‘Yeah. It was ballsy. Not that you need to know what I think—’
‘No, I do. I’d like to know, actually.’
‘Well, it shows you’re not afraid of failure.’
‘But I did fail.’
‘Failing’s better than being afraid of failure, don’t you reckon? It’s active, not passive.’
Zara frowns as if this requires a lot of thought, which is cute.
‘So you don’t think I’m a psycho?’ she asks, eventually.
‘Oh, yeah. I reckon you’re a total fucking psycho.’
And we both laugh, cheeky grins mirroring each other.
‘How did you track him down?’ I ask.
‘It was so easy. His email signature had his company name and address beneath it.’
‘Jesus, he was asking to be found.’
‘Although, now it’s obvious his name is actually Greg Nicholas. God, even saying that name out loud makes him sound like a total stranger. Like who the fuck is Greg Nicholas?’
I want to tell her that he’s someone just not worth her time anymore, but instead, I shake my head, slowly. He’s not worth my words. Besides, I need to watch where I’m driving. The coach has moved on, which means the cars in front are going forward. I turn right past the Empire Theatre, then right again into the much quieter side street and park up outside the stage door. Opposite, the side entrance to Lime Street station is beneath a shelter, opening out onto a busy taxi rank. Zara can go in that way.
‘Do you mind helping me with my bags?’ she asks.
I do a swift check around for traffic wardens. Nobody would dare to roam the streets in this sort of weather, not even Rita the Meter Maid. I turn off the ignition, release my seatbelt.
‘Yes, your highness,’ I joke.
But, neither of us move. We sit still, our seat belts unfastened, our urge to get out at level zero. A bucket load of hailstones smash against the windscreen, this side street a wind trap, as my car rattles. Amidst taxis and cars honking horns, yelps and squeals of those caught outside echo through the weather. A gang of women are huddled under the small shelter of the stage door, and through the haze of my steamed window, I can see they’re all dressed in identical black t-shirts and trousers with a bright pink sash. One wears a white veil and a pair of L plates. None are wearing a coat, their hands shielding their hairdos. Shit. They’re not those girls from Belfast, from the Titanic last night, are they? Then again, Liverpool’s a haven for hen parties.
I look at Zara. Her head is pressed back against the headrest, like mine. She raises her eyebrows, slides her eyes in my direction. I return the eyebrow raise and we both let out a simultaneous sigh.
‘After three?’ I suggest.
‘After three,’ Zara nods.
‘One, two …’
And on three, we fling our doors open, Zara struggling with her side and scrunching up her face to push against the wind. I slam mine shut and, hunched over, run to assist her. Already, I’m drenched, the hailstones battering onto my fleece, my thighs sticking to my jeans. Zara emerges, and we both shift her belongings from the back seat onto the road. So much rain is dancing into the gutters that huge puddles have appeared, the ground unable to soak up the water. My canvas trainers squelch. My toes are cold and damp inside my socks. The women on the hen do start singing, badly.
‘She’s gettin’ married in the morning … Ding dong the bells are gonna CHIIIIME …’
They sound like gremlins being strangled.
Zara can’t shift her suitcase, it’s stuck in a whirlpool of water, and she drops her broken holdall into the puddle. I pick it up, thrust it into her chest and tell her to run.
‘I’ll get these,’ I say, gesturing her to get inside the station.
A taxi hoooooonks, the driver’s hand unmoving from the horn. Zara has run into the road without looking where she’s going. The honking continues and Zara stands there in the rain yelling about being sorry. I tell the driver to do one. The grease from those chips has settled in my stomach and I burp. That’s better. Using all my strength, I hoist Zara’s suitcases from the gutter and get them safely into the station.
Zara’s beneath the timetable board, searching for information on what time the next train to London departs. Her head tilts to the side and she’s wringing her long hair out, water dripping around her soaked feet. She takes off her tiny shoes –