person for this, and she’s there, on the opposite side of the road, sheltering from the rain, sitting on one of her enormous suitcases and shivering like some abandoned orphan. She drove her banger into my gem of a car and then blamed me for being drunk. And, afraid of the consequences, not wanting to seem like the big beast next to the little beauty, I’ve let her get away with it.
Well, not anymore. Zara’s going to pay. Yep. She’s going to pay the two hundred quid plus to get my car from the pound, pay for insurance, the lot. Every fucking penny.
Of course, there’s going to have to be something in it for her. That’s how deals work, isn’t it? And I’m going to have to somehow stop her from hitchhiking a ride to London, hopping on a coach, finding a way to Crewe to get a train, or simply saying no. So, I’m left with one option. The hen party are still contemplating when to ‘run for it’. I can hear a few of them saying, ‘Not yet’, one being the bride, so she trumps the lot. I approach them.
‘Ladies,’ I say, smiling. Dying inside.
They whoop. One of them starts singing ‘It’s Raining Men’.
‘Can I borrow someone’s phone?’ I ask. ‘Please.’
One woman takes her pink sash off and hooks it around my neck, yanking me towards her. Her eyebrows are severe, her lips plumped up, huge. She smells of gin in a can.
‘Alright. If … you take your top off,’ she howls, to which the others all, of course, howl back.
I’m too tired to protest. And wise enough to know I don’t have a choice.
‘Hold out the phone,’ I say. ‘So I know you’re not having me on.’
The sashless woman takes her phone from her little gold handbag, holding it up high.
‘Go ’ed lad,’ she says. ‘Off, OFF, OFF …’ And so the chanting goes.
I unzip my fleece, a little slowly, (maybe) giving the girls a thrill. They squeal. Maybe I could become a stripper. I lasso my fleece over my head, gasping with cold, and throw it at the bride who catches it with a giddy amount of enthusiasm. Then, I lift the edge of my local brewery t-shirt, give a stupid wiggle, and with more self-loathing than I imagined was ever possible, I strip it off. The phone is tossed to me amidst wolf whistles.
Thank God I catch it, clean, and I open the browser, type Griffin Enterprises and find the only number ever used to get hold of Griffo’s dad. Nobody – not that I know anyway – has Griffo’s dad’s mobile number. Not even Griffo. Apparently. Griffo’s dad’s secretary answers. She puts me through to Griffo’s dad, who sounds as though he’s on a building site somewhere.
‘James?’
‘I can’t begin to apologise for not showing up today.’
‘You in trouble?’
‘Not trouble. Not exactly.’
‘Well, are you or aren’t you?’
‘No. I’m not in trouble. But I need a favour.’
‘Fifty grand for a car not a big enough favour, our James?’
‘The car … it’s gone.’
‘What? Stolen?’
I hate lying to Griffo’s dad. When we were teenagers we lied to him about taking his best whiskey from the cabinet. Later, he topped up the bottle with soy sauce without us knowing. The next time we went for a sneaky sip, all four of us puked.
‘Yeah, it got stolen.’
‘So how can I help?’
‘I just need to borrow a car. For a day. You’ll get it back tomorrow.’
Griffo’s dad pauses. In the background I hear clanging, metal on metal.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Get to my house. There’ll be a vehicle for you there.’
‘Oh, God. Thanks …’ I hesitate, never knowing what to call him. ‘Will it be insured?’
‘Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, James?’
‘No. No. Sorry.’
‘Twenty-four hours, James.’
‘Twenty-four hours.’
So, I’m going to make Zara pay for everything. And in return, I’ll take her all the bloody way to London.
21
Zara
Jim is talking to me.
Not grumbles or mumbles or a simple yes or no. Actual sentences. What’s more, he isn’t giving off that Jim thing where when forced to speak more than two words, it’s as though speaking is like passing gallstones. He is coherent. Melodic, even.
‘I have an offer for you,’ he says. ‘One that you can’t refuse.’
My laddered tights itch the back of my thighs and I wriggle on the suitcase I’m sitting on. Jim is dressed again, having done some bizarre striptease for a hideous bachelorette party across the road. Disturbingly, he’d looked pretty hot in doing so. I spotted him half-naked,