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A professional couple were offering free accommodation in return for cat sitting, but there was no additional payment. How was she supposed to feed herself? She imagined herself coming home to visit her parents and being so svelte and slim they didn’t recognize her.
She was about to give up when another job caught her eye.
Do you love driving?
Martha closed the laptop and reached for her tea. No, she didn’t love driving. In fact it was no exaggeration to say she loathed driving, and driving loathed her. She’d failed her test five times and eventually passed only because the examiner had been worried about his pregnant wife who had texted in the middle of Martha’s lesson to say that she was having contractions. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t noticed that Martha was in the wrong lane approaching a roundabout, and he hadn’t reacted at all when she’d failed to demonstrate even a hint of skill at reversing. She was used to inducing raw fear in her passengers, including her regular driving instructor, so it had been a relief and a surprise when the examiner had simply nodded as he’d discreetly checked his phone. When he told her that she’d passed she’d had to stop herself from saying, Are you sure?
Still, she’d been delighted and vowed to live up to his faith in her, only every time she slid behind the wheel she broke into a sweat. She felt like a fraud and an imposter. She expected the police to pull her over and tell her that they had CCTV footage that proved she hadn’t really passed her test at all.
Driving scared Martha. It might have been all right if she’d been the only person on the road, but everyone seemed to either be stuck to her bumper, or overtaking her like a racing driver competing for a trophy. She knew that what she needed was more practice, but ever since she’d driven his car into a ditch during a practice session, her father had refused to let her behind the wheel. It didn’t matter that he was an appalling teacher.
Wait until you can afford your own car.
As if that was ever going to happen.
She finished her tea and gazed out the window. From the bed she had a perfect view into the gardens of the houses opposite. Mrs. Pettifer, who was eighty-five and recovering well after receiving a new hip, was watering her plants.
What stories would she have to tell when she was eighty-five? Unless something dramatic changed, nothing that was likely to interest anyone.
She heard her mother clattering in the kitchen below.
“Martha!” her mother called up the stairs. “Kitchen floor!”
“I’m job hunting!” Martha opened her laptop again. She was ready to do anything. Better to do the wrong thing than nothing.
The driving job was still on the screen.
Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime?
Yes, she was definitely ready for that.
Curious, she read on.
Enthusiastic and competent driver needed for a road trip across America, driving from Chicago to Santa Monica. Generous salary, all expenses paid. Must be good-humored, flexible and friendly. Clean driving license.
Martha stared at it.
She definitely wasn’t an enthusiastic driver, and not by any stretch of the imagination could she be described as competent, but she was friendly, and she was also flexible, always assuming that they were talking about attitude to life rather than the ability to touch her toes without pulling a muscle because that was more her sister’s province.
She scanned the details again.
A road trip across America.
Why did it have to be a road trip? But hadn’t she read somewhere that America didn’t have many roundabouts? If it was all straight roads and no roundabouts then she’d probably be fine. Providing she didn’t have to reverse.
Her driving license was definitely clean, even if that was because no one in uniform had so far witnessed one of her misdemeanors. Also it had gone through the washing machine three times before she’d realized it was in her pocket.
How far was it from Chicago to Santa Monica?
She typed the question into a search engine and stared at the answer.
Two thousand four hundred miles.
She couldn’t begin to imagine a distance like that.
It was two miles from her house to the nearest supermarket.
Two thousand four hundred...basically one thousand two hundred trips to the supermarket.
