‘Do you drive a Hyundai?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says, cupping a hand to his ear.
‘A HYUNDAI,’ I repeat. ‘There’s one blocking me in. Is it yours?’
He shakes his head, apologetically. ‘Not me I’m afraid.’
‘Urgh,’ I mutter to myself, before remembering the tennis ball on the front seat. ‘Is anyone else here? Apart from you, I mean?’
He starts walking in my direction. ‘Just me. Is there anything I can do to help?’
But it’s not a knight in shining armour that I need right now, not unless it’s one who drives a tow-truck.
‘I need to find the owner ofthat,’ I say, pointing at the offending vehicle. ‘Honestly, people like that shouldn’t be allowed on the road. What a sense of entitlement. No thought for anyone else whatsoever.’
‘Are we . . . talking about the dark blue one?’ he asks, reaching the edge of the court.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a Lexus.’
‘I . . .is it?’ My brow wrinkles as I peer to identify the badge, then remind myself this isn’t the point. ‘Look, I don’t care what it is, only that whoever owns it blocked me in.Idiot.’
He reaches for the back of his neck and scratches it, looking away awkwardly. I glare at him in realisation. ‘So itisyours?’
He winces. ‘I’ll get my keys, shall I?’
‘Thank you,’ I snap, turning away.
‘I’ll be a minute. I left them in the clubhouse.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I mutter, which he clearly hears.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he says, indignantly. ‘But I don’t see how I could have blocked you in. I just parked next to the pavement, like anyone would.’
‘On yellow lines,’ I say tersely. ‘They’re there for a reason.’ If there is one thing I haven’t got time for now, it’s a lengthy explanation about the problematic distance between my gateposts.
‘But I didn’t see any . . .’ His voice trails off before he can finish the sentence and he raises his hand to his sunglasses as if he’s about to adjust them. ‘Do we know each other?’
There is something vaguely familiar about him now that he mentions it, but I’m not about to stop and try to work out why.
‘No. Lookpleasejustget your keys and move the car,’ I plead, before walking away decisively and getting back into my vehicle.
He moves his a minute later.
As he drives down the road, looking for somewhere else to put it, I pull out and look at the space he’s vacated. It’s then that I realise Bill’s hedge has shed most of its bronze beech leaves in last night’s wind. The yellow lines are completely covered.
I feel a twinge of remorse, but not enough to apologise. My only priority now is delivering that passport.
The traffic is terrible and the journey not helped by another call from Carole to tell me that Angus has made a gap for me in an hour, adding another deadline and layer of stress. I arrive at the station with minutes to spare, abandon the car outside and sprint cinematically along the platform, zigzagging through passengers and leapfrogging someone’s handy shopper. None of this is easy, even in Converse and especially after I stumble into a flock of pigeons having a dinner party outside Subway. They promptly take flight, directly into my face.
‘Cheers, Mum. And sorry! You’re a star!’ Frankie calls out, as I thrust the document at her and she jumps through the sliding doors of a train for the second time.
I back away, snorting a feather from my nose. I then limp back to the spot where I parked, blisters already forming on my little toes, only to find a traffic officer taking down my registration. I make a flaccid attempt to explain, then give up, slinking into my seat with a shameful pang of nostalgia for the nineties, when a quick flutter of my eyelashes might have made this go away.
Chapter 3
My brother has been grating lemon rind for so long that I’m convinced his chicken dish will taste like floor cleaner. Jeff would deny that he’s distracted, of course. Least of all by the cocktails he’s been whipping up at any opportunity since his husband Andy sent him on a mixology masterclass for Christmas.
