‘Right, I need to get going,’ I say. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Mam.’
‘Everything alright, love?’
‘Everything’s boss. I just need to nip home, get changed for the bonfire—’
‘He’s got a date!’ Ethel butts in.
‘Not exactly …’
‘Oh, that means he’s definitely got a date.’
I rub my eyes, scratch my head. Maybe I do need a haircut.
‘I had three children by the time I was your age,’ Ethel tells me, wagging her bloody finger in my face. ‘In fact, it’s borderline selfish that you haven’t given your mother some grandkids who live on this side of the Atlantic. Three children, I had. Three.’
‘There’s two cottage pies in the freezer,’ I say, kissing my ma on the cheek. Then she gives me a look – you know, the sort that only mothers seem to master – that suggests – no, tells me – to kiss Ethel, too. For an easier life, I grit my teeth, oblige. Ethel pretends to get all flustered and fans herself with the sudoku puzzle book lying on the settee, calling me a tease.
‘Wish your Yvonne a happy birthday from me,’ I say, opening the door.
‘She doesn’t look a day over forty,’ my ma reiterates. ‘I mean it.’
Cold drizzle hits me. I welcome its bite and zip up my fleece, my feet picking up a fast pace. I’m going to collect my prize. My golden chalice. It’s like being thirteen again and beating Snowy on the Sega. Christ, it’s better than that. I haven’t been excited about anything for so long that I’ve forgotten how to be excited. Doubt’s a fucker. It clouds my every right to be dancing on the moon, but let’s be honest, it protects me too. Still, I was told I’ve won a car. This is Christmas morning, this is my twenty-first again, this is an ice-cold cocktail whilst lying on a beach somewhere in the Bahamas. This is my turn.
I’m halfway down the street when I hear my name being yelled. Ethel’s standing on the step of my ma’s house, waving her arms.
‘Go and get us a four pack of toilet roll from the Asda, will you? It’ll only take you five minutes if you run. Hurry.’
5
Zara
‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav announces.
It’s nothing like I’ve imagined. I double check the address, and yes, this pleasant but dull suburban close is Clifton Crescent. Nick’s front door is in my view, third house along. Butterflies dance in my stomach. I know he’ll be there because he works from home. Plus his car is in the driveway. He’s sent me many selfies from that exact vehicle, recorded himself singing Queen songs to me from the driver’s seat as he rested his phone on the dashboard.
‘But it’s a house,’ I mutter. Not an apartment.
On my phone, I find the screenshot I took of Nick’s address below his email signature; Nicholas Consultancy, The Loft, 6 Clifton Crescent. Well, this is it. And it’s big, for a British house. Semi-detached with its own garage, the roof extension, which of course must be Nick’s office, clearly in view. Why had I thought he lived in an apartment? Hadn’t he told me that? A long front lawn spreads beneath a large bay window, well kept with a neatly trimmed hedge and a miniature wishing well. The front door has a cute plaque that says ‘Welcome to the Mad House’.
I adjust the rear-view mirror and give myself a check.
No smudged eyeliner, no goop in the corners of my eyes. Good. I grab my make-up bag and top up my lip gloss, a peachy pink. My scar is still more prominent than my long nose, the first damn thing I see whenever I catch a glimpse of my reflection. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone can see past that scar, it’s Nick Gregory.
Oh my God. I can’t deal with the fact that I’m here. I’m actually here!
I’m too excited to move. I want to relish every little detail. It’s like the moment where you receive a beautiful gift wrapped with a bow: although you can’t wait to open it, you also want to savour it as a mysterious box.
It’s bang on four o’clock; starting to go dark. How is the day almost over before it’s even begun? Mind you, it’s already eight o’clock in Dubai. What would I be doing if I was there, instead of here? Thursday nights are the start of the weekend. Restaurants are filling up, taxis difficult to hail, the