‘You don’t need one,’ his mum had said firmly.
As a parent, he had to do better than that.
And now Shane is driving home alone, back to Onion Elaine, wondering how he could have handled things so much better this morning. What is it about him and his ability to mess things up? And why on earth had Ravi sent him and Josie on this ridiculous trip? Maybe it was to pay them back for something. That’s all he can think of. But then, what could it have been? Surely she hadn’t still been pissed off about what had happened in that Huddersfield guest house, back in 1988?
Whatever it is, Shane can’t fathom it out at all. All he does know is that somehow, in a pretty major way, he’s made a terrible mistake.
33
JOSIE
My bus journey back to London has taken an even darker turn.
The man sitting next to me has pulled out a crisp packet from his bag and is noisily crunching some kind of powerful-smelling snack. Monster Munch, I realise. Beef flavour, judging by the stink.
What kind of middle-aged man eats Monster Munch on a bus? It has to be an offence. Section 67 of the Aggravating Snackery Act 1982.
I shoot him a quick look. He smiles, wet-lipped, before sucking each finger clean (mustn’t waste that salty dust!). Finally, he licks a finger and slithers it around the bottom of the packet to mop up any remaining bits.
Once finished, he scrunches up the packet and swivels fully towards me. ‘Been on a holiday, love?’
‘Um, no, just a short trip.’
‘Ah, right. Back home, huh?’ He’s picked up on the traces of my West Yorkshire accent.
‘Kind of,’ I fib, hoping that will shut him down.
‘Have a good time?’
‘It’s been fun.’ Yeah – fantastic! Apart from sleeping with a very old friend, and then acting so badly this morning, leaving him there after what happened last night. I close my eyes briefly, trying to blot out the horror. One more town and we’d have finished what we’d set out to do. We’d have done it for Ravi, for her parents – for ourselves.
‘No place like home, eh?’ the man remarks.
‘No.’ I force a smile.
‘So, d’you live in London?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, wondering why I am programmed to make conversation with strangers like this. Don’t they say that, as your oestrogen dwindles, you stop caring what anyone thinks of you? If anything, I care more.
‘Oh, I couldn’t live there,’ the man declares, scowling. ‘So busy and dirty. I’m only going on a quick visit to see a mate.’
I shrug. ‘Well, I like it.’
‘Do you?’ he exclaims, as if I’d said, I absolutely love to roll in manure.
‘Yes, I do.’ The beef odour is lingering and I need something to mask it. I delve into my shoulder bag, thinking peppermint will do it – but there’s no gum. Not even a loose pellet kicking around among the cheap lip balms and ageing make-up.
In weirdly mirroring behaviour, the man has started to rummage in his own bag. Finally, he extracts a roll tightly encased in cling film. He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite. Of course it’s an egg roll – not even egg mayo but sliced egg, pungently sulphurous and mingling with the beef. I know this because a slice has tumbled out and landed on his right thigh. How can he leave it sitting there on his trouser leg? Is he hoping it’ll sink in, like spilt water on a rug?
I eyeball the egg slice. It seems to be eyeballing me back, mockingly. See your life? it sneers. It’s a mess. Look at you, travelling home by bus. How does that make you feel? What must Shane be thinking now?
The bus rumbles on. Apparently sufficiently fed, Monster Muncher has nodded off and is snoring throatily. Many moons ago, when Cora was around twelve – and apparently still liked me and wasn’t determined to keep me away from her – she did a school project on the world’s remotest settlements. I still remember our giggles when she told me about a chilly little town in northern Norway. ‘Is that where the cake comes from?’ I’d asked.
‘Not Battenburg, Mum,’ Cora spluttered. ‘Barentsburg.’
That’s how far home feels right now, with the egg slice having travelled roughly a hundred miles on the man’s sheeny-trousered leg. But I can handle it. I’m a hardy, peasant-footed northern girl and I can survive a lengthy bus journey with a stranger belching quietly beside me. I just need to grit my teeth and banish all thoughts of last night from my mind.
It was a big mistake, I tell myself firmly. Topping off the night with a gallon of liquidised sweets, and then sleeping with Shane when I was messed up over the Lloyd stuff? It was never going to turn out well.
