Nobody is moving. Just beyond the gap that leads to the outdoors and comparative freedom, I can see one or two cars making their way up the ramp. But it’s a slow process and everyone around me is still completely stationary.
Oh my God.
I try not to think about toilets or water, but the slight rocking of the ferry reminds me constantly that we’re floating on cold, salty liquid that’s about sixty metres deep.
Sweating now, I glance around and realise I have two empty, lidded coffee cups. I am not, ordinarily, this kind of man. The last time I peed in a bottle was on holiday with my parents when I was about eight, and it was that, or wet my father’s precious back seat. But any port in a storm, I think as I reach for the cup, then grab both for good measure.
People talk about feeling good all the time. Exercise makes you feel good! Chocolate makes you release endorphins! Drugs! Alcohol! Vitamins! Sex! These things scream at me from online and in-print headlines all the time. We’re all chasing that physical high.
I’d like to argue that peeing when you’ve been desperate is one of the best feelings in the world. No more pain. No more worry. Just the sensation of sweet, uncomplicated release.
I’m turned slightly in my seat, glancing at Sarah from time to time, willing her not to wake up. When I’ve filled a large paper cup and another half, reapplied the lids, and gratefully tucked myself away, it’s the first time I begin to wonder what I’m going to do with them.
But of course, now the car in front has started to nudge forward. I slip both in the plastic holder between the seats and, thanking the gods of pee, or penises, or embarrassing situations, or all of them, that my very ex-girlfriend-turned-scary-lawyer of a travelling companion didn’t wake up and see me with my willy in a Starbucks cup, I push my foot on the accelerator and gently nudge Betty forward into the light.
Fifty kilometres later, I’ve opened the window and laid my arm along its length, letting the sun play on the stark white of my winter skin. I’m just trying and failing to tune Betty’s outdated radio into something other than static when Sarah groans and opens her eyes. One side of her face is creased and red, and she looks at me confusedly before getting her bearings. ‘Oh!’ she says.
‘Welcome to France!’ I tell her.
‘We’re here?’ She blinks and turns her head towards the window.
We’ve left the main drag now and are trundling down a cute little lane. I notice a field of cows, all brown and heavy-eyed, except for one black and white animal in the middle of the herd.
‘Well, just an hour away now.’
She nods, running a hand over her face and sitting up. I see her wince, presumably the leg’s giving her gyp.
‘Leg OK?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Sorry for falling asleep on you.’
‘It’s all right.’
She grins suddenly and for a moment it feels as if the sun has broken from behind the clouds. ‘You mean you had a great time without having to entertain me. What did you do? Three course meal and a load of on-ferry shopping?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Was crossing OK?’ Then her face suddenly animates. ‘Oh!’ she says, noting the two cups. ‘You got me a coffee. Thank you.’
‘No!’ I bark as she reaches for one of the cups.
She looks at me, confused, her hand suspended in its journey towards the right-hand cup.
But I can’t say it. I just… ‘I’ll stop and get you a fresh one. It’ll be all gross and cold by now.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she smiles. ‘Most of the coffee I end up drinking is cold anyway.’ She touches the cup with the back of her hand. ‘Ooh, still a little bit warm.’
I am breaking out in a sweat, torn between not wanting to face the embarrassment of telling her that not only did I drink her coffee, I peed in the cup – and the very real possibility that if I don’t say something, she is going to take a sip before realising what’s actually going on.
She picks it up. My heart is literally hammering in my chest. I wonder for a millisecond whether I might be having a heart attack. It’s a thought that occurs to me fairly regularly, ever since my doctor gave me a health check and told me that now I’m practically forty, I’m basically on a downward slope to the grave.
‘Stop!’ I tell her, and she turns towards me, alarmed. ‘I’m serious! Don’t drink that.’
‘Why not?’
Oh God. I’m going to have to confess, aren’t I? ‘Um, it isn’t coffee.’
Her hand hovers close to the plastic lid. ‘What?—’
