of calming her down. I’m guessing her phone was in her jacket pocket. She’s going to need that.
‘Do you want me to go and get your phone back?’ I ask.
‘You’d do that?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend you going back to get it, love.’
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m not—’
‘You are. You’re dying to laugh at me.’
And I do laugh, unintentionally. Shit.
‘Look, Zara, do you want me to—’
‘NO! God, no!’
‘Okay, okay, calm down.’
‘God, I need to eat something,’ she mumbles.
Is right, love. Me too. That butty she bought me in the cafe was good, but not enough. Between sad, winter-drained rose bushes and painted wooden fences, everywhere around us is beginning to grow a little halo of light-headed fuzz. I’m so hungover, I think I might faint. Zara’s pacing is making me dizzy, back and forth she’s going, and Christ, it’s giving me anxiety. I need to get out of here, away from this soulless little pocket of nowhere, some brick estate smack bang between the city and the motorway. I didn’t even see a pub close by on the way. The nearest thing that isn’t a cul-de-sac is a retail park with a Next and a Costa and PC World. Just what everyone needs. A smart shirt, a mocha and a Mac.
‘You can go,’ Zara informs me.
‘Can I?’
‘Yes. Just go.’
‘I’m released then, am I?’
‘Don’t be such an asshole. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Oh, I’m the arsehole?’
‘This has got nothing to do with you.’
‘Yep. You’re right. This has nothing to do with me.’
‘Stop being so sarcastic.’
‘Stop being so bossy.’
‘I’m not bossy.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You are quite possibly the bossiest little madam I’ve ever met in me life.’
‘Well, forgive me for forgetting how super sweet your life is, Jim.’
‘Okay, I give up. I’ve stuck around. I’ve listened to your shit. I’ve tried to help. I’m done, Zara. I’m completely and utterly done. You want me to leave you here? Fine. You can find your own way to wherever, whatever. I’ve got me own shit to deal with.’
I get inside my car. Then, noticing one of her bags, a flimsy material thing with some sort of cartoon print on the front, I open my door – yet again – and go to hand it over to her.
‘You left this on the back seat,’ I say.
She reaches out to accept the bag, but whoa, I get the distinct impression she’s about to vomit. Her tanned skin turns white as a bloody ghost, her huge brown eyes gloss over. Her hand misses the straps of the bag and it crashes to the ground. As does Zara.
And now, I’m sitting in a rocking chair, in the dark corner of a house that resembles my nan’s, God rest her soul. A rose-pink lampshade decorated with dusty pink tassels stands beside me, the light on, giving the feel of evening, not lunch time. The floral wallpaper is busy with oval frames of sheep dogs, of birds, of horses. The cushioned chair I’m sat on gives off a musty scent. A huge golden clock in the shape of the sun hangs above a grey-green tiled fireplace, its electric fire giving off the sort of intense heat that my ma’d give a thumbs up.
I mean, seriously. What the fuck am I doing here?
Zara stirs. She’s lying on the settee like Sleeping fucking Beauty. She falls back down as quickly as she tries to sit up.
‘Sip this,’ Mary says to her, and a china teacup is thrust towards her lips.
You might be thinking who’s Mary?
Don’t worry. I’m thinking the same bloody thing.
19
Zara
‘Sip this,’ a soft voice says to me.
The warm, sweet liquid tickles my throat and I gulp a little more. Sugar in English breakfast tea is delicious.
An older lady is standing over me. She takes my hand in hers. The bumps of veins feel smooth and comforting against my fingertips, like the crepe paper I used to make costumes during summer camp as a kid. I glance at the lady, taking her in from head to toe. Slippers that match her many lampshades encase her feet, but she isn’t short of glamour. Eye shadow and lipstick bleed into her ageing skin, small gold hoops dangle from her ears. This is like being served tea by Elizabeth Taylor’s sister.
‘Am I dreaming?’ This would be so typical of one of my insane dreams.
‘You’re not dreaming, queen,’ the lady says. ‘You fainted outside me house.’
‘Queen?’ I ask, still a little parched, despite the tea.
‘Just a term of endearment,’ the lady laughs. ‘Where’s this one from? You talk