‘Yes, not sure why, it felt fitting somehow, but how foolish do I feel, now I know your name is in fact Car Park Woman. Is it French? Hungarian? Dutch? I’m not familiar with it, I’m assuming Woman is your surname and is Car Park double-barrelled?’
‘That’s correct. Most people shorten it to the initials CP.’
‘Ah, makes sense. So, CP, here we are.’
Enya smiled. ‘Yes, here we are.’
She felt some of her confidence restored, enjoying the warm feeling in her stomach, a reminder of what this felt like, whateverthiswas, wary of adding words or labels that would sound as frivolous and ridiculous as they sounded in her head. She was a grown woman, not some teen hankering for company.
‘How’s the car, have you administered paracetamol, a bandage, spoken soft words of reassurance, offered sweet tea?’
‘All of the above.’
He made it easy. Easy to chat, easy to forget her loneliness, easy to mask her loss.
‘I see.’ There was a beat of companionable silence. ‘Well, that makes me very happy.’
‘How so?’ She sat up a little, all nerves withering, replaced with something that felt a lot like energy.
‘Because if your car is comfortable and doing as well as can be expected, that means you haven’t discovered any new or disastrous levels of damage that might necessitate the intervention of our insurance companies, which hopefully means you just wanted to talk to me.’
‘I did. I did just want to talk to you.’ Unsure of where this self-assuredness came from, in that instant she sounded as bold as she felt. This, however, was underpinned with the rumble of unease that she still hadn’t established if he was free to be having this rather flirtatious chat at all, and that was before she could swallow the tang of shame at how she could say this at all – her, Enya Brown, Jonathan’s wife.
‘Well, I’m rather glad. I would have called this afternoon.’
‘I see. And what would prompt such a call to a stranger?’
‘Simple, really, I wanted to know about that one night, what happened? The night you thought you might have been trendy and a go-getter when you were seventeen.’
It was her turn to laugh. It was flattering and connecting, not only his interest but his recollection of that one brief conversation in the car park, seemingly as sharp as her own.
‘Well, that’s funny, as I wanted to know why you have hadquite the day?’ she quoted.
‘You first,’ he urged, and she could tell he was smiling.
‘Gosh, it was a very long time ago.’ Suddenly, she felt a little uneasy at being so candid with this man she knew nothing about, a complete stranger.
‘I’m interested,’ he stated, the words loaded.
‘You are?’
‘I am.’
There was something about the way he spoke that drew her to a place of safety. It smacked of promise, of connection.
‘Take your time.’
She breathed out slowly and, as instructed, took her time, as if they were old friends or old lovers or, at the very least, better acquainted to the point where to share with him tales of one night in her seventeenth year, spent on the island of Mallorca, was no big deal. She turned her body towards the window, tilting her head away from the bathroom door where Jonathan stood.
‘It was our last night of a holiday in Palma. The first time I’d been away without my parents, and they only allowed it because I was with my big sister, Angela, who had rather carelessly got food poisoning. I think it was probably the warm ham sandwich she ate on the sand, which had been wrapped in her towel for a couple of hours. Anyway, it was either a case of sit indoors and watch her face turn grey or pluck up the courage to go out on my own. So, I went wandering, which was most unlike me. I wasn’t brave. I’ve never been brave,’ she admitted, ‘yet honestly? There was something about pushing myself out of my comfort zone that made me feel invincible! I remember everything about the evening. I’ve never thought I was pretty or attractive, not like Angela, who has fabulous bosoms.’ She glanced down at her chest where her fried eggs sat, as perkily as they were able, inside her cotton nightie. ‘She takes after our Nana Collins, who had melons, whereas I am more like our Nanny Jan.’
He laughed and she winced – how had she so quickly got on to the topic of boobies? She glanced over her shoulder towards Jonathan, who looked past her into the middle distance, and she felt a fine film of shame cover her.
‘Anyway, I was always lanky and pale, but not that night. That night I was alone in a foreign land, all warm and glorious, with the smell of paella wafting on the breeze, pesetas in my pocket and strawberry lip gloss in my clutch. Angela had bought these silver platform shoes and was saving them for her last night – well, I couldn’t let them go to waste, could I?’
‘That would have been criminal,’ he agreed, and it made her smile.
‘Exactly, so I slipped them on and borrowed one of her off-the-shoulder T-shirt dresses, bouffed up my hair with enough hairspray to stop a gale, and off I went. I didn’t walk down that strip, Dominic, oh no. I strutted. It was my catwalk; my moment, and I was on the hunt.’
