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‘I wouldn’t know how to drive it …’
‘You won’t be driving it.’ Alexis beams. ‘Obviously we have a driver.’
Obviously.
‘Larry will take you wherever you need to go.’
The car is so full of balloons that I had not spotted Larry sitting in the driver’s seat. He gives me a cheery wave and honks his horn. The crowd cheers. I look back to Lila and the rest of my family. The sensible side of my brain tells me to stay and figure out how to get my car fixed. Take the practical approach. But there’s a much noisier side which is shouting at me to GO GO GO. (Or maybe that’s actually foghorn Poppy?)
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
But Alexis is helping me out of my own car and walking me over to the Aston Martin. Meanwhile Poppy has already unloaded my luggage and is slinging it into the boot.
‘Can I be a balloon when I’m older?’ Lila shouts, her little hand clinging onto a huge confetti-filled orb from the wedding. I rush over to give her a cuddle then I fold myself into the back seat of the Aston Martin, jostling for space with all the balloons which squeak as I climb in.
‘Step on it, Larry!’
Chapter 32
Larry has the mild manners of an OAP at bridge club and the cut-throat driving capabilities of a Formula One winner. It’s a disconcerting mix and at one point we’re going so fast that I fear we might break through the sound barrier. Early on in the journey, as we careered along narrow Cornish roads, I reached out for something to grab hold of in a bid for safety. My fingers found a packet of condoms on the back seat. I gripped onto them for dear life, all the while wondering if Chase and Alexis were seriously going to get down to business in the back of this vehicle? I’ve been clinging onto the condoms, along with the accompanying lube, ever since.
Meanwhile Larry has spent the drive telling me about his love for competitive duck herding, which he does on the weekends with his dog Nigel Mansell. Listening to tales of Larry’s extremely niche hobby is taking the edge off my emotionally fried brain.
‘I’ve got two ducks of my own, Ayrton and Senna. They are lovely little tinkers. They follow me down to the village pub on a Friday night for a pint. Right, here we are!’ Larry jovially announces as we slow down to skirt through Bristol.
Presumably Larry and I were travelling so fast that it was impossible to cling on to any 4G. Now we’ve stopped hurtling through a sonic boom my phone has connected again and pings with a string of messages from Joe. My heart somersaults.
Hey Sophie, I hope you have a great time at the wedding. Jx
I’m surprised he’s messaged me at all, let alone ended it with a kiss. We’ve barely spoken since he dropped the York bombshell. It gives me the tiniest bit of hope that I might be on the right path, but I don’t dare hope too much, just in case it all comes crashing down.
The next one reads:
Mum had an accident and is in hospital.
She’s going to be okay, please don’t worry.
The messages were sent yesterday and I curse myself for only just picking them up, mind whirring as I panic about Denise. I scroll down to find a new one from this morning.
All partied out?
Mum should be let out later today. I’m with her now x
That last one was sent less than an hour ago.
‘Larry, any chance you could drop me at the Royal Infirmary?’
‘No problem.’ He beams into his wing mirror, foot hitting the gas.
Just minutes later, we’re screeching to a halt outside the hospital, and my stomach is in knots.
‘Thank you,’ I say, scrambling to gather my stuff. ‘You’ve been so kind. Good luck with the next competition!’
Clattering out of the back of the Aston Martin, a cluster of ‘Mr and Mrs’ balloons escape as I go and it strikes me that I must be causing quite a scene. A thought corroborated when a couple of women having a fag by the hospital entrance call over ‘congratulations love!’, their dressing gown sleeves flapping as they wave at me.
‘I’m not married!’ I call back. ‘Just … er, in love!’
They chuckle as I race past, my weekend bag hitched over my shoulder. I try to make sense of the building. How on earth am I going to find one tiny patient in this rabbit hole? It’s got zones, for goodness sake.
