‘To remind you of me, Zara-Baby,’ the card had read, attached to the gift box containing three bold colours. Marina frequents nail salons at least once a week and occasionally invited me along. It was our bonding time, a chance to talk, except Marina always ended up talking to the nail technician (rudely) or to the woman beside her (in Russian).
I abruptly jerk forward, drawing a line of Purple Mystery down my left hand, the little bottle spilling its contents all over the thigh of my black jeans. Jim has pulled over into a gas station, various food outlets welcoming us to eat, drink, rest.
‘I need petrol,’ Jim says, twisting around to look at me. ‘Would you mind …?’
I fish out my purse. A deal is a deal.
‘I’ll fill up and wait here,’ Jim says.
It amazes me how men never need to use the bathroom. I’m bursting and run across the parking lot into the main hub, enjoying the chance to stretch my restless legs. It’s heaving, a long line of hungry travellers streaming from Burger King, from KFC, from Costa. A small, dark arcade jingle-jangles in the corner, a few truckers leaning against the one-armed-bandits, throwing away their money for no reason other than to feed their addiction, a kid crying because his dad won’t let him go on the Postman Pat ride. I buy two tuna melts and two cappuccinos to go.
When I return to the minibus, I slide the side door open and get back into my seat, two rows away, and lean over to give Jim his snacks. Silently, he gives me a double thumbs up and I realise he’s chatting on the phone.
‘Come on, Snowy lad, what’s the big news?’
‘Get your arse round here, mate,’ the voice is shouting back through the loud speaker.
‘Just tell me now while I’ve got you on the phone.’
‘Where are you, mate?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Spill the beans.’
‘Okay … okay … okay …’
‘Go on!’
Whoever ‘Snowy’ is falls silent, a hiss of air crackling through the speaker.
Jim lowers his voice a touch. ‘Is Helen pregnant again?’
‘Jimbo. Helen’d rather take a vow of celibacy than get preggo again. You know what she’s like, mate. Christ! You know what the twins are like.’
‘So, what’s the big news?’
‘James. I’ve bought a ring.’
‘A ring? As in jewellery?’
‘I’m gonna ask Helen to marry me.’
Strangely, my heart skips a beat when Jim’s glance catches mine in the rear-view mirror. His head falls back onto his headrest, releasing a long, silent sigh.
‘Jimbo? Did you hear what I said?’ Snowy shouts.
‘I did.’ Jim swallows.
‘I’m gonna propose to Helen.’
‘I got that. Fucking congratulations, mate. I’m – I’m made up for you.’
‘And so you should be. You better start writing that best man speech.’
‘No pressure then?’
‘And, I was thinking, we should reunite! The band! Do a turn at the wedding, like.’
‘What? “Video Killed the Radio Star”?’
‘Yeah, Jimbo, haha! Now, come over. The bubbly’s on ice.’
‘She hasn’t said yes yet.’
Snowy laughs – a hearty, explosive laugh – and it travels through Jim’s phone and bounces off the soft grey interior of the minibus. Jim joins him, and I almost do, too, for this Snowy guy’s laugh is infectious. I bite into my tuna melt, burning the roof of my mouth.
‘I’ll come over after work on Sunday, mate,’ Jim says. ‘I’ve got a lot on at the mo.’
‘Since when have you got a lot on?’
‘Look, piss off and go and make an honest woman of your girlfriend.’
‘Are you with a bird?’
‘No, I’m not with a—’
‘HELEN! HELS!’ Snowy was shouting. ‘Come here! HELS—’
‘Snowy, stop it …’ Jim says, trying clumsily to take his handset off loud speaker.
I can hear a woman in the background telling Snowy to shut up or he’ll scare the kids.
‘HELEN, OUR JIMBO’S GOT A BIRD.’
Jim grabs his phone. ‘I haven’t got a bird, mate.’
But, Snowy hangs up and Jim tuts, putting the phone back in the dock.
Another minibus loaded with children in matching sports kits parks up beside us and I clock a bunch of kids banging on the window and pulling faces. I go all cross-eyed and stick out my tongue back at them. One kid gives me the finger. I’m actually way more offended than I expect to be. Embarrassed, I take my tuna melt and my cappuccino and warn Jim that I’m changing seats, coming to sit up front with him.
‘Christ,’ Jim says, aloud but not directly at me. He’s staring at the signs ahead for Burger King, KFC and Costa, but seems a million miles away. ‘Snowy and