‘Right. Okay.’
Callum hefts his not-that-small suitcase into the back of the van effortlessly and even through his shirt I see his biceps flex. A little flashback of naked Callum pops into my head. I blink and look away quickly, even though he obviously doesn’tknowthat that’s what I was thinking.
It’s really weird how thinking about his much younger naked self feels quiterude. Like I’m being intrusive. And that is just odd.
Oh my God.
He remembers me naked too. Well, I say that. He was so out of it so much of the time that maybe he doesn’t. Plus, maybe he’s had so many partners since that we’ve all merged into one.
Okay, and now I’m annoyed at that thought. Really I’m being quite ridiculous.
Callum closing the rear door and climbing up next to me is a welcome interruption of my thoughts. Although I immediately realise that it’s also a very unnerving interruption. Callum, in all his largeness, is now sitting in the front of my van next to me. If I change gear too flamboyantly my hand might bang against his leg. I’ll need to be careful.
His voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘Thanks again. I really am deeply grateful. Can I help in any way to improve the journey? Map reading? Provision of mid-journey snacks?’ He looks at the – admittedly old-fashioned – dashboard and adds, ‘Help with tuning the radio or switching the wipers on?’
‘The radio doesn’t totally work,’ I tell him. ‘So I use my phone.’
About the windscreen wipers, there’s no need to tell him that there are basically none (there was an incident with a low-hanging tree a couple of days ago, which ended up with onecompletely broken off and the other one not working) so we can’t drive in the rain. But it doesn’t matter because no rain is forecast along our route for the next few days and as soon as we get into France I’ll get them fixed, so he never needs to know.
Actually, maybe Ishouldhave told him they’re broken; he might have decided not to come.
I open my mouth to say it and then close it again. He doesn’t seem happy to be here either; he’s clearly only joined me because he’s desperate to get back, so there’s probably nothing I can say to get rid of him, other thanpiss off out of my van(IwishI could say that) and this new Callum incarnation seems strangely big into OTT adherence to road rules (I mean the flip-flop thing –weird), so it would be better to say nothing.
So I tell him, ‘Google Maps help and snacks would be lovely, though.’
I suddenly frown. Why did he ask what he can do to help but not offer to share the driving? Also, I’m pretty sure that Azim said that he doesn’t drive.
‘Azim said that you don’t drive? That you don’t have a licence?’
‘Yeah,’ is all Callum says.
Does he not remember that I was there when he passed his test? I mean, he must do, surely, because it led to our break-up. Which, despite subsequent events (or lack thereof), was definitely huge for him too. Hemustremember it, surely.
He gotreallydrunk the night of the test. I had to take his keys and hide them so there was no possibility of him driving. He wassostupid then.
And the thought of him being his stupid self but with the ability (and apparently the inclination) to drive terrified me, and was part of the reason I ended up giving him an ultimatum: he had to stop the drinking and the insane alcohol-inducedwildness. We both cried a lot when I said that, and then he told me he’d prove himself to me immediately.
From there we started our ‘on-a-break’ split, and then… he never got in touch again.
Hedefinitelypassed his test.
But now he’s saying he doesn’t have a licence.
I kind of want to ask what happened, but also I really don’t. There’s no good story that I can think of behind someone having a licence and then losing it, and, really, that’s the whole reason that Callum and I aren’t living in suburbia right now with our two point five kids, a couple of cats and maybe a goldfish. His wildness. Other than that… I mean, I thought we’d be together forever. I’m guessing he did too. That would be why he proposed.
‘Okay, then,’ I say, and put the key in the ignition.
3
CALLUM
Emma turns the key right and left in the ignition as the engine sputters and… does not start.
I watch her tut at the van – as if it’s a living creature rather than an inanimate object – as she continues to turn the key.
I’m pretty sure she was thinking about asking me why I no longer have a driving licence. I’m very glad she didn’t; that is not a conversation I want to have with her.
It doesn’t seem as though the engine’s going to start.
