Getting carried away like that. Anyone’d think this was an episode of Corrie. You can’t tell I’ve been crying, can you?’
I shake my head. No.
‘Right. Good. Now, get me a taxi, please, love.’
‘I can give you a lift,’ I say, but she’s already on her way through the lobby. ‘I’ve got a car, remember?’
‘You’ve had a drink.’
‘Are you sure you don’t wanna stay? I’d love to treat you.’
‘You’re taking me to Florida! Let’s not go over all that again. And you got me a pina colada. Besides, I left me pills at home.’
I know she’s not telling the truth, that they’re in her handbag.
‘I’ll give you the cash for the taxi tomorrow,’ I promise.
Rockets still squeal above and in the distance, a smoky ghost dancing across the city. I turn around and reenter the Titanic hotel. The barman asks me if I’d like a table this time. I agree and order a pint, the sharp sweetness of that mai tai still hanging on my tongue.
‘Will anybody else be joining you?’ the barman asks.
‘Maybe,’ I reply and take out my phone. There’s a couple of girls’ numbers, sure, but only ones that it hasn’t worked out with and I haven’t bothered deleting. Scrolling through my contacts, everybody I care about is at Snowy’s party. They’ll be shitfaced by now. And—
For fuck’s sake. Another text from Helen.
Ru comin back to the party? H xx
A pint is placed on the table before me along with a little bowl filled with mixed nuts.
‘Just me tonight,’ I say, and an emptiness sinks into me, as cold and as deep as the Titanic itself.
9
Zara
Outside the multi-storey parking lot this morning, the street is littered with carefree students and fried chicken takeaway boxes. I’m drained. Sure, I slept, but not soundly.
‘You can’t park there, love,’ some guy announces.
I know I can’t park there. And the way he calls me ‘love’ isn’t affectionate, rather like ‘shove’. I ignore him and re-jig my bits and pieces around my second- or possibly third-, fourth- or fifth-hand little Peugeot. I’m struggling to fit the mop across the back seat. I knocked it last night when I got my clean underwear out of a suitcase and it’s poking me in the ribs as I try to drive. I need to get away. Today is a new day and all sorts of wonderful things might happen with the right attitude. For a start, Ida wasn’t working this morning to give me a half-assed condescending look as I left the hostel.
‘Did you hear me, love?’
I continue to struggle with the mop. Why can’t I position it right?
‘Yes, I heard you,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry for ignoring you.’
‘I just don’t want the bizzies to catch you, that’s all.’
‘What’s the “bizzies”?’ I ask, trying to be friendly, dropping the mop again. The guy is drinking tea out of a polystyrene cup and dressed like he has just wandered off a building site.
‘The police,’ he says.
‘The police?’ I ask, trying a different angle. I knock my holdall with my knee and its zip splits open as it falls across the wet gutter, its contents spilling into the murky rain puddles. The guy watches as I scramble to retrieve the hairdryer, a couple of my sketches, a pair of novelty spectacles. ‘Why are they called the “bizzies”?’
‘Dunno. Just something we say.’
‘Must be a Liverpool thing,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘Like the way you all say “boss” if something is good.’
‘You American?’
How did this damn mop ever fit inside this car? How? I don’t understand. I flip it around, try again. The guy sips his tea and continues to watch me struggle.
‘Not quite,’ I answer. ‘Sort of. I mean, I have an American passport.’
‘Boss.’
‘Is it?’
The guy blinks. Twice.
‘Look, love,’ he says. ‘You need to get off them double yellows.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ I yell. I didn’t mean to yell.
The guy holds out his polystyrene cup. ‘Hold this.’
Giving me a gentle but definite shove out of the way, he bends inside my car, opens the sunroof and positions the mop to poke out of the top. Then, he takes his tea back and walks away, not forgetting to wish me all the best.
Finally, I can get on my way.
I climb inside and turn the key. The satnav comes to life and I tap in Heathrow Airport. I’ve booked myself a flight back to Dubai because I can’t figure out a better solution – I just know I have to get the hell out of Liverpool.