‘No, even better, I’ve borrowed a tent from Samira. So on the very slim off-chance that we do break down, we can just set up home wherever we are.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Callum tells me, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ve always wanted to sleep next to a motorway lay-by.’
‘Also,’ I say, deciding to ignore his annoying Miranda-related negativity (which he terms pragmatism), ‘I have averygood playlist for youandI know some of the actual words.AndI’m wearing shoes, not flip-flops.’
‘Nowyou’re talking.’ Callum opens the passenger door and hops straight in.
A few months ago he offered to put me on his car insurance and I said no thank you because the power of his Audi terrifies me. And then I politely offered to put him on my van insurance and he very impolitely said that he was very grateful for the gesture and no offence but he’d rather get a bus, train or any other mode of transport including walking barefoot over glass.
Two hours later, we’ve sung a lot of Abba (to which I genuinely do know quite a lot of the words) and we’ve moved on to a lot of songs to which I do not know the words and to which I’m forced to singlawhile Callum tries to drown me out with the actual words, and we arestill in London.
‘In hindsight,’ Callum says, ‘I wonder whether we should perhaps have left at a different time.’ There’s a train strike and it’s full rush hour and apparently thewholeof London is heading west like us for the weekend.
‘I always enjoy journeys with you,’ I say truthfully.
‘Me too, actually,’ Callum says. ‘Even the really bad ones, and that’s a compliment.’ It is. He still hates traffic jams. ‘And if I’m honest, I’m still grateful to Miranda for getting us back together.’
‘Me too.’ I’m beaming.
We eventually crawl out of the traffic jam and onto some more open roads and soon we’re flying along at a heady forty-eight miles an hour.
‘Referring back to our earlier conversation,’ Callum says, ‘what’s great about loving journeys in Miranda is that they go on for so incredibly long when we go at this speed. You do know the limit here is seventy?’
‘Every time,’ I say.
He can’t help himself. He knows I won’t actually speed up. I actually think he’d be terrified if I did because one thing about Miranda is that she really is quite rickety and if there’s even the tiniest of breezes you do feel as though you’re going to topple over.
We reach the pub I’ve booked for tonight quite a lot later than expected so it’s dark and we’ve missed dinner. (We had service station sushi instead – one day past its use-by date – genuinely quite nice, and Callum’s obviously in a very good mood because he didn’t mention possible food poisoning once.)
The dark doesn’t totally disguise the rubbish piled up around the pub’s front door, though, and all the peeling paint on the exterior.
‘Is this definitely the right pub?’ I ask doubtfully.
‘You booked it?’ Callum reminds me.
‘It looked a lot more well-kept than this in the pictures. And it won Pub of the Year.’
‘In 1998.’ Callum points to a partially torn poster next to the door. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely inside, though.’ He reaches above my head to push the door open and we go in together.
Five minutes later, we’ve been shown the chipped avocado bathroom (very smelly and shared with the landlord) and are standing just inside our bedroom door, both jaw-dropped.
‘What are you thinking?’ asks Callum eventually.
‘Erm. I’m not sure whether the stains, the flies or the moth traps are the biggest highlight. I’m thinking it’s lucky I brought that tent.’
‘I think you’re right.’
Two minutes later, we’re back in the car park, having left the room key on the bar.
‘I’m genuinely pleased to see Miranda,’ Callum tells me.
‘Finallyyou recognise her worth.’ I beam at him and we share a quick hug and a kiss, which is as nice as always.
As I turn the key in the driver’s door, so that we can drive somewhere a little more scenic to pitch the tent, something makes me look down. And oh.
‘We have areallyflat tyre,’ I tell him.
‘Fortunately,’ he says immediately, ‘I would very, very happily treat us to a taxi and a night in a luxury hotel as a birthday present to myself.’
