‘I don’t like the way you saidin moderation,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he says with a little eye roll.
‘Hmm.’
And then we both lapse into silence as we drive past one of the large informal settlements that skirt the city boundary, which clearly puts everything in the lives of everyone on the bus very much into perspective. We’re all silent for a long time after that. I think about my family and our home and feel indescribably lucky. Yes, it’s been very hard adjusting to life without Dad, but I did get to have the most amazing father for thirty-three years.
‘One mint probably couldn’t hurt,’ says Dominic eventually, when we’re into the countryside. ‘If you’re still offering.’
‘You’re probably right about the sugar,’ I say as I shake one into his hand.
And then we look out of the window at the scenery. It works well with me having the window seat, because Dominic can fully see over my head, so we both have a good view anyway. It is quite distracting, though. I’m extremely aware of his very solid thigh really quite close to mine, and his head only a little behind mine. I’m catapulted against him a couple of times when the bus encounters bumps in the road, and I have to admit that it feelsverynice.
Keeping my mind as firmly as I can on the view outside the bus, rather than just to my left (Dominic), I reflect that this is a fascinating drive, with an objectively extremely gorgeous man beside me, and I can totally enjoyhis gorgeousness without being in any way emotionally attracted to him. He’s just another nice view, really.
This is a wonderful drive, actually.
It’s amazing how you can think that you’re perfectly fine with a dreary grey and damp London winter until the first sunny day of spring comes, and suddenly you just feel lighter, bouncier, happier. It’s beenlovelyin Cape Town feeling sun on my bare skin, seeing those blue skies, flowers with bright blooms, and it’s lovely now seeing summer out of the window.
Also, I love a road trip, anywhere really. I mean, I’m happy driving around the outer suburbs of London; I just like looking out of the windows as the outside world rolls by, seeing what views unfurl, be they different buildings, unexpected little oases of green (I’m thinking outer London again), or actual countryside with all its beauty and diversity.
And this isn’t just any road trip. This is a drive from Cape Town out to the bush.
So I’m just very happy watching the world go by, feeling in full holiday mode.
The only thing – and it is of course an enormous thing – is that it shouldn’t be me here, it should be my parents. Dad would have loved this. And Mum would have loved him loving it.
I need to enjoy every minute of it out of respect for them. I determinedly swallow the enormous lump that’s risen into my throat as I think about them, and instead of allowing myself to descend into miserable thoughts take my phone out to send some photos to Mum and tell her how much I’m enjoying today even before we’ve got to the game reserve.
And there’s another text from Jed:
What you up to?
‘You okay?’ asks Dominic.
I think I might have sniffed a couple of times. And then gone very rigid when I read Jed’s message, which I’m not going to reply to for now. I’ll reply when I’m back in London. We are separated. If he wants to get in touch he should tell mewhy. Not just send slightly random messages. Unless it wasn’t for me. That’s probably it, actually. Yep, I’ll ignore it. It just feels really annoying if I’m honest. I’m on an amazing trip, and I was about to text my mum, and then I get a stupid, probably-not-even-intended-for-me message.
‘Flavia?’ Dominic asks.
‘Yes, thank you, all good.’ I’m obviously not going to talk about Jed with him, and I don’t like talking about my dad’s passing. There’s no real point because there’s nothing to say: it’s very sad, like it is for anyone when they lose a parent they were lucky enough to be close to. It goes without saying, so there is no point saying it.
He nods and turns back to his phone.
After texting Mum, I send a few photos to Jenna and another couple of friends, and then look out of the window the whole of the rest of the journey until we arrive. (I’m sneakily enjoying, if I’m honest, Dominic’s thigh against mine whenever the road gets bumpy.)
We were slightly delayed setting off due to Mike arguing a little over finishing breakfast, so we’re told that there’s no time now to go to our accommodation; we’re just going to have an early lunch and then get straight out in the jeeps to make the most of the day, before having dinner in the camp this evening.
And all of a sudden I’m worried. Because the thing is – and I’ve been pushing this to the back of my mind, which is what I do about a lot of things because there’s no point worrying about things until they actually happen (that’s how I manage to get onto aeroplanes in the first place) – I don’t love big animals. I mean, I do love them; they’re beautiful. But I’m quite scared of them. Occasionally you read horror stories about people being killed on safaris. I don’t want that to happen to any of us.
‘Are you okay?’ Dominic asks.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, very tensely.
‘Are you… sure?’
‘Yep. Definitely. Thank you.’
It’s going to be fine and there’s no point bothering anyone else with my thoughts. Not even Dominic, however much he’s now looking so gorgeously sympathetic that I’m struggling to remember why he annoyed me before.
