about his precious paperbacks, hopping on them to mark his territory. That would make a great sketch.
‘Look, you’ve got bags of time,’ Jim says.
But he’s wrong. Check-in will close in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes and although we’re just a handful of miles from the airport, we aren’t within walking distance. We’re trapped.
‘Wasn’t there a better route you could’ve taken?’ I snap.
‘Ah,’ Jim sighs. ‘I forgot this’d be my fault.’
‘Can’t you ever answer a simple question?’
‘Can’t you ever stop being such a demanding little princess?’
‘Fuck you, Jim.’
‘Oh fuck you, Zara. Fuck. You.’
My mouth hangs open. How dare he. How DARE …
‘Stop gawping at me, Zara.’
I turn away, keeping a tight hold of my disgust.
‘I didn’t cause that accident down there, or road works, or whatever’s going on, like. Don’t blame me. God, you can be so fucking childish. Did you know that?’
If my intestines could loop into a knot, they would do so right now. I despise being called ‘childish’, a word my papa likes to use whenever things don’t work out for me. Like when I defended my expulsion, or dropped out of university (a course he also referred to as ‘childish’ because ‘drawing is for pre-schoolers’). He even called my relationship with Zein ‘childish’ because I never had a ring on my finger. To give him some credit, he did show fatherly concern about my scar, and lowered my rent when I couldn’t get a job. But when I cried he reminded me not to be so ‘childish’ because like all wounds, it would heal.
Damn it, Jim’s right this time. I am being childish.
‘You think you’re the only one with problems, don’t you?’ he says through gritted teeth, almost as if he didn’t want me to hear him. I peer across, feeling as though I’m spying on him as he leans over to his phone, scrolls through recent contacts and clicks on, ‘Ma Home’. The loud speaker rings out and Jim snatches the handset, bringing it to his ear, keen for some hint of privacy.
His mom doesn’t answer.
Jim taps the wheel with his free hand, his foot revving unnecessarily. He hangs up and tosses his phone aside. It lands between my feet. I bend down and pick it up, placing it on the seat between us with care.
‘I’m sure she’s okay,’ I say, delicately.
‘How would you know?’
‘She’s gone to a party … a sixtieth birthday party. She told you, earlier.’
Rain batters down on the windscreen. We left one storm in Liverpool, and after driving down the spine of the country through wintry drizzle, we’ve hit another storm in London. The minibus rocks from side to side as enormous winds show the motorway who is in charge here. The traffic starts moving again, slowly, and as Jim edges forward, stopping, starting, stopping, starting, visibility is beyond poor and it’s a miracle he doesn’t drive into the back of the car in front.
‘Yvonne,’ Jim says, eventually, breathing a small sigh of relief, and although he’s speaking loud enough for me to hear, it’s clear he’s talking to himself. ‘She’s gone to Yvonne’s sixtieth birthday. Ethel Barton’s daughter.’
And in complete silence, we make it to Departures at Heathrow. Twenty minutes too late.
‘Check-in is closed,’ the grounds staff inform us.
I’m pulling endless reasons from the air as to why they should allow me to check in. From inventing a terminally ill grandmother, to pretending I’m a journalist keen on publishing a high-profile article on how airlines treat their customers, to yelling that the damn plane won’t be taking off for another hour, I fail on all accounts.
My luggage is battered, tired, sitting on an empty line in front of an empty check-in desk, Jim resting upon it. He looks as worn out as the jeans on his long, skinny legs and I can only sympathise. The man, for all his faults, has done his best. He tried with impressive effort to get me here on time, and despite it costing me a small fortune, I just can’t remain angry at him. It’s too exhausting. In fact, he looks as disappointed as I feel.
‘What happens now?’ he asks.
‘I’m on stand-by for the next flight with availability. Tomorrow morning … if there’s a spare seat.’
‘Do I get to go home now?’
‘I guess.’
‘You gonna be alright?’
‘I think so.’
Jim stands, overbearing in height next to me. I’m longing to brush my teeth, take a shower, lie down, and no doubt Jim feels exactly the same. Twisting my hair around and around, I secure it into a messy