‘See? Now you’re spoiling it.’
He lay back on the pillow, his forearm over his eyes. She tried not to look at the broad expanse of chest above the strategically placed towel. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen a man’s naked torso other than at Des’s ill-advised Pub Beach Volleyball Match the previous August.
‘Go and lie down in the bedroom. You’ll be more comfortable.’
He opened one eye. ‘Do I get a SpongeBob duvet?’
‘You get my pink stripy one. But I promise not to regard it as any reflection whatsoever on your masculinity.’
‘Where will you sleep?’
‘Out here. It’s fine,’ she said, as he started to protest. ‘I’m not sure I’ll sleep much now anyway.’
He let her lead him into the tiny bedroom. He groaned as he collapsed onto the bed, as if even that caused him discomfort, and she pulled the duvet over him gently. The shadows under his eyes were ash-coloured and his voice had become drowsy. ‘I’ll be ready to go in a couple of hours.’
‘Sure you will,’ she said, observing the ghostly pallor of his skin. ‘Take your time.’
‘Where the hell are we, anyway?’
‘On the Yellow Brick Road.’
‘Is that the one with the God-like Lion who saves everyone?’
‘You’re thinking of Narnia. This one is cowardly and useless.’
‘Figures.’
And finally he slept.
Jess left the room silently, and lay down on the narrow sofa under a peach-coloured blanket that smelt of damp and furtively smoked cigarettes, and tried not to look at the clock. She and Nicky had studied the map while Mr Nicholls was in the toilet block the previous evening and had reconfigured the journey as best they could.
We still have plenty of time, she told herself. And then, finally, she, too, slept.
All was silent within Mr Nicholls’s room well into the morning. Jess thought about waking him, but each time she made a move towards his door, she remembered the sight of him slumped against the shower cabinet and her fingers stilled on the handle. She opened the door only once, when Nicky pointed out that it was just possible he had choked to death on his own vomit. He seemed the faintest bit disappointed when it turned out Mr Nicholls was just in a really deep sleep. The children took Norman up the road, Tanzie in her dark glasses for authenticity, bought supplies from a convenience store and breakfasted in whispers. Jess converted the remaining bread into sandwiches (‘Oh, good,’ said Nicky), cleaned the caravan, for something to do, went outside and left a message on Des’s answerphone, apologizing again. He didn’t pick up.
At ten thirty the door of the little room opened with a squeak and Mr Nicholls emerged, blinking, in his T-shirt and boxers. He raised a palm in greeting. He looked disoriented, a castaway waking on an island. A long crease bisected his cheek from the pillow. ‘We are in …’
‘Ashby de la Zouch. Or somewhere nearby. It’s not quite Beachfront.’
‘Is it late?’
‘Quarter to eleven.’
‘Quarter to eleven. Okay.’ His jaw was thick with stubble, and his hair stuck up on one side. Jess pretended to read her book. He smelt of warm, sleepy male. She had forgotten what a weirdly potent scent that was.
‘Quarter to eleven.’ He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, then walked unsteadily to the window and peered out. ‘I feel like I’ve been asleep for a million years.’ He sat down heavily on the sofa cushion opposite her, running his hand over his jaw.
‘Dude,’ said Nicky from beside her. ‘Jailbreak alert.’
‘What?’
Nicky waved a biro. ‘You need to put the prisoners back in the pen.’
Mr Nicholls stared at him, then turned to Jess, as if to say, ‘Your son has gone mad.’
‘Oh, God.’
He frowned. ‘Oh God what?’
Following Nicky’s gaze, Jess looked down and swiftly away. ‘You could at least have taken me out to dinner first,’ she said, standing to clear the breakfast things.
‘Oh.’ Mr Nicholls looked down and adjusted himself. ‘Sorry. Right. Okay.’ He stood, and made for the bathroom. ‘I’ll – uh – I … Am I okay to have another shower?’
‘We saved you some hot water,’ said Tanzie, who was head-down over her exam sheet in the corner. ‘Well, actually, all of it. You smelt really bad yesterday.’
He emerged twenty minutes later, his hair damp and smelling of shampoo, his jaw clean-shaven. Jess was busy whisking salt and sugar into a glass of water and trying not to think about what she had just seen. She handed it to him.
‘What’s that?’ He pulled a face.
‘Rehydrating solution. To replace some of what you lost last night.’
‘You want me to drink a glass of salty water? After I’ve spent all night being sick?’
‘Just drink it.’ She was too tired to argue with him. While he was grimacing and gagging, she fixed him some plain toast and a black coffee. He sat across the little Formica table, took a sip of coffee and a few tentative bites of toast, and ten minutes later, in a voice that held some surprise, acknowledged that he did actually feel a bit better.
‘Better, as in able-to-drive-without-having-an-accident better?’
‘By having an accident, you mean …’
‘Not crashing into a lay-by.’
‘Thank you for clarifying that.’ He took another, more confident, bite of toast. ‘Yeah. Give me another twenty minutes, though. I want to make sure I’m …’