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That’s not washing with Wendy. “That don’t mean you want her to think you live with grubby carpets.”
Not seeing much point in pressing the issue, we say goodbye to the family, who all insist we send their best wishes to Nana Pauline even though they’ll see her themselves in a couple of days, and we jump in the car around ten, hoping to reach Sheffield by three.
No sooner have we jumped than I realise what a poor idea this was. It’s not the first time we’ve done the drive, but it’s the first time since I kissed him, we got really scratchy about me kissing him, and then I kissed him again in a slightly more negotiated way. So it’s not really clear how we’re supposed to interact when we’re trapped next to each other for five hours.
We have to go south to get north because of how driving through London is like swimming through treacle in winter, and we don’t say a word to each other until we hit the M25.
“It’ll be nice,” I say into the silence, “to meet your other nan.”
“Yes.” Jonathan doesn’t look at me. I mean, obviously he doesn’t because he’s looking at the road. But somehow he looks at the road even harder.
We drive on.
“And it’ll maybe be nice to see where I work,” I add. Because what I’m hoping is that once we get there, I can start remembering some more stuff and it won’t look too suspicious. And then maybe I can dig myself out of this awful amnesia hole.
“Yes,” agrees Jonathan.
I bite my lip. This is going to be difficult. “I’d not have—I didn’t think—we sort of agreed things wouldn’t be awkward.”
“They’re not awkward,” Jonathan says while staring straight ahead of him in about the most awkward way you possibly could.
“They’re a bit awkward.”
“I’m just trying to stay alert because it’s a long drive.”
Everything goes quiet again.
“We can talk,” I try. “You won’t spin off the road if we talk.”
Jonathan’s hands tense slightly on the steering wheel. “Of course not.” He flicks a cautious glance in my direction. “What would you like to talk about?”
Conversation, in my experience, doesn’t really work like that. I do my best anyway. “Okay, can we start by acknowledging thatwe kissed, and it was great, but since we both agree it can’t happen again while I work for yez, we should just try and enjoy the road trip?”
He gives a tiny nod but doesn’t say anything more.
And he carries on not saying anything more for a while. In desperation I resort to remarking on things I see out the window. “Ooh look,” I try, “cows.”
“Yes.”
“Do you reckon they’re Friesians?”
At last, he risks turning his head, if only to check out the cattle. “Aren’t Friesians the black and white ones?”
“Maybe. So what are the big beige ones?”
“Jerseys?”
“So what about the brown shaggy ones then?”
“Steaks,” says Jonathan.
Which makes me laugh. Which makes him laugh.
“Are you really,” he asks, “going to make small talk about cows for”—he checks the clock on the dashboard—“the next four hours?”
“I’ll admit,” I admit, “I am running low on cow banter.”
“Don’t worry. You might see a sheep next.”
