Our first prop.
Josie
For what? Don’t understand!
Lloyd is typing. I look out to see Shane being served by a large man in white overalls.
Lloyd
The idea is we’ll get your feet in here, get them all muddied up and I’ll film you?—
The driver’s door opens, and I plonk my phone face down on my lap. ‘Thanks,’ I say, as Shane hands me my roll and coffee.
‘No problem.’ We chomp away in silence for a few moments. That trough was in my flat, I noticed. Lloyd has built it there, and the thought of it awaiting my return causes my stomach to shift uneasily. Videos are what the punters like. And if they ask for anything you don’t want to do, we’ll just block them.
Have I turned into a prude? Am I the vanilla one now?
I catch Shane looking at me. ‘Everything all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘Apart from the weather…’
‘Yeah. Bit grim, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Hopefully it’ll brighten up soon.’ But as we drive to the campsite, the rain comes on even more heavily, if that were possible. Doris’s antiquated windscreen wipers can barely handle the deluge. We pull up at the roadside, a little way from the entrance. I glance at Shane, wondering if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
‘What are we going to do here?’ I ask. ‘It’s quite a hike into town and we don’t have umbrellas or proper rain gear. At least, I don’t…’ I think of my friend Nisha teasing me that I never have the proper attire for climatic conditions. ‘That hike we did in the Lake District,’ she’s fond of reminiscing, ‘when you wore your Converse!’ I couldn’t see what was wrong with that.
‘We could wait and see how the day turns out?’ Shane suggests.
‘I guess so.’ In the lull that follows, I sense him turning over alternative plans. I can read him, I realise. I’ve never been able to do that with Lloyd. Does he really think I remember Churchill as prime minister, or does he just enjoy winding me up?
Shane turns to me. ‘Or,’ he says, ‘we could just head on to Pontefract?’
‘You mean, miss out Scarborough?’ I exclaim.
‘Well, no,’ he says quickly. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? We’re within the town’s boundaries.’ He pulls a mock-furtive expression as if Ravi might be watching us, beadily.
‘We should do the photo, at least,’ I announce. And so, with the distinct feeling of our old friend directing us, we drive into town. Cockles, our former venue, was once a tacky little club with feeble disco lights and a dry ice machine that nearly choked us. Now it’s a bar called Ricky’s, not yet open for business at 11.30 a.m. and looking rather sterile inside.
We take our picture outside it, huddled in the rain with Shane’s arm slung around me, our hair plastered to our heads. ‘Thanks, Ravi,’ he chuckles.
Mild hysteria is rising in me and soon we’re laughing at the absurdity of this. ‘This is mad, isn’t it?’ I turn to him, grinning, as rain drips down my face.
‘Just a bit,’ he agrees.
But I’m glad we’re doing this, I want to tell him. I’m glad I’m here – soaked to the skin – with you. How kind he was about my stupid panic attack I reflect as we head back to the van. And how willing and stoical he is, with not a moan about the mattress situation, even though I’ve caught him stretching out his lean body, as if easing out his knotted muscles, as I do. I’ve tried not to watch as he does this.
‘So, what now?’ he asks.
‘Let’s just stay,’ I say.
‘What, forever?’ he teases.
‘Of course!’ I laugh. ‘I want to spend the rest of my life here. It’s my dream.’
Shane smiles. ‘You mean stay at the campsite tonight, right?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We might as well do it properly, rather than skipping a night.’ So that’s what we do, parking up at the site, after which hot showers are necessary, followed by hot chocolates in the campsite café. We while away the afternoon there – it doubles as a games room – joined by a family with many children who delight in the extensive selection of board games.
‘Buckaroo!’ I exclaim, as the dad sets it up at the next table. ‘It was our favourite,’ I tell Shane, ‘when Cora was little.’
