‘I guess so,’ agrees Andrea. ‘Doesn’t look like Top Gun is going anywhere at the moment, so we won’t be stranded. Besides, he still has our phones. I presume he’s waiting to hand them over to whoever comes for us.’
‘I feel lost without my phone,’ I confess, eyeing the blue bag in the pilot’s hand. ‘I said I’d text Seb to let him know we’d arrived safely.’
‘And how is the lovely Seb?’ asks Zoe. ‘Still lovely, I take it?’
I smile. ‘Yes. Still lovely.’
‘Ooh, will we be needing to buy hats soon?’ says Andrea, giving me a nudge with her elbow.
‘I don’t think so. Marriage is certainly not on the agenda. Not for me anyway.’ I turn around and rest my arms on the gate, hoping we won’t be stuck here too long. ‘It’s very beautiful here,’ I say, trying to head the conversation off in a different direction.
‘Yes, it is,’ agrees Andrea. She leans back. ‘Now, tell us, why is marriage not on the agenda for you?’
‘Yes, why not?’ chimes in Zoe. ‘From what I’ve seen of Seb, he’s totally in love with you.’
I give a sigh, resigning myself to the fact that the conversation topic isn’t going away. ‘It’s not only me I have to think about when it comes to marriage. Whether it’s Seb or someone else, I’ve Alfie to think of.’
‘True, but he’ll be off to university this time next year. You won’t have to worry about him then,’ says Zoe.
‘Sounds to me like you’re using Alfie as an excuse.’ Andrea fires from the hip as usual. ‘What’s at the root of it? Darren?’
I can’t answer immediately. Andrea is far too perceptive. Zoe stretches her hand over and squeezes my arm. ‘You can’t put your life on hold forever. Darren is dead. What happened, you can’t change. You need to accept that.’
‘He can’t hold you to ransom from the grave,’ adds Andrea. ‘You deserve better than that. Fucking hell, what he put you through, I don’t know why you’re still so loyal. Your marriage was bad enough, the separation ugly, but to do what he did – and not just to you, but to do that to Alfie too. That was evil.’
Having Andrea as a best friend can be wonderful most of the time, but other times, she can be brutal in her honesty. I close my eyes tightly at the two-year-old memory of coming home from work to find Alfie on the doorstep. Darren had forced himself into the house and locked Alfie out. I will never forget the sight that greeted me as I stepped over the threshold. Darren had hanged himself from the banisters. I had tried to shield Alfie and to push him out of the house, but it had been too late. He had seen it. How did a sixteen-year-old lad ever get over that?
‘Andrea, don’t.’ Zoe’s voice is soft and full of concern. I feel her fingers rub my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Andrea. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, but sometimes I get so frustrated that you constantly punish yourself about Darren.’
‘Andrea!’ Zoe cuts in again. ‘Enough.’
I give Andrea a half-smile. ‘It’s OK. I know you’re right but I still have this tremendous amount of guilt and, no matter what, I can’t shrug it off.’ The truth is, I don’t deserve to shrug it off, not after what happened that day.
‘We understand,’ says Zoe. She nudges Andrea. ‘Don’t we?’
‘Yeah, of course we do.’
‘Can we not mention it again? Not this weekend anyway.’ I look at each of my friends in turn. ‘This is supposed to be a fun few days to celebrate Joanne’s birthday.’ I remain silent about the real reason why I don’t want to talk about my late husband. I ponder at the expression late husband and think how ludicrous it sounds. Late? What’s he late for? He’s been dead two years. Shit-husband, self-absorbed-husband, insecure-husband or even bastard-husband would be a better description. As always, I keep these thoughts locked away, allowing my loyalty to Darren to be misconstrued.
The sound of a car engine breaks the silence that has fallen between us. We all look towards the road. The engine grows louder and a black Transit-type van appears from around the corner, drawing to a halt on the other side of the gate.
A man dressed in blue overalls, who I estimate to be in his thirties, jumps out of the vehicle.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says, in a broad Scottish accent. ‘Good to see you made it safely.’ He slides open the side door and then walks over to the gate, unhooking it and opening it wide. He indicates to the van. ‘Climb aboard, your hostess is waiting for you.’
I look towards the pilot and am relieved to see him making his way over with the phones. Only once I witness the handover of the bag and I’m convinced the phones are coming with us, do I venture into the vehicle.
The back of the van is boarded out in plywood and fitted with bench-like seats along each side. The rear windows have all been blacked out so there is no danger of us being able to see where we are going. There is a plywood partition between the rear of the van and the driver’s seat, with a small rectangle cut out.
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Andrea, taking a seat next to me. ‘What’s happened to the plush MPV and private plane? Now we’re in a boarded-up Transit van.’
‘Oh, stop,’ says Zoe. ‘It’s a bit of fun.’
Andrea makes a grunting noise but doesn’t comment further. The driver appears at the door. ‘All belted up? Good. That’s what I like to see. We don’t want any accidents along the way. I’m sure Mrs Aldridge wants you all to arrive in one piece.’
‘Please tell me this is the final leg of the journey,’ says Andrea, folding her arms and blowing out a disgruntled breath.
‘Aye, in under thirty minutes, you will have reached your final destination,’ says the driver, before sliding the door shut, leaving us in semi-darkness. A small shaft of light streams through the gap in the plywood.
I’m not sure why, but I involuntarily shudder at the driver’s turn of phrase.
We sit in an uneasy silence as the van trundles along the road, our bodies swaying from side and side as the driver navigates what I can only presume to be small winding roads. I’m not convinced the lap belts will actually do much to save us if there is an accident and as the van hits a pothole and we jerk forward, I tighten the belt for good measure.
Although it is chilly outside, here in the van there is no air and I begin to feel a little stifled. I rest my head against the plywood which lines the van. Although my mind is clear and I know this is all a bit of fun on Joanne’s part and I know we are going to get out of here soon, my body is offering a different interpretation.
I’m conscious that my heart rate has picked up and I can feel sweat gathering under my arms. I concentrate on breathing in slowly through my nose and control the out-breath from my mouth. Techniques I have had to learn since Darren’s death.
I
