‘Oh, I mean your housekeeper, Gloria. Sorry, “maid” is a very “expat” thing, and it’s not supposed to be derogatory. But, back to the point. I’ve seen you be the good guy to these people, these people who know you. And I’ve also seen you be the good guy to complete strangers, myself not included, because I fucked up your car.’
‘I love it when you admit that.’
‘Shut up. Let me finish. Mary, you were so sweet with her. And that bachelorette party, although I won’t ask why you so willingly took your shirt off for them, and even when you bought me those potato chip things, I could see you through the window, chatting away, being so nice to the guy serving you. All these people you charm. But you also know you’re never gonna see them again.’
Jim shakes his head, making out like I’m talking nonsense.
‘So, my point is, I think you’re afraid of getting to know new people.’
And Jim glances across at me, then back to the road.
‘I could be wrong,’ I say, throwing my hands up in defence. ‘I usually am. As your good self has witnessed. But I’d like to think I got something right today.’
As expected, but not hoped for, Jim doesn’t respond. Maybe I should’ve stayed sitting two rows away. At least the cappuccinos are empty now and I don’t have to nurse his caffeine. The raindrops on the window of the minibus dance in zigzags downwards, landing onto other raindrops, all adjoining or diving off into new directions. I think about where I can head on to next, after this impending flight. My papa’s villa in Dubai will be empty again. He’s in Saudi this time. Marina’s in Moscow for the weekend. Sammy recently started boarding school in Australia, the likelihood of him being expelled at zero. He’s too good at rugby. So I have space. Possibly the last thing I need.
‘Would you mind passing me that?’ Jim asks.
‘What?’ I blink, hearing but not comprehending. ‘I was lost in my thoughts.’
‘The butty.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That. The tuna butty. Ta.’
I take a cold tuna melt out of the paper bag and hand it over. I might as well pick at the other one. Silence between us stretches as we chew, passing cars filling in the blanks. Jim takes large bites, with his large mouth. There’s definitely something a bit Mick Jagger about him. Just something. Maybe it’s the whole band thing.
22
Jim
‘Video killed the radio star …’
The words aren’t very coherent, but I make them out.
Again.
‘Video killed the radio star …’ Zara’s only started bloody singing, hasn’t she? Quietly, her mouth stuffed with tuna butty. I’ve finished mine and scrunch the empty paper bag into a ball with one fist.
‘Video killed the radio star,’ she sings again, a touch louder now.
I toss the ball towards her feet and she sings a little more. She clearly doesn’t know any of the lyrics other than the title words of the song, so she’s making them up, some mumble jumble of ‘mi-mi-mi’ and ‘ma-ma-ma’, with a ‘doo-doo-doo’ and a ‘da-da-da’ thrown in. My head’s still banging from last night, and I’m trying hard to ignore her. I catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Ha. I look like a bad actor doing some serious driving-acting. I mean, I like a bit of a sing. Who doesn’t, eh? But, not now. Not here.
‘VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR,’ Zara ups the volume. ‘Come on, Jim! VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR. DA-DA-DA and DOO-DOO-DAH, MA-MA-MA-MA-MI-MI-MA-MA. OH! OH-OH-OH!’
‘Shut up, Zara.’ Please.
‘Ah, was that a smile I just saw, Jim?’
‘No, you’re giving me a headache—’
‘VIDEO KILLED THE—’
‘Agh! You’re tone fucking deaf, girl!’
‘MA-MA-MAAAAH!’ she wails. ‘Oh! VIDEO KILLED—’
‘The radio star,’ I sing, involuntarily, teeth gritted. I do NOT want to be doing this. But fucking hell, if you can’t beat ’em, eh? I’m singing. So, what? I’m singing. ‘Video killed the radio star. In my mind and in my car, we can’t rewind we’ve gone too far!’
Hey. At least I know the words.
‘Woo-hoo!’ Zara cheers. ‘Yeah!’
Great. And now I’m blushing. I can feel that hot tingle in my cheeks and my face is breaking into a smile completely against my will. I don’t want to smile. This is so lame. Zara’s pure buzzing though, and still out-singing me in the volume category, which is fine. I’m not competing with that. I just continue to sing in my own way, and she carries on badly, making up loads of her own words