The smell isn’t actually so bad. Plus, the food seems to have put Zara into a bit of a coma, all five chips she consumed. Her head is resting against her seatbelt, her eyes closed, heavy. I can tell she’s not asleep, her frown’s too deep, her lips too tightly closed together. Still, I won’t dare disturb her.
‘You having a giraffe, love?’ the girl on the till at the petrol station asks me.
She’s caked in make-up, her eyes two black buttonholes in a tangerine face. Intimidating spikes grow from her fingernails as she snarls, counting the change I’ve poured from the biscuit tin onto her counter. I try to help her out.
‘Move your hand,’ she says, already at the end of her short, short tether.
A fella behind starts whistling. The hole I’m falling down is getting deeper, the ground sucking me into the dregs of River Mersey puddles. I want a wave to come and wash me away. I don’t know how I can sink much lower.
‘You’re 10p short,’ the girl shrieks, like she actually can’t believe it.
I’m that kid in the newsagents all over again.
The fella behind stops whistling.
‘Here you go, mate,’ he says, tapping me on the shoulder. He places a twenty-pence piece on the counter. I scoop up ten pence to give him his change, but the fella waves his hand. ‘Ah, forget it, mate. No probs.’
Words can’t find their way into my mouth. I hope my gracious nod and pathetic sigh of relief is enough for the fella who’s just saved my arse, witnessed my demise. I back away, sort of waving, sort of hoping to disappear in a puff of smoke behind the display of Pringles.
‘Don’t you want your empty Quality Street tin?’ the girl with the tangerine face shouts.
I pause, just for a second.
‘Nah,’ I say. And get back into my car. ‘Shit.’
I flop my head onto the steering wheel. The stink of chips has seriously lingered.
At Lime Street station, there’s nowhere to park.
The temporary parking bays aren’t only full, but a big queue of cars trails behind and the longer we sit in that, the longer I’ve got to listen to Zara. She’s perked up. I can’t decide what’s more intolerable; the radio or her questions.
‘Is Liverpool always this busy on a Friday?’
‘Why does Britain have such terrible weather?’
‘Do you get snow here at Christmas time?’
‘Have you ever been stuck in traffic in LA?’
‘Haven’t you been to LA?’
‘Is it always this windy?’
Her accent’s bearable, a cute mash of not-quite English and not-quite American, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to her. She reapplies something onto her lips, another coat. I glance across at her and watch her pout, then wipe some dried sleep away from the corners of her eyes with her pinky.
‘I like trains,’ she goes on. ‘They’re a bit of a novelty to me. The mode of transport I’ve taken least in my life.’
I indicate, move left and drive past the queue.
‘Do you?’ she asks.
‘Do I what?’
‘Like trains?’
‘Yeah. When I was, like, six.’
I drive past the main entrance to Lime Street station, its wide steps scattered with people scurrying to dodge the torrential rain, another umbrella blowing inside out with each gust of wind. On the opposite side of the road, St George’s Hall stands proud, unafraid of the storm dancing so vigorously around its grand pillars. The main road is chocker, bumper to bumper, and I unfasten my seatbelt, leaning across Zara to see if I can make out what the holdup is. A coach, plus a couple of buses, perhaps.
I lose my balance a little and put my hand out to steady myself. On Zara’s leg. Just above her knee. I feel like a right prick. She lets out a sort of, ‘Ooh!’ and I turn towards her saying, ‘Soz.’ My hair’s falling across my eyes, partially stunting my vision, but I can’t doubt how pretty she is. Those thick lashes accentuate her dark eyes, like that posh chocolate that comes wrapped in cardboard with gold writing. Her skin looks tired, yet natural. I reckon she’d look gorgeous all dressed up for a night out. But, Christ, she’s had a shit day. I have to give her that.
‘I think what you did was pretty brave,’ I say, honestly.
Zara twitches, like a wild animal on its guard. I edge the car forward. The lack of conversation between us suddenly demands a filler. I’m over-analysing the leg grabbing; no, the leg touching; no, well, whatever it was.