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‘Now, yeah.’
‘At after 10 p.m.?’
‘What’s wrong with after 10 p.m.?’
‘I .?.?. don’t know?’
‘Like I said. Vortex. I mean, no pressure. We can always go another time. Or not go at all, but .?.?. if you’re free, and you want to?’
‘I want to,’ I blurt.
‘Cool,’ says Jack and I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘So, I’ll pick you up? Text me your address.’
And within moments, I’m sprinting into Cate’s room into a scene that looks like something from a London basement spa. She’s reading by lamplight, a sleep mask on her forehead, her face glistening with skincare, and panpipe music playing. She was off work, ill today, with stomach pains she thinks are an early gift from her period.
‘Jack is picking me up in twenty minutes,’ I say.
And Cate, although groggy and dosed up on painkillers, bounces up and screeches, ‘Just when you least expect it, motherfucker!’ so loudly, Ralph bursts in, ready to wrestle an intruder.
*
It’s hard to know what to wear when you have no idea where you’re going, and also, when it’s raining and 10 p.m. in early November. Cate picked out my outfit and practically dressed me (of course), saying jeans were the only option. ‘You need to look casual, like you haven’t really thought about this,’ she said, and so here I am, getting into Jack’s car, in jeans, a tucked-in cream jumper and one of Cate’s belted trench-coats, which is thenicestsage-green colour I have ever, ever seen. I don’t know how she does this. Cate justknowswhat looks nice. Effortlessly.
Jack leans over and opens the car door. And although I see it often at work, it strikes me in this moment, how very Jack this car is. Different. Something you wouldn’t expect. It was his dad’s, who collects old cars and fixes them up, Jack told me once, and it lives in a garage while Jack travels. It’s a red 1974 Dodge Charger apparently (which means absolutely nothing to car-clueless me). It reminds me of the car they drive inPulp Fiction. ‘It’s a silly car, really,’ Jack once said. ‘But, why not?’
‘Good evening,’ he says, as I slide inside the car. The sharp, seaside chill of the night, the heat inside the car, the sight of him, the smell of warm leather, and Jack’s post five-a-side shower and orangey, peppery aftershave makes me shiver.
‘This is .?.?. intriguing,’ I say, ‘for a Wednesday night at half-ten. But, well,time is just a construct, Millie dot Chandler.’
‘That’s right,’ he laughs. ‘Nice impression, by the way. Spot on.’
Jack drives, and the radio plays quietly, as rain hammers the windscreen. The wipers screech against the glass, and I feel like I need to concentrate on breathing. I have no idea where we’re going, and there’s something thrilling about it. I feel like I want to hold his hand. I feel like I want to jump onto his lap, bury my face into his neck. I feel like I could let out a little squeal, ball my hands into excited fists. Instead, though, I make small talk, and we chat. And it’s unlike Jack and me, really. We don’t reallydosmall talk. But tonight, it feels like filler, the sort of chat you both happily entertain, before you know something .?.?. bigger might happen. And there’s something about the darkness of the car, the way Jack’s eyes are on the road ahead, one hand on the wheel, the way beneath the make-up, in the dark, Jack can’t see the flush on my cheeks, that makes me move onto something that keeps tugging, intrigued, at my sleeve.
‘So, what did happen in Manchester?’ I ask.
Jack pauses. ‘Manchester?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You and .?.?. Jess.’
‘Oh.’ Jack glances over at me. ‘I feel like you might be disappointed,’ he says. ‘George made it sound way more than it was.’
‘Try me,’ I say, wanting to hear but not, all at once.
‘Try you,’ he repeats, and something about the way he says that makes me blush. ‘OK, so, loads of us went to Manchester for work, and Jess and I, we sang karaoke together,’ he explains, the L of his thumb and index finger, resting easily against the steering wheel. ‘And Jess being Jess, got too drunk and fell off the stage and I spent the rest of my evening with her in an A&E department with a Domino’s pizza. Oh, and I had to carry her back to the hotel – she badly sprained her ankle.’
‘Ha. Oh. I see.’ I’m relieved. Just a little.
‘And she fell asleep on my bed.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘And then she threw up on it.’ He grimaces. ‘Lots of Domino’s pizza and mimosas. And she was too embarrassed at the reception desk to tell them, so I took the blame for it.’
‘Wow. How romantic,’ I say.
‘Romantic?’
‘Yes. Romantic of you. Romantic .?.?. for Jess.’
