‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere. A station called Cheadle Hill, just outside Warrington. I’ve tried to get a taxi but there are none.’
‘Uber?’
I hesitate. Am Ireallygoing to pay £287 just to get to a recreational tennis match on time? There is no question about it: it’s worth every penny.
‘Hang on, stay on the line,’ I say, clicking on the app. But when I hit the price to accept the fare, I’m greeted by amessage that says, ‘There is a problem fulfilling your request.’ It then disappears entirely along with the taxi in question.
‘Any luck?’ she asks.
‘None. Shit! What are we going to do?’
I lower my phone. I look out onto the station platform, then at my plastic beaker of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Don’t worry, Rose. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘How?What are you going to do – fly?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going to hitchhike.’
Chapter 59
Problem number one with hitchhiking in a small village on the outskirts of Warrington: there is not exactly a lot of passing traffic. As I stand outside the station, holding up my thumb flaccidly, the only thing I’ve seen so far is a milk float and a kid on a BMX. I admit I am also having second thoughts.
No matter how much I repeat Frankie’s mantra – ‘Most people in the world are not out to harm me’ – this feels like a bad idea. But I’m committed now. All I can do is go with my gut so that if anyone who stops looks shady, I’ll just walk away and decline the lift. And even if I do decide someone looks harmless enough for me to get into their car, I’ll keep my trigger finger on the Dove deodorant in my bag, ready to spray in their eyes and make a run for it.
I consider checking Uber again, but am momentarily distracted by a woman on a mobility scooter, tootling over the hill. As she approaches, she slows down and peers at me curiously. I’m half hoping she’s going to tell me to hop into her shopping basket. Instead, she turns into the car park of the pub opposite, climbs off, pops the key in her pocket and heads inside. I glare at the scooter, gripped by a singular thought: why have I never learned how to hotwire a vehicle?
Next thing to come along is a Mondeo, which pulls in alongside me. The window lowers to reveal a driver in his early sixties, with an extravagant comb-over. Definitely a serial killer, I decide, probably the kind that love-bombs sweet, elderly virgins and swindles them out of their lifesavings. But as he leans across to address me, he doesn’t look in the mood for seduction.
‘Is this about Brexit?’ he asks furiously.
‘What?’ I reply, taken aback.
He nods at the sign. ‘Are you protesting against Brexit? Because 55% voted to leave the European Union, you know. And Leave means Leave.’
‘I’m notprotestingabout anything,’ I argue. ‘I’mhitchhiking. The sign says, “Roebury”. Look.’
He peers down his nose. ‘It’s barely legible.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. It was the best I could do with an A4 pad and a biro.’
‘No need to be like that.’
I scan his back seat for blankets, ropes and duct tape, but there’s nothing.
‘So . . . are you going in the direction of Roebury?’
He considers the question. ‘I might be.’
And then . . .
‘Jules!’
I look up to see a car pulling in behind the Mondeo. Which is not a Hyundai.
My heart skips a beat at the sight of Sam in the driver’s seat, one arm resting on an open window.
