ankle.
‘Papa, I just meant that you always seem unhappy. You’re on a plane more than you’re at home, you work long hours, you hate your superiors. You’re a smart guy, so why can’t you get a different job? Something that makes you happier?’
‘I told you, it pays for everything. End of conversation.’
A gentle breeze whistled through the balcony of the resort restaurant. I gulped my juice.
‘Well, Marina could get a job,’ I said. ‘And that would pay for all her beauty treatments.’
‘I have a baby to look after,’ Marina laughed.
‘No, you don’t. Lulu looks after him.’ I turned to my papa who was now using the napkin to dab his forehead. ‘It’s just a suggestion, Papa. But that would save you some money, wouldn’t it?’
I was more than aware that I should have kept my mouth shut. Within moments, I was alone at the table, my papa and Marina choosing to go for a walk without me. I was told I could order dessert and put it on the room tab. Instead, I swigged the remaining dregs of my papa’s beer, Marina’s wine.
The next and final evening of the trip, our little Khoury family did not eat out together. Marina went to bed early with a headache. My papa met a colleague at a nearby resort for a business dinner. I sat with Lulu as Sammy slept in his cot, doodling on my homework and wondering if I would ever know where I belonged.
At thirty, almost thirty-one, years old, I still don’t know where I belong. It certainly isn’t on the approach of a roundabout somewhere in between towns in the north west of England with this scruffy guy and his pompous car.
We haven’t spoken for a while.
I’m not good with arguments. They never fuel any sort of fire within me, just leave me feeling as though I want to break down into tears. But, I’m holding it together, perhaps still in shock at causing a crash, destroying this guy’s car.
Yes, I did cause it. There’s no escape from that.
It’s time to own up, to get on with the inevitable.
Turning my head, I look across to the guy. Oh my God. He’s quite literally shaking. He didn’t seem like the type to cry, but what do I know? He looks on the verge of a meltdown. Maybe if he was short, overweight, a bit sweaty and spotty, I’d be more comfortable with him being upset, but this man is – in all honesty – handsome. Rugged, even. His clothes are a mess, and yet they hang off his body at all the right angles. I should stop gawping.
Plenty of cars have driven past since we crashed. All drove slowly around and went about their business, leaving the situation between me and this guy firmly between me and this guy.
Another car appears. It slows and the window winds down.
‘Everything alright?’ the woman asks me. The guy’s still staring into the ground. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘We’re fine,’ I find myself saying. ‘Thank you.’
The fewer people involved, the better. It’s going to be a tiring ordeal as it is, having to take responsibility for this mess, no doubt pay for damages. I hate myself for contemplating asking my papa to help. I could call him, now. No. I absolutely will not ask my papa to help. I can fix this on my own.
‘You sure?’ the woman asks.
‘We’re fine,’ the guy says. He gives a strange smile. Just one corner of his mouth moves, the other remains tight with anger. Then his head slowly drops back down and the car drives off.
Here we are, back to where we were.
I shiver. It’s bitterly cold and my pathetic excuse for a coat is still on the passenger seat of the Peugeot. The north of this country is so damn bleak, way more than the south.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I say, walking towards the guy, offering my hand.
But, he doesn’t accept, doesn’t move.
‘It was my fault,’ I go on. ‘Completely. I’m really sorry I tried to blame you. I could make an excuse for myself and say I was scared. I mean, I was. I am. Scared. But, it was so wrong to try and pin any blame on you. I drove into your car because I wasn’t concentrating on the road ahead. In fact, I was crying. I had a terrible day yesterday … and then I tried to sing along with this stupid song on the radio because I thought it might make me feel