WHY use that word with the handsome stranger, Audrey? Gawd!
‘I know what ASMR is …’ he says. There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat and adds, ‘I meant “Defying Gravity”.’
O-oh!
‘Now turn around and look where you’re going!’
I’m still reeling from his impressive showtune knowledge as he squeezes my hand tighter on the wheel, the gentle pressure of his arm nudging the back of my seat as we hold our collective breath and reverse Miss Bennet as a duo. Eventually our choreography brings my little vehicle nestled safely in beside his enormous Viper, and I turn off the engine and unleash my belt in a flash.
‘Go forward again,’ he says, letting go of my hand and facing straight ahead.
‘But it’s fine here, isn’t it?’
‘If you can park it independently in this weather, you can park it anywhere.’
I don’t care. It’s late. It’s dark. I’m exhausted from a long drive and an even longer three years, and I don’t need a driving lessonnow.
‘Come on. I might not be around tomorrow,’ he says.
I find myself disproportionately disappointed by this news. Are we trauma bonding? No, this is a minor mishap. Barely a scratch in the scheme of things. I’m just hungry and lightheaded and haven’t so much as hugged a strange man in more than thirty-six months, so my libido has clearly gone haywire at the slightest touch.
Next, I’m driving forward, reversing again, and slowly but surely getting the job done perfectly! So I go straight in for an unreciprocated high-five—enthusiasm incommensurable with our circumstances, apparently. I won’t mention the expensive towing course Sara recommended, or the fact that I’d redirected that budget into Etsy, ordering Miss Bennet a blue-and-white-striped cloth awning from which I plan to dangle fairy lights.
He wrenches on the brake and says, ‘I assume you’re insured?’ ‘Oh, yes!’ I’m proud to show some competence at last. ‘Administration is my superpower!Thanks, Ritalin.’ He stares at me while I blunder on, oversharing my psychiatric diagnosis in the adrenaline comedown. ‘I quit my job last month. My reference says I’m particularly talented at Excel, which, had you met me five or six years ago, you honestly wouldn’t believe!’
The man can at least mark himself safe from being flirted with by the unemployed spreadsheet whiz who has run up several thousand dollars’ worth of damage to his vehicle. There’s a flash of that first email from Fraser about the six-hundred-dollar mistake at the law firm, and I blink my eyes, attempting to banish it.
‘All right, Peter Drucker,’ he says. ‘Give me ten minutes, grab your paperwork, come next door, and we’ll sort it out.’
‘Siri, who is Peter Drucker?’ I ask as soon as he gets out and walks between our vehicles, stripping his wet shirt over his head on his way up the steps, treating me and my derelict libido toa preview of his torso as the door slams shut. The image burns itself into my brain while I sift through the glove box again for my paperwork and Siri says, ‘Peter Drucker was the father of modern management and administration.’
I stop shuffling and catch sight of myself in the mirror. Between the bedraggled hair, smudged mascara, and having just been compared to a dead twentieth-century management theorist, my confidence is in freefall.
I feel around in the back seat for something dry to change into. Anything. My hand finds yesterday’s shirt—not ideal, but any port in a storm—and as I begin to strip the wet one off, there’s a loud rap on the car window.Oh my God!
Pulling down the glass, I glare at him while clutching the top against my chest. ‘Do you mind?’
‘The amenities block is closed,’ he informs me, seemingly not a bit interested in my state of undress. ‘Flooded from earlier.’
My gaze travels to the brick building, yellow hazard tape draped across the entryway reflected in a giant puddle of muddy water.
‘Camping seemed more glamorous on Pinterest,’ I mutter, remembering all the times I told Fraser I didn’t care for it. But that’s the point of this. To do thingsdifferently.
‘Bring a change of clothes and use my shower if you like.’
He can’t be serious.
I might have blown up my entire life, sold my things, resigned, and stormed out during my family’s anti-caravan intervention, but I’m not entirely reckless. Not in a millionyearswill I be scurrying next door with my insurance policy and my toiletries case, kicking off my yellow Wellingtons, and taking a shower in the Viper’s lair.
35
FRASER
The Bookies have made themselves comfortable in my living room, the way they’ve done almost every Thursday night for the past three years since the first gathering Audrey missed. They almost never read the book these days. I’m convinced they’re just posing as a book club to offer guerrilla grief support—and it’s been a masterclass in friendship that would have knocked Audrey’s socks off.
‘White or red?’ I ask Rachael.
The conversation has drifted to dating apps, and specifically why I am not on them. I’m not ready for this. Rachael knows I’m not. But instead of helping me by changing the subject, she nods towards the bottle of cabernet sauvignon, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, unreadable blue eyes refusing to meet mine as she proffers her glass.
