‘They weren’t a deciding factor, but I do have a fondness for people who automatically serve biscuits with tea without even asking. My kind of person.’
I pick up my own mug from the campervan’s countertop and he lifts his legs so I can get past and sit on the bench seat across from him, and then he sprawls them back out again.
I sigh, because with his easy-going smile and the way he makes everything seem lighter than it is, it’s easy to forget that I’m in real trouble here. ‘Your kind of person who’s going to end up in prison when she gets caught.’
I don’t expect him to laugh so hard that he creases up. ‘You won’t end up in prison for this.’
‘I’ve stolen a campervan!’ I go to snap and then lower my voice and hiss the words instead, just in case there’s a nosy dogwalker lurking nearby.
‘You had the spare key. That’s implied permission. It’s like giving someone your bank card and PIN and then being surprised when they help themselves to all your money. Your ex will have called the police and got a crime reference number, but the police aren’t interested in sorting out domestic tit-for-tats. The van will be marked as stolen and if traffic recognition cameras flag it up, you’ll be pulled over, at which point you can explain all that and be on your way. At worst, they’ll impound it and your ex will have aheavybill for getting it out.’
‘You mean they’re not tracking my every move? Triangulating my phone signal? Appealing for dashcam footage and poring over traffic cameras up and down the A1? Monitoring usage of my bank card?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘So I threw my phone into a river in Peterborough for no reason?’ I squeak incredulously, even though being phoneless hasn’t been an entirely bad thing lately.
‘You threw your phone…’ He repeats like it’s such a silly notion that he can’t finish the sentence because he’s laughing too hard. ‘You can’t honestly think they’d track your phone because you drove off in a vehicle you had a key to, can you?’
‘I don’t know! I’ve never stolen anything before! That’s what they do on TV! What about sniffer dogs?’
I didn’t think he could find it any funnier, but now the van is shaking from the force of his cackling and he’s wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘You’ve got to stop making me laugh like this, it’s actually starting to hurt.’
It takes a few minutes for him to catch his breath and answer, and even that sets him off giggling again. ‘No, Dolly. No sniffer dogs. And police are not going to roar up at the village shop because you used your debit card.’
I’m not sure whether to be offended because he obviously thinks I’m melodramatic or just reassured by his sensible outlook that’s hopefully realistic rather than optimistic.
‘I’d be more concerned about the vehicle insurance aspect,’ he says when he’s got the laughter under control enough to speak in full sentences again. ‘Are you a named driver on it?’
‘I doubt it. Jared never said anything, so I’d assume not.’
‘Then you can’t drive it. Driving without insurance is a strict liability offence. Immediate fine and points on your licence, likely followed by a court appearance, a further fine, and possibly a driving ban. You’re lucky to have got as far as you did without being caught on that angle. I wouldn’t risk going far until you’ve got this sorted.’
‘Oh, great.’ I huff. I really am stranded here. I can’t exactly ring Jared and ask him to put me on the insurance, can I?
‘It’s a good job you can stay here where you’re safe then, isn’t it?’
I notice the difference in our attitudes again. From stranded to safe. A negative to a positive. I want to believe it, but I’ll never feel safe, not while Jared’s still looking for his campervan. ‘You don’t understand. Even if the police aren’t interested, Jared will be on the warpath himself. He spent alotof money and put a lot of time into restoring this and fitting it out. He won’t rest until he finds it.’
‘Does he know where you are?’
I shake my head.
‘Does he know you used to spend childhood holidays up north or that you have any connection to Thimblenouth or the Yorkshire Dales?’
‘No. That’s one of the reasons I came here. He was never one for sentimental memories. I’ve never mentioned this place to him, ever.’
‘Then good luck to him.’ Reece gives a nonchalant shrug and leans over to take another biscuit. ‘It’s a big country. Needles and haystacks spring to mind. Best he can do is put an appeal on social media, and the chances of someone seeing itandhappening across this car parkandputting two and two together are slim to none. I wouldn’t get yourself anymoreworked up about it.’
Oh, good, my level of panic is clearly visible then. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and push it out slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax where they’ve been bunched up around my ears, and when I open my eyes, Reece is grinning at me.
If you looked up the term ‘annoyingly chipper’ in a dictionary, his face would be there, grinning back at you in an annoyingly chipper way, and at the same time, it’s impossible to be annoyed because IwishI had his courage of conviction and not just the fear of literal conviction that I have.
We sit in silence for a moment, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are in the small space. How my arm is resting against his right leg, creating a patch of warmth between us, and how his ridiculous dinosaur pyjamas make him more endearing rather than less. ‘Thank you for not judging me, and for the legal advice.’
‘Anytime.’ He dunks another biscuit in his tea and I find myself focusing on a small scar on his chin as he pops it into his mouth.
‘How come you know so much about that side of things, anyway?’
