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‘A road trip, Joe! I’m quite excited.’ I hiccup.
‘I can tell,’ he says as he manoeuvres us out of Bristol.
It soon transpires that Joe and I have quite different approaches to road trips. Whenever I drive long distances, I like to get there in one go with ideally zero stops. Efficient. Joe takes a more leisurely approach, stopping for coffee and loo breaks with merry abandon. I learn this as we pull into the first of many petrol stations before we’ve even crossed into Wales. What could we possibly need?
The loo, it turns out.
I’m half a bottle of champagne down and my bladder’s at bursting point.
‘How are you feeling about this weekend?’ I ask after we’ve grabbed more snacks, hopped back into the car and I’ve wedged the champagne bottle back between my feet.
‘Surprisingly all right,’ he admits. ‘Everyone seems a lot less scary these days and I haven’t been cooked a sympathy meal in ages. I get to spend more time with you and it’ll be nice to see a bit more of the dads, too. I don’t know them very well.’
‘Yeah, it does seem to be mostly mums at pick-up, doesn’t it?’
Joe, staring straight ahead at the traffic, nods and I sense he has more to say.
‘But …’ I prompt.
‘They’re not really my sort of people,’ he concedes. ‘Like, I definitely would not be friends with the Battenbergs if we hadn’t been thrown together at the school gates.’
‘Totally get that,’ I say. ‘They’re an intriguing bunch.’
‘That’s for sure. And you like them so I’m happy to help.’
‘That’s really sweet …’ I trail off as I watch Joe changing gear. My temperature spikes and I realise, with a jolt, that there is something incredibly sexy about the way his hand is working through the gears. What is wrong with me? Have I lost my mind? Did Mum slip something into the champagne?
‘I do like some of the mums,’ I say, clawing back to the conversation we were having before I became a lusty Lucy. ‘Frankie’s a genuine friend now. We’ve set up our own splinter group from the Barnaby’s Babes WhatsApp and mostly just message each other with pertinent emojis whenever Celeste says something ridiculous.’ Quick glance at Joe. Both hands are thankfully back on the steering wheel. He smiles at me.
‘Mel’s cool too, she has her head screwed on,’ I carry on. ‘Celeste is obviously slightly mad and Tally’s a whirlwind. And I don’t really know Olivia that well yet. What I like best, though, is that I don’t feel like such an outsider anymore and that is having a direct impact on my daughter’s life. We’ve been on playdates and met friends in the playground thanks to all of this. And Lila is happy, Joe. That’s worth its weight in gold.’
Joe nods in understanding.
‘Werther’s Original?’ I ask, proffering a bag full of the buttery sweets.
‘Whatever next, Fox’s Glacier Mints?’ He glints at me.
‘I have those too. What are you implying?’
‘Nothing, Grandma.’
‘What a slur.’ I laugh, throwing a Werther’s Original into my mouth. ‘You’re missing out. These are a treat.’
‘Thought you’d ramp things up a notch after the egg-white protein bar?’
‘I will not be mocked,’ I insist, relieved to get back to the playful banter between us and find my temperature returning to normal. I flick the radio on and scroll through the options until the intro to a familiar song comes on.
‘God, I used to love this one,’ says Joe. ‘Do you remember it?’
‘Remember it? It was the anthem of my early noughties punk-rock phase.’
Joe splutters out an incredulous laugh as the lyrics kick in. Within seconds we’re belting out Sum 41’s ‘Fat Lip’ at the top of our lungs.
‘Trashed my own house party ’cos nobody came,’ we almost-shout in tandem, rolling through the first verse and into the chorus that I must have sung a thousand times when I was younger.
‘I DON’T WANNA WASTE MY TIME,’ we boom, now so loud I wonder if the other cars on the motorway can hear us. Turns out we still know the majority of the lyrics, with Joe doing an excellent job at the slow bit in the middle, and by the time the final chorus rolls around I’ve got my hands in the air and Joe’s using the steering wheel as a makeshift drum. (Also quite sexy. Perhaps I have a car fetish?)
‘What a song!’ I say, slightly sweaty, when we stop dancing.
