‘It’s late, you may as well stay over. The spare room is made up.’
‘You sure?’ I ask tentatively, pushing aside the last night I stayed over in Spence’s spare room with a shove. That is not what I need to be thinking about right now.
‘Yeah,’ he replies, but he avoids my eyes as he pulls himself up and makes his way towards the kitchen. ‘So, cuppa?’
‘OK. Thanks.’ He pops his head back around the door. ‘Biscuits?’
‘Perfect. I’ll pause it so you don’t miss anything.’
We watch the rest of the film. I’m scribbling down details that I notice, things to add to my article to give it texture.
‘You know… we could always go and see if he still lives there?’ Spence suggests as the credits roll and I fill him in on all the things Michael mentioned in his last letter, explaining my golden rule: get to know them first.
He folds his arms. ‘You’re making excuses. You want the dream version of this guy, what you need is the reality. It’s like that wanky poet guy from school all over again.’
‘That’s not what this is.’
‘That’s exactly what this is.’
I tuck my hair behind my ear. ‘You really think I should? Just turn up?’
‘What have you got to lose?’
My throat is tight, my eyes drawn to the credits scrolling up the screen.
Everything.
13
ALICE
It takes longer than expected to drive to South Yorkshire. We’ve made a few detours to get the KFC Georgia had asked for, and we stopped so I could take photos of the stunning scenery as we got closer: lush green valleys, rolling hills… the beauty so often depicted by the Brontës, but all of it very different to the Yorkshire Michael described. So much untamed beauty being eaten away, bit by bit, by industry and concrete. It reminds me of Shropshire in a way. But it’s mostly taken longer because Spence has been arguing with the Google Maps woman.
‘At the next junction, turn right.’
‘Nope,’ Spence replies, driving straight past the junction where we’re supposed to be turning.
‘Dad!’ Georgia intervenes. ‘Why don’t you just do as she says?’
‘Because she’s wrong.’ He’s always been a terrible pilot. I’d forgotten that. I can’t really remember the last time we travelled this far together. When we were younger, we often packed up and would drive with just the flip of a coin as a navigation tool. Music would be blaring through the stereo and there would be nothing but the need for an adventure away from sixthform, then later, the worries about his impending parenthood and my tendency to spend whole weekends holed up in my bedroom, studying. Then there were the days where we would drive anywhere just so Georgia would sleep, often me taking the wheel, so Spence could too.
I fidget in my seat and flip down the visor. I’d hardly slept last night, and it shows in the dark smudges under my eyes. I’m yet to put the weight back on since Ryan left; my cheekbones are more prominent than in the photos of us together, which I find myself flipping through when the torture of insomnia hits. It’s still me staring back, but there is something missing, something I can’t quite identify.
The car smells like coleslaw and the Yankee Candle air freshener that I learned had been hung just prior to Spence’s date last night. He still hasn’t told us anything more about this mystery woman, despite us pestering him with questions.
We drive through the high street, Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ blaring out of the speakers from Georgia’s ‘trip to Yorkshire’ playlist. There are the usual hairdressers, a Greggs, a few shops that are boarded up, but the betting office looks like it’s prospering. I feel a tug somewhere deep in my solar plexus like I’ve been here before. My head turns towards a fish and chip shop; it’s closed but something deep within me knows that it is the same place Alice and Michael went that night.
Spence pauses at some traffic lights, the engine rumbling.
‘Huh,’ Georgia says, chewing loudly as she leans forwards. ‘I thought it would be prettier, like he would live in one of those cute little villages we came through.’
There is something bleak about this place, but as we sit idling at the lights, I spot a group of people crowded outside a bakery. There is a sense of community in the way conversations are being passed, hands on arms, a wave to another person across the road carrying a bag of shopping. As the road begins to dip, Ispot a black structure, a wheel on top, a relic of the past and the foundations of this small town.
‘What’s that?’ Georgia asks, pointing.
‘It’s a pithead, I think…’ I reply, bringing forward some of the research I’d done at the library, before the black sculpture disappears behind more town buildings. ‘It’s what used to bring the pit cage up and down. Most of them have been demolished now…’
The lights change and we continue along the street. I fidget, look at my reflection again, and wish I’d opted for the shower rather than using Georgia’s dry shampoo that smells like cherry cola. I flip it back up and turn my head, watching as we edge out of town towards the council estates on the outskirts.
