Nate.
Seriously, there is no getting away from him. Not even in the afterlife.
‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’ I round on him in disbelief. ‘You’ve killed me!’
‘Oh, stop being a drama queen,’ he snaps. ‘You’re fine. We hit a tree, that’s all.’
There’s a brief silence as I register this information. I’m not dead. Then . . .
‘That’s all!’ I exclaim. ‘You drive like a crazy man in a storm and crash into a tree and nearly kill both of us and that’s all! I’ve probably broken my arms and legs because of you!’
‘Well, have you?’
I wiggle my arms and legs. ‘No, but that’s not the point.’
‘That’s totally the point,’ he replies, rubbing his forehead in agitation. Letting out a deep sigh, he hugs the steering wheel.
Reluctantly I feel a beat of concern. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, no damage done,’ he says stiffly. ‘Not sure about the car, though.’
Following his gaze, I stare out through the windscreen towards the bright lights. Only now I realise, slightly shamefacedly, that they’re just headlights, and they’re shining brightly at the trunk of a large tree. Up against which the bonnet is completely scrunched.
‘Well, it still starts,’ he mutters, firing up the engine. ‘That’s something.’
Relief washes over me. Thank God. Soon I’ll be back at the inn safe and sound, tuck [€d sound,–€…ed up in bed.
I scratch that image. I’ll stick with just being back at the inn.
Rain is still drumming hard on the roof of the car as Nate sticks it into reverse and puts his foot on the accelerator. My relief is short-lived. There’s the high-pitched sound of the wheels spinning, but we don’t move. He revs harder. The wheels scream louder.
‘Fuck.’ Slamming his fists on the steering wheel, Nate flings open the door and disappears round the back of the car. He returns a few seconds later, soaking wet. ‘We’re stuck in the mud.’
Images of the warm, snug inn quickly start receding. ‘Who are you calling?’ I ask, as Nate pulls out his iPhone. Please don’t tell me it’s the studio. Or his real-estate agent.
‘AAA. We need a tow-truck.’
‘But how will they find us?’
He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. ‘It’s got GPS. I’ll be able to locate exactly where we are.’ He starts jabbing away at the screen.
‘Oh, right . . . great!’ The whole time I’ve hated that dratted iPhone, but now I take it all back. I feel a swell of gratitude. Thank God for Nate’s iPhone!
‘Except there’s a slight problem.’
‘Problem?’ I look at him warily.
Peering at the screen, his jaw sets. ‘There’s no signal.’
After twenty minutes walking along an empty road, in the pouring rain and pitch-dark, we make out distant lights. My heart soars as we trudge towards them and I spot a sign: ‘O’Grady’s Irish Tavern.’ Never have I been so happy to see an Irish pub. Pushing open the door, we stumble inside, soaking wet and freezing cold, and are greeted by warmth, light and ‘Fisherman’s Blues’ playing on the jukebox.
Spotting a payphone, Nate dives over to it, while I make my way, squelching, to the bar. The tavern isn’t very big. At the far end are a few tables and chairs, around which are gathered what look like locals – I’m beginning to recognise their uniform of yellow sailing jackets and beat-up khakis. Running along one side is a well-stocked bar, behind which are wallpapered hundreds of faded Polaroids. No doubt taken on previous St Patrick’s Day celebrations, I note, as everyone’s wearing green and there are lots of four-leaf clovers. The luck of the Irish.
I could do with some of that luck right now, I think, wearily hoisting myself on to a barstool, where a puddle rapidly de, dle>
‘Little wet out there, huh?’ The moustachioed barman, a fifty-something Hell’s Angel with a cut-off T-shirt and tattooed forearms, pauses from chewing a toothpick.
‘Just a bit.’ I sniff, resting my elbows on the bar.
He reaches underneath the bar and holds out a bar towel. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ Smiling gratefully, I wipe my face, then tip my head upside down and start towel-drying my hair.
‘It’s going to be a while.’
Hearing Nate’s voice, I flick my head back up. He’s standing next to me, looking like he’s just taken a shower fully clothed. Even his blazer couldn’t keep him dry, I think with a beat of satisfaction. I’m half tempted to let him drip-dry, but I take pity and pass him the towel. ‘How long?’
‘Apparently there’ve been a lot of accidents,’ he grumbles, rubbing his face roughly, ‘and there’s