bit nervy. Not the greatest I’d ever had, but the relief I felt made up for that. I could still do it! My vagina had not merely let him in, but also out again! I’d had visions of it spasming and us being stuck like that until the paramedics arrived.
And once I get the hang of the ambulance, it feels, if not fine, then not as if I am about to kill us both. I glance at Shane. His expression has settled into one of studied composure. At least he no longer looks as if he’d like to open the passenger door and hurl himself out on to the road.
See, I can do this! Nothing to it— My thoughts break off as I hit a pothole with a bang – ‘Fuck!’ – and I grip the steering wheel to return us to a steady course. Thankfully, the road is fairly quiet. Just the odd car, travelling at a respectable speed, and then an enormous lorry appearing out of nowhere and thundering past us.
‘You okay?’ Shane asks in a thin, tense voice.
‘Yeah-I’m-fine,’ I mutter, teeth gritted. Fields stretch into the distance on either side, and the sea is somewhere out there, waiting for us. I breathe slowly and deeply and make a conscious effort to loosen my grip on the wheel.
Shane consults his phone, telling me that we’re on this road for half an hour or so, and look how blue the sky is now. Isn’t it a beautiful day? I’d reply but something else is happening.
My heart rate is quickening and my hands are slick with sweat. There’s no reason for it: no more thundering lorries, no wrangling of the gear stick as we’re travelling at a steady fifty on a fairly straight road. Swathes of green unspool into the distance, and I catch a glimmer of sparkling sea. Yet my heart is thumping, hammering against my ribs, and my throat has tightened.
I blink hard, trying to keep the road in focus. It seems like a game now, one of those PlayStation driving games that enthralled Cora’s boy mates when they were little kids. Although Cora wasn’t really interested, she pretended she was, to be part of the gang.
Now I seem to have exited real life and I’m in that driving game, wiping the sweat off each hand onto the thighs of my jeans. Shane turns towards me. ‘You sure you’re alright?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say briskly, my tongue a dry cardboard flap. Behind us, a car toots as I waver too close to the verge. Panic surges up in me, and I can feel sweat trickling down my cleavage. I force my gaze on the white line in the centre of the road, exhaling forcefully now, still trying to maintain a rigid I’m-in-control! expression. But my hands are shaking, immediately wet again after each thigh-wipe, and I can’t make them stop.
Never mind indicating. Never mind mirror–signal–manoeuvre as I swerve into a lay-by and bang on the brakes and slump forward, panting, with my head in my hands.
‘Josie!’ Shane’s voice seems to float around my head.
‘I’m so sorry, I could’ve killed us, I?—’
‘It’s okay. You’re all right. Take it easy, just breathe…’ He touches my forearm, and then his arm is around my shoulders, pulling me close. I lean into him, crying now and wanting him to never let me go.
21
Gradually, I start to breathe normally again and peel away from him. ‘Just give me a minute,’ I whisper, pushing my damp hair away from my face.
