of Coke. And enough penny sweets in a paper bag to take me up to the exact amount I had to spend; one pound and ninety pence. I sat beside the radiator and read the comic, ignoring the dot-to-dot and feeling sick from all the sugar.
The following week, the newsagents were only selling the eighth edition. I’d never get the seventh piece to my globe. So I gave up collecting the magazines and started reading paperbacks instead. I kept my globe – just over half of it, unable to spin on its axis – on my shelf, most countries visible, the Pacific Ocean entirely missing.
The dancing lessons paid off for my sisters. When Lisa landed the job dancing on a cruise ship, Emma followed a year later. Both girls sailed all four corners of the globe before settling in the port they started in; Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
And it sounds soft, but I’ve felt forever 10p short.
Now, Zara’s picking at her nails, little flecks wafting about my car like fucking dandruff.
I swear, if any of that touches the interior, falls onto the leather—
BEEP!
‘What the fuck’s your problem?’ I shout at the driver behind, scowling at him through my rear-view mirror.
‘You can go,’ Zara tells me.
‘Y’what?’
She points to the traffic light. It’s green. She was right. I can go.
Shit.
I give a wave to the driver behind. My bad.
15
Zara
Jim’s breath is heavy as he drives, regular huffing going on and the odd sigh, the scratching of his stubble. I’m trying to remove my pale blue nail polish. It started by peeling off both thumbs, but I can’t handle the inconsistency of my nails not matching. It makes me feel off balance. With care, I drop the bits of dried polish into my lap, for despite the battered trunk, the inside of Jim’s car looks – and smells – as good as brand new.
The Electric Light Orchestra sings through the speakers about Mr Blue Sky. A few songs follow that I’ve never heard before and as much as I want to listen, I’m restless.
‘So, are you from Liverpool?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you live around here?’
‘No.’
‘So, you live closer to the city than the suburbs?’
‘No.’
‘This is my first trip to Liverpool.’
Jim doesn’t reply. It could be my paranoia, but I think the music has become a little louder. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, playing along with the beat of the song. I press the button to open the window and with care, throw my bits of nail polish out into the passing air. Once the window shuts again, the tension magnifies.
‘Where are you from?’ Jim asks, with a pained expression as if he’s yanking out his front teeth.
‘The States. Originally.’
Jim raises his eyebrows and continues to tap the wheel.
‘So, what is it you do?’ I ask, running my fingertips lightly across the shiny buttons on the inbuilt stereo, the swanky navigation system.
‘Do you have to touch that?’
‘I’m guessing you run your own business. Or you work for your dad.’
‘Right. Yeah.’
‘So come on, are you some mysterious entrepreneur?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m a professional people-watcher. I’ve spent a lot of time in airports and living with people I barely know. So, what’s your success story? Is it something to do with IT? Or selling data on the internet? Not that I know anything about that sort of shit. But that’s how most dudes I know make their dollar and drive around in cars like this.’
Jim shrugs, elaboration clearly not his strong point. A barrier of ice forms between us again and I can’t bear the ache swelling in my forehead. I’d rather talk to anyone than be left with my own thoughts; I’m just not good with them. And now, I’ve got the chance to have an actual conversation with somebody, after the emptiness of yesterday, of last night.
‘So, you probably invented some kind of adhesive picture hook and made a small – or large – fortune,’ I muse. ‘Or you’re a drug dealer.’
Jim continues to tap the wheel in time to the song on the radio, some Nineties hit that’s all intense drums and angry vocals. I can’t remember the name of the singer or the song. The lyrics keep repeating over and over.
‘I guess that was pretty offensive, huh?’ I admit.
‘What?’
‘Me accusing you of being some sort of drug dealer?’
He laughs. Not exactly from his belly, or even as if he’s been tickled. Still, a jovial flash. He checks his mirrors, he indicates, changes lanes. The