The only thing for it is to slip the episode into the already over-stuffed file in my brain, labelled Josie’s Grave Errors of Judgement. But instead, my head floods with images of me and him last night, loving each other that way, in our hotel bed. All I want now is to jump off this bus, wherever we stop next, and call him.
I want to ask him to meet me in the ambulance or, if that’s not possible, in London. I want to tell him that I lied to Ravi that night of the broken guitar in Huddersfield. That I hadn’t meant what I’d said to her; that I’d loved him madly. After he’d gone, I’d glanced into his little single room, at the bed that was still rumpled from us, a lone pillow lying on the floor.
Glancing briefly at the egg slice, I go to pull my phone from my bag and check for messages. But instead, my hand snags on our Polaroids, bundled together with one of my ponytail bands. I pull them out and remove the band and study them, one by one.
Hello, Grimsby, Bridlington, Scarborough and Pontefract! I think of the jovial publican in The Black Bull: ‘What, like the Rolling Stones?’
No, I think: like two people who really only ever wanted to be together. Reaching for my phone, I go to our message thread. With Monster Muncher still snoring erratically at my ear, I try to find the right words to say to Shane. Best golden love – that would do! But he feels so far away now, I just can’t do it.
He feels as far away as Barentsburg.
34
SHANE
On this warm and humid evening, Shane tries to appreciate the shabby charm of his street. He is lucky to live here he reflects as he parks Doris as close as he can to his block.
It’s not the London of artisan bakeries and speciality coffee shops with tasting notes on their various bean varieties. (He can’t fathom how they can have ‘bursts’ of citrus, clove and jasmine. And if he’s honest, Shane doesn’t fully understand what matcha is.). But it’s his London, and he loves it. From the very first day when he and Paula landed here, he felt as if he belonged.
Even so, he’s been putting off going home – to the point where he stayed away for an extra night, at a campsite in some random spot in the Midlands. He just needed a little more time to try and get his head together. All was fine with the shop, Fletch said. ‘No need to hurry back. Glad it’s all worked out so well, mate!’
Shane wouldn’t have put it that way exactly. He’d sat there alone in the van, drinking beer, missing Josie with an actual ache, and trying to piece together exactly how everything had gone so wrong.
The other reason for being in no hurry to get back is the fact that his home doesn’t feel the same to him any more. As he approaches his block, with his rucksack on his back, Shane’s chest is taut with tension. It’s not that he is afraid to enter his flat; that he is primed to intercept an intruder or find blood on the walls. More that he is hoping with every cell of his being that Elaine won’t be there.
He needs, more than ever, a bit of time to himself. Just to sit and think in a quiet room, without Elaine chattering about her Crafternoon sessions and what does he think of her polka dot gel nails and thrusting her phone at him with a picture of an outfit she wants to buy.
What was the last thing she wanted his opinion on? Something green and pink, emblazoned with peacocks? ‘Jesus, Shane, it’s a co-ord set,’ she’d cackled. He’d thought they were pyjamas.
Thoughts of this type always make him feel guilty, as Elaine can’t help her situation. In recent years she’s lived in terrible flats and done some pretty grim jobs. She’s worked in shabby clubs and cleaned budget hotel rooms favoured by stag and hen crowds. Of course she’s entitled to kick up her heels and have some fun. And this situation is only temporary, he reminds himself as he climbs the short flight of metal stairs, lets himself into his flat and steps into his hallway.
Setting down his rucksack, he looks around and listens and inhales. The door was only on the Yale lock – no Chubb lock – but that doesn’t mean anything. Elaine never bothers to double-lock it. Still, no TV is blaring, and no one is clomping about or singing loudly in the bathroom. There is no smell of burnt fat hanging in the air.
‘Hi?’ Shane calls out tentatively. No reply comes. He still expects her to bound out from her bedroom, or the bathroom, in her pink satin pyjamas with her face slathered in some kind of creamy mask. It’s almost noon, but it’s not unlike her to lie in until lunchtime after a heavy night.
The realisation that he has returned to an Elaine-free home triggers a small wave of relief. He wanders into the living room and sees that, instead of lying all over the room, as if tossed about by a gale, her puzzle magazines are sitting in a neat stack on the coffee table.
Curious behaviour, he notes, making his way to the kitchen where – shockingly – there is no chopping board left out, no dirty frying pan left on the hob. All that’s out on the draining board are two wine glasses, washed and placed upside down to dry.
He registers the vase of carnations on the table, their pastel colours reminding him of Love Heart sweets, and for about a billionth time he checks his phone.
Still no message from Josie. He feels stupid for even thinking she might contact him because she’d made it absolutely clear that she didn’t want anything more to do with him. That’s why Shane hasn’t messaged her. And anyway, what would he have said? With a heavy feeling in his chest, he makes himself a mug of builder’s tea and a slice of toast with the lone, stale crust that’s left in the bread bin.
Again, he studies the carnations. Weird, he thinks. Elaine has never bought flowers for the flat before.
Carrying his tea and toast through to the living room, he places them on the coffee table and stretches out on the sofa, a little achy from driving the rattling biscuit tin. Without Josie at his side, even with his stop-off in the Midlands, the drive home had seemed interminable.
He chews on his toast, remembering those motorway toasties they’d had, when it had still felt so weird and awkward between them. Yet even then, he’d felt glad that they were doing this mad thing together. He’d had a feeling about it, even then. That it might heal things somehow – perhaps even repair their friendship.
He reaches for his phone and messages Boris, confirming that he’s back in London, and would he like him to drop off the van at his flat, or the shop?
Boris
Shop’s fine. Did the old girl behave herself?
Then, in quick succession:
I’m talking about Doris, not your esteemed lady friend!
