I don’t want to go there with Emma.
While she parks, I continue a boring monologue on the best and worst service stations I have known (I amdullon the subject) until Emma’s finished squeezing the van into a space between another van and a seven-seater car piled high with bags, bikes and people.
‘Oh mygoodness,’ she says, her yawn so big I can’t believe it doesn’t hurt her jaw. ‘I’msotired.’
She closes her eyes and slides down a bit in her seat. And just like that, she nods off.
She’s clearly actually asleep, not faking it like I was last night, because there’s no good reason for her to pretend now.
Her head tilts sideways against the door. Her lashes are dark against her cheeks, her ponytail’s coming loose and one of the straps of her dress has fallen down her shoulder a little. Her chest rises and falls gently and she stirs a little, and I just want to wrap her up in my arms and hold her.
I could watch her for hours.
Yeah, it’s a little bit weird to just sit and stare at a sleeping person.
I should get out and stretch my legs. I can’t, though, because we’re too close to the vehicles on either side for me to be able to open any of the doors enough to squeeze out.
Okay, fine, I can catch up on my emails. Maybe I’ll have my half of the packed lunch the monks very kindly insisted on providing us with. Emma can eat hers when she wakes up.
It’s tricky concentrating on emails, though, it turns out, because oh myGodit’s uncomfortable sitting here. I roll my shoulders and try to stretch my back and neck.Howdid Emma go to sleep so easily? She’s got the steering wheel in the way as well. I wonder how long I should let her sleep.
I wake with a start sometime later (minutes, hours, I can’t immediately tell which), a little confused. I’ve been dreaming about Emma, which is something that still happens to me from time to time and never fails to ruin the beginning of my morning; melancholy is not a great breakfast accompaniment.
I lie – slump – there for a few moments, eyes still closed, and scour my brain for ideas on where I am. And suddenly realise that oh my God I’mwithEmma in the camper van and that wasn’t really a dream. I open my eyes and see to my horror that I’m slumped so far over in her direction that I’m practically on top of her. I jerk myself upright and she stirs from the semi-curled-up position she’s been in and blinks a lot.
She lets out a big, sleepy sigh, and then says, ‘Callum.’ I love the sound of my name on her lips. I’m reminded of waking up next to her in the past and my traitorous body wants todo exactly what I’d have done then. And that is completely inappropriate.
I move as far left to my side as I can to put as much physical space between us as possible.
Emma blinks some more and then suddenly opens her eyes extremely wide and says, ‘Callum!’
Clearly she has just remembered where we are. Maybe she was dreaming about me too. I wonder if our dreams were similar. Back when we were together, I used to wonder whether she’d be thinking about me when I was thinking about her and whether we’d meet in our dreams. I was a fanciful idiot.
‘What time is it?’ she asks.
Yep, best to focus on practicalities.
‘No idea.’ I look around for my phone, because obviously the camper van does not have a working clock. I see it on the floor, where it must have slid when I went to sleep, and pick it up. ‘Two thirty. Wow. We must have been asleep for a good hour. That would explain my growling stomach.’
‘Shall we get out and eat the monks’ lunch and have a little walk?’ Emma suggests.
‘Good plan.’
The car to the right of us left at some point while we were sleeping, so we both get out on that side and wander round the corner of the restaurant building and over to where there are some picnic tables.
There’s a German family at the table next to us: parents and three small children. The youngest, who’s maybe two years old, is toddling around trying to catch birds.
After we’ve been sitting there for a minute or two, the toddler crashes straight into Emma’s leg and his mother comes over to apologise.
‘No, don’t say sorry,’ says Emma, laughing as the woman picks him up. ‘He’s gorgeous. I’ve been enjoying watching him. How old is he?’
And next thing she’s in deep conversation with the woman, Danika, so I start chatting to the father. About three-quarters of an hour later we’re still sitting there, sharing some slightly odd but quite moreish little cakes with them, and I’m wondering whether we’re even going to make it to Florence today.
‘We should probably make a move soon,’ I say. ‘Given that we’re aiming for Florence and we’d like to do some sightseeing. Darling.’
‘Ha,’ Emma says. ‘We don’t have to pretend to be married any more.’
Oh yes. She turns to her new best friend and explains about the monastery and that I’ve obviously continued to call herdarlingthrough force of habit.
