waste of time and an abundance of lies, lies, lies.
Then again.
Being without the mop means going back to who I was six months ago. What will I do with all the hope that’s been growing within me, blowing up like a balloon? I don’t want it to burst and disappear into thin air. Every minute, somewhere in the world, two people fall in love. So, when’s it my turn? My heart is honest. I’m not cynical enough to have presumed Nick was lying. If I discard the mop, will it turn me into a cynic? Or strip me of my confidence? What will happen if I let go?
The cat is sleeping, snoring and purring in unison.
‘I could do with a new mop,’ Mary says. ‘Or I could sell it on Ebay. If that mop’s from Dubai, it’s probably gold plated and worth a small fortune. Today could be my lucky day.’
I sling my canvas tote bag over my shoulder and pick up one suitcase. Jim follows me, lifting the second suitcase and the broken holdall. The mop stays flat on Mary’s thick carpet, a dead man awaiting his burial.
‘No, Mary,’ I say, watching Jim load up his ruined car. ‘I think today is my lucky day.’
20
Jim
Lodged deep within my soul, a glimmer of hope had been shining. Today was supposed to be my lucky day. You see, as I was sitting in Mary’s rocking chair, I thought about getting my car to Griffo’s dad, with minimal mileage, and maybe he’ll tell me that the boot can be fixed. An easy job. Common, perhaps. It might still be worth something. And something is better than nothing. I’ve promised my ma Florida. There’s no way I can take that away from her, not if there’s the tiniest chance that Griffo’s dad will give me something for this car.
Except, ha. Oh, ha fucking ha. Now, now I’ve been roped into going across the whole country, being some skivvy taxi driver, and for what? What’s in it for me? Why didn’t I say no? Who does Zara think I am; Robert bloody De Niro? But how could I stand in Mary’s house after drinking her tea and eating her biscuits, after taking her paperbacks and using her loo, and look like the bastard who won’t help the damsel in distress? Knowing women like Mary, she’d beat me senseless with that mop before sending me on a guilt trip that’d take years to return from.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Zara says, pulling the seatbelt across her. ‘Road trip!’
I sigh. This is absurd.
‘Plus, I get to travel in style. Your car is so comfortable, Jim.’
With my foot on the accelerator, a harsh rev unleashes my need to swear.
‘How’s your hangover?’ she asks, grinning.
God, I want to wipe that grin off her face.
‘How’s your love life?’ I ask. Result.
That was a bit mean, wasn’t it? The girl is broken, her ripped clothes making that deep scar on her face more prominent for some reason, and her long hair, so lush with loose curls this morning, is now a mass of frizz. I glance across at her, petite like a little doll, shrinking into the black leather seat. One leg is crossed over the other, a huge ladder in her black tights exposing smooth, bronze skin. She clearly gets to enjoy the sun. I dislike myself for eyeing her legs longer than necessary. Oh, so what? She’s pretty. Doesn’t mean I have to like her. And she’s sulking after that last comment; her enormous, dark eyes studying her lap.
The traffic’s not moving fast. We hit three reds in a row. A flashing light from behind the steering wheel distracts me.
‘Shit,’ I say.
I’m almost out of petrol. And there’s nothing like a fuel strobe to trigger a bout of anxiety. Hitting the wheel with my fist, I shut my eyes. I hate how something as simple as filling a car up with fuel is a massive ball ache. Only hours ago, this would’ve been the least of my problems. In fact, with fifty grand in my pocket, I couldn’t even begin to imagine having a problem. Now, I’m drowning in them.
‘Do you go to London often?’ Zara asks.
‘Oh yeah. All the time,’ I say, totally relishing in my own sarcasm.
‘Business or pleasure?’
Heavy rain patters down, blurring my visibility. I’m going to have to tell her that this ‘road trip’ is about to end. Very, very soon. She might cry, and I’ll feel like a right dick. But, I owe