Then, a gentle ‘Hey?’ and a glancing touch on my elbow. ‘Are you okay?’
I swallow the lump in my throat and give myself a couple of seconds before turning round.
I nod. ‘Not really a fan of hospitals.’
‘Neither am I. And I work in one.’
I give him a watery smile, embarrassed that he’s seen me like this.
‘You’re all dressed,’ I say, focusing on the living, breathing Mark in front of me. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and khaki shorts. ‘Theo picked out a nice outfit …’
The words die in my throat as I take in what’s on his feet: yellow flip-flops adorned with plastic marijuana leaves and Jamaican flags.
He notices my horror and shakes his head. ‘Theo’s idea of a joke. He claims he couldn’t find any of my shoes so went out and bought these.’
I smile, grateful for the distraction. ‘He’s finally standing up to you. Tig must be rubbing off on him’
Chapter 35
There’s a bit of to-and-fro-ing when we get to the car because Mark thinks his genitals entitle him to drive.
‘You’re not insured on this car.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘It’s my cousin’s car, and I’m not going to break the law.’
He makes a big show of huffing and accepting his fate in the passenger seat, sliding it as far back as it will go, but it’s still not enough to fully stretch his legs.
‘Are you in a bad mood because you’re hungry?’ I ask as I navigate out of the car park. ‘I can stop somewhere for food.’
When I flick my eyes to him, he looks sheepish. ‘I’m fuckingstarving.’
He directs me to a sandwich truck that’s usually parked on the road to the airport.
‘Panayiota’s chargrilled pork is the stuff of legends,’ he says.
When we stop at some traffic lights, a pink-faced man in the next car leans out of the window.
‘You are lush, darling.’ He waves a can of Heineken. ‘Bet your tits are—’
Mark leans forward and pins him with an incredulous stare.
The change in the catcaller’s demeanour is almost comical. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you there.’
The lights change, and the beered-up lads zoom off.
‘Fucking dickheads,’ he mutters.
‘Well, the important thing is they apologised toyou.’
He looks at me like he hadn’t noticed the omission. ‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly, ‘on behalf of all men who turn into sleazy arseholes whenever we see a beautiful woman.’
Before I can unpack what he’s said – he thinks he’s as bad as the yobbish tourists,andthat I’m beautiful? – he points up ahead. ‘That’s our turning.’
I hadn’t been hungry when I’d suggested a pit-stop, but once we park and start walking to the food truck, the smell of charcoal whets my appetite. I’m not sure I can manage the porksouvlakiwith all the trimmings that Mark orders, so I settle for a chargrilled chicken salad.
He stops me when I reach for my purse. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says in quiet exasperation. ‘Let me buy you a damn salad.’
