‘I know.’
‘I’ll come any time. I love you, sweetie. Any time you want to call.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will you … will you put Nicky on?’
‘Love you. ’Bye.’
Nicky’s voice was unreadable. ‘I’ve told him I’ll stay,’ he said. ‘But only to keep an eye on Tanze.’
‘Okay. I’ll make sure we’re somewhere close by. Is she … the woman … is she okay? I mean, will you all be okay?’
‘Linzie. She’s fine.’
‘And you – you’re all right with this? He’s not …’
‘I’m fine.’
There was a long silence.
‘Jess?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you okay?’
Her face crumpled then. She took a silent breath, put her hand up and wiped at the tears that were running silently down her cheeks. She hadn’t known there were that many tears in her. She didn’t answer Nicky until she could be sure they hadn’t soaked her voice too. ‘I’m fine, lovey. You have a good time and don’t worry about me. I’ll see you both in the morning.’
Mr Nicholls was behind her. He took his phone from her in silence, his eyes not leaving her face. ‘I’ve found us somewhere to sleep where they’ll let us take the dog.’
‘Is there a bar?’ Jess asked, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘What?’
‘I need to get drunk, Ed. Really, really drunk.’ He held out an arm and she took it. ‘Plus I think I may have broken my toe.’
23.
Ed
So, once upon a time Ed met a girl who was the most optimistic person he had ever known. A girl who wore flip-flops in the hope of spring. She seemed to bounce through life like Tigger; the things that would have felled most people didn’t seem to touch her. Or if she did fall, she bounced right back. She fell again, plastered on a smile, dusted herself down and kept going. He never could work out whether it was the single most heroic or the most idiotic thing he’d ever seen.
And then he stood on the kerb outside a four-bedroomed executive home somewhere near Carlisle and watched as that same girl saw everything she’d believed in stripped away, until nothing was left but a ghost who sat in his passenger seat gazing unseeing through the windscreen; the sound of her optimism draining away was audible. And something cracked open in his heart.
He had booked a holiday cabin on the side of a lake, twenty minutes from Marty’s – or rather his girlfriend’s – house. He couldn’t find a hotel within a hundred miles that would take the dog, and the last receptionist he had spoken to, a jovial woman who called him ‘duck’ eight times, suggested he just go self-catering, and told him of a new place she knew, run by her friend’s daughter-in-law. He’d had to pay for three days – their minimum stay – but he didn’t care. Jess didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure she even noticed where they were.
They picked up the keys from Reception, he followed the path through the trees, they pulled up in front of the cabin and he unloaded Jess and the dog and saw them inside. She was limping badly by then. He remembered suddenly the ferocity with which she had kicked the car. In flip-flops.
‘Have a long bath,’ he said, flicking on all the lights and closing the curtains. It was too dark outside by now to see anything. ‘Go on. Try and relax. I’ll go and get us some food. And maybe an ice pack.’
She turned and nodded. The smile she raised in thanks was barely a smile at all.
The closest supermarket was a supermarket in name only: there were two baskets of tired vegetables, and shelves of long-life food with brand names he hadn’t heard of, sitting, as they might well have done for months, under flickering strip lights. He bought a couple of ready meals, some bread, coffee, milk, frozen peas and painkillers for her foot. As an afterthought he bought a couple of bottles of wine.
He was standing at the checkout when his phone beeped. He wrestled it out of his pocket, wondering if it was Jess. And then he remembered that her phone had run out of credit two days previously.
Hello darling. So sorry you can’t make tomorrow. We do hope to see you before too long. Love Mum. PS Dad sends his love. Bit poorly today.
‘Twenty-two pounds eighty.’
The girl had said it twice before he registered.
‘Oh. Sorry.’ He fished around for his card, and held it out to her.
‘Card machine’s not working. There’s a sign.’
Ed followed her gaze. ‘Cash or cheque only,’ it said, in laboriously outlined ballpoint letters. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘Why would I be kidding you?’ She chewed, meditatively, at whatever was in her mouth.
‘I’m not sure I’ve got enough cash on me,’ Ed said.
She gazed at him impassively.
‘You don’t take cards?’
‘’S what the sign says.’
‘Well … do you not have a manual card machine?’
‘Most people round here pay cash,’ she said. Her expression said it was obvious that he was not from around here.
‘Okay. Where’s the nearest cash machine?’
‘Carlisle.’
He thought she was joking. She wasn’t.
‘If you haven’t got the money you’ll have to put the food back.’
‘I’ve got the money. Just give me a minute.’