I look at the binbags, at my entire existence reduced to black plastic sacks, and feel something crack inside me that has nothing to do with broken teapots. Where am I supposed to go? I can’t even carry all these bags without a car. Hemustknow that, and yet he doesn’t give a toss. I’m not his problem now. And looking back, I can see that’s what I’d become to him – once a girlfriend, now a problem. It’s a realisation that makes tears threaten again. Jared and Vickie are the two people in my life who I thought were in my corner when they’ve both been the exact opposite, and the reality is that I have no one on my side.
I go back to gathering up binbags, tying knots in split sides, trying to collect everything into one tidy pile and keep my emotions under control.
‘Do you need help?’ Jared asks, in a tone that suggests the answer is obviously going to be no, and if I did need help, I wouldn’t get any from him.
‘No—’ I’ve barely got the word out before he’s disappeared back inside and shut the door with a slam that reverberates through the ground under my feet.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I call after him, stuffing a jumper back through the hole in a binbag. I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine, but I amnotgoing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Again.
I gather the bags into some form of order, huffing and puffing and swearing under my breath. Or possibly not quite so under my breath, given the pinched look on Mrs Henshaw’s face where she’s still watching from her doorway, a phone in her hand. Probably livestreaming to the neighbourhood WhatsApp group in case anyone’s missing it.
Even her cat’s having a good gawp, although at least the cat doesn’t try to hide its judgemental tendencies behind false smiles and hours spent tending the hydrangeas. I appreciate that about the cat.
I stand and look at the pile at my feet. The drizzle is persistent enough that rivulets of water are running down the bags and everything has that dampness to it that feels like it will never be fully dry again.
What am I going to do? I could call a taxi, but where would I ask it to take me? I could probably find a B&B and charge a couple of nights’ stay to my credit card, but…
As I’m looking around in despair, trying to ignore the twitching of curtains from the other houses on the street, my eyes fall on it.
It’s there, sitting on the driveway, like a lime-green beacon of possibility.
Jared’s campervan.
His pride and joy. His weekend escape for fishing trips with the boys. Last year, it was an old shell of a rusted campervan, and he’s spent many months and thousands of pounds on restoring it and fitting it out with sliding cabinet contortions, folding storage, and a toilet and shower the size of a miniature matchbox. As a mechanic who has dreams of opening his own workshop one day, it’s been his ‘work away from work’, something that he’s spent far more time lovingly refitting than he ever spent talking to me. How many times have I teased that it didn’t actually need any work, it just gave him an excuse to get out of the house? How many times have I joked that he loves that van more than he loves me?
Given this morning’s events, that was a joke that really,reallydidn’t age well.
The spare key is on my keyring, right next to the key to the café that will never be. He gave it to me months ago ‘in case of emergencies.’
I couldn’t…
God, no, ofcourseI couldn’t. What am I thinking? I’ve never even sat in the driver’s seat before, and it’s been years since I drove anything at all, let alone a huge campervan that Jaredworships.
I look down at the binbags at my feet and then up at the grey sky. The drizzle has soaked me to the skin and is pattering down forlornly on the ripped plastic containing everything I own. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to live, and I can’t even transport these bags to some unknown place without a vehicle…
I look at the lime-green campervan again.
I couldn’t… could I?
That would be insane. Ludicrous. Vindictive. Bitterly glorious.
People talk about moments of madness. When desperation erodes your common sense and you do something completely out of character. A red mist descends, people say. In my case, it’s more like a lime-green mist, because without another thought, I’m striding across the lawn with a gaggle of binbags trailing behind me, like the duck and ducklings this morning.
I get my key out and slide open the side door. I start loading everything I own into the back of the van, one dripping-wet binbag at a time, accompanied by a soundtrack of the tinkling broken teapot that’s somehow become symbolic of everything that’s gone wrong today. My hands are shaking, adrenaline and shock and pure bloody-mindedness keeping me going. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
The last bag goes in and I slam the door with a maniacal laugh, and I stand there for a moment, keys in my hand, looking at Jared’s house. Our house. The house where I thought I had a future.
Unfortunately, the slam of the van door has attracted Jared’s attention and he appears in the doorway again, and I see his face contort as he registers what I’m about to do.
‘Dolly, don’t you dare! Don’t you harm my baby!’
Ah. He’s seen me standing next to his beloved van with a key in my hand. He thinks I’m going to damage it. He hasn’t realised that I’m angry enough to do far worse than a quick scratch.
He’s coming towards me. Without letting myself think it through, I yank open the door and dive into the driver’s seat.
‘Dolly!’ He screeches behind me, my name echoing through the street as he realises that cosmetic damage is the last of his campervan’s worries.
My hands are not just shaking now, they’re vibrating. My fingers fumble as I turn the key, as I try to rememberhowto start up an engine. The van purrs into life remarkably easily and I slam my foot on one of the pedals, and it lurches forwards so fast that I end up on the opposite side of the road before it stalls with an awful grinding noise.
