door slams shut.
Except, wait. This car, here beside me on the driveway, it’s just like Nick’s car. But, God, what do I know about cars? If it’s got four wheels and a roof, it’s the same as the next car with four wheels and a roof. I take in my surroundings. There are three, four, five cars all parked on driveways in this close that are kind of similar. Totally similar. Well, practically identical.
I back away. The sign, ‘Welcome to the Mad House’, is making me feel most unwelcome. The gravel stones on the path are noisy beneath my suede sneakers. I just want to disappear; my whole presence feels so unnecessary, so misplaced, outside this neat yet bland house. The older of the little girls is at the front window now, watching me and the mop. She hadn’t spoken, but her eyes are wide, inquisitive. She waves, and I instantly feel like less of an intruder. I return the wave and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ again, pulling a funny face that says silly me. The little girl smiles, her big teeth wonky, not quite the right fit for her small mouth yet.
The mop slips back into its place in the trunk, poking into the passenger seat via the car’s interior, and I open the driver’s door, wondering what my next move should be. I’ve got no reason to look back; it’s the wrong house. But, without intention, I do it anyway.
And there he is.
Standing upstairs, peering from behind the curtains of the front bedroom.
I blink, my heart pulsating, and I stop dead, frozen between an open car door and the driver’s seat. It’s definitely him. His round, thick shoulders, that cream knitted sweater he wears whenever he feels the cold working in his roof office. His hair, styled specifically to look slightly messy on top.
‘Nick?’ I whisper.
Except Nick doesn’t live there. So who is that man?
6
Jim
‘Just sign here, here and here.’
I’m trying to pay attention, but there’s a massive distraction in my way.
A brand-new BMW M3.
A five door, nineteen-inch alloys, three litre turbo engine, high-performance saloon. The interior is fitted with black leather racing seats, a nine-speaker sound system, built-in satnav; the dashboard’s made from black carbon fibre and chrome. The seats are heated.
The producer tosses me the keys.
‘It’s all yours. Congrats.’
I climb into my car. My gleaming white car. The soft heated seat engulfs my body and I take my fleece off, chucking it onto the back seat, feeling the sheer comfort of the leather close to my skin. The powerful rev of the engine is euphoric.
Driving away from the studio’s underground car park, the producer’s scowl gets smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror. I focus on the road ahead like I’ve never focused before. No traffic signal can be ignored, no other driver taken for granted.
Cruising down the Dock road, I turn up side streets and drive in circles, bringing myself back onto the Dock road again. Tunes blast from the speakers: Daft Punk; The Doors; a bit of Bowie. I swing by my flat above Wong’s chippy, park around the corner and run like the wind to get changed, throwing on the first t-shirt and jeans I lay my hands on. Getting back inside my car is like receiving a huge hug; I can’t bloody believe it. I run my fingertips over the interior features, the music pumping. It’s not that far to Snowy’s. I’m going to cruise, take my own sweet time.
Twenty grand. Derek Higgins reckons that’s what I’ll get if I sell it. How much will it cost to take my ma to Florida to see my sisters? Does she even have a passport? I do, but it’s never been used. Neither of us have ever been abroad.
Actually, with twenty grand, I could work for free for a while, become an intern. It wouldn’t be irresponsible of me to do that with twenty grand in the bank, would it? Even at my age? Like taking a step back to go forward, starting over again.
After my degree, I got a job in the mailroom at a publishing company, home to a whole host of local lifestyle magazines. My plan was to start by sorting letters and move into writing features, maybe even become editor. Only, a problem swamped me: competing with those who could afford to work for free. Thanks to their smug faces, any chance of escaping stamps and pigeonholes was as likely as me finding a golden ticket in an invoice. I wasn’t like