of the centrefold pin-ups I used to rip out of my teen magazines: the kind you’d collect week by week, desperate for the face bit (which always came last). Whenever we’re together, I see women glancing at him in appreciation. Not that there are any other women here now. Apart from us, the place is empty. The barman, who looks no older than Morgan, has already been smirking at us. I guess couples don’t often greet each other like this here. The clientele are usually solo travellers – bored salesmen, besuited business types – or couples too tired to drive the whole way home. They’re just breaking up the journey. They don’t meet here for dates.
He returns with my G&T and a large glass of red for himself. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ he says, planting another kiss on my cheek.
I smile. ‘Well, it’s still two days away …’
‘Yeah, I know. Wish I could see you then but I’m down in the West Country, can’t get out of it …’
‘It’s okay, I know how it is. I’m having lunch with the girls – everyone’s off on Friday – and I’m sure Morgan’ll pull something out of the hat.’
‘Yeah?’ Stevie laughs. ‘You reckon?’
‘Well, I’m not expecting a three-tier birthday cake but he might get it together to bring me a lukewarm coffee in bed.’ I chuckle as Stevie winds an arm around my shoulders.
‘I’d love to be with you.’ He pauses and sips his wine. ‘I’m actually thinking of selling the company. Sick of all this travelling, babe.’
‘Really?’ I am genuinely shocked. Stevie has built up his business from scratch and, from what I can gather, has done pretty well for himself. I can only assume he’s a workaholic, as he lives in an immaculate one-bedroomed flat above his office in York. Despite it only being a twenty-minute drive away, I’ve only had the pleasure of going there … once. He’s hardly ever home, he explained. It’s just a base, not somewhere he’s especially attached to.
‘I just want to see more of you,’ he adds.
‘Well, I’d like that too.’ I sense a flurry of desire as he rests a hand on my thigh.
‘The thing is,’ I add, ‘we could see each other more. I mean, we don’t have to stay in hotels so often, do we? Morgan doesn’t have a problem with you staying at our place, you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I realise that. He’s a good kid.’ Stevie crooks a brow as his fingers detect the bump of suspenders beneath the flimsy fabric of my dress. ‘But it’s nice to, you know … have privacy.’
The barman squirts a table with disinfectant and gives it a vigorous rub with a yellow cloth. I know what he’s thinking: They’re having an affair. I’ve already been blamed for the chicken bones and now I’m being labelled as the kind of woman who sleeps with other women’s husbands. And I’m not. Stevie has never been married, and has no children. Apart from living with a hairdresser in his early twenties – he refers to her as ‘the lunatic’ – he’s breezed through life pretty much doing his own thing. ‘Well,’ I continue, ‘there’s nothing to stop me coming over to your flat more often.’
‘That miserable little place?’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s another thing, darling. I need to get myself a proper place – a home – somewhere that’s not just a crash pad …’
‘I like your flat,’ I remark.
He looks amazed. ‘You like it? What on earth is there to like?’
I sip my G&T. ‘Well … it’s so pared down and uncluttered. You don’t have stuff strewn everywhere. It feels sparse and simple, like a holiday flat.’
Stevie smiles. ‘It’s not very homely, babe …’
‘I don’t mind, honestly. I have enough homeliness at home.’
He laughs and squeezes my hand. It is weird, though, this motorway fixation. I mean, I can understand the motel thing in the movies, in the States. They are tawdry and thrilling and slightly dangerous. Exciting things happen in those places. But this is an ordinary service station in Lancashire, with rain trickling steadily down the windows and a hoover droning away in the foyer. Stevie drains his glass. ‘Fancy another? Or shall we just head up to the room?’
‘It’s only just gone eight,’ I say, laughing.
‘Yeah, well …’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Got chilled champagne in my case …’
I grin. ‘Very tempting.’
‘And proper champagne glasses …’
‘So you brought your special seduction kit,’ I tease him, brushing away the tiniest thought that this doesn’t feel quite right either – this kit thing – or the fact that we never bother with dinner on our overnighters. But, hell, he is an incredibly sexy man. So I knock back my G&T and grab his hand as he takes my small overnight bag. I’ve already brushed aside my doubts as we hurry upstairs – there’s no lift – and tumble into our room.
We kiss fervently, like teenagers who’ve just discovered this thrilling act. As we pull apart, I register Stevie’s small black leather wheeled case parked beside the bed. I glance around the room, which is pretty standard for a motorway hotel: decorative turquoise cushions arranged diagonally on the bed; coffee- and tea-making facilities crammed onto a small plastic tray on the flimsy desk; a hairdryer on a stand; a notice about fire evacuation procedures and a guide to Interesting Things to See and Do in Lancashire. And that’s about it. They’re all like this: the four we’ve stayed at on the M62, and the others we’ve ‘enjoyed’ – and yes, I have enjoyed them in a bizarre kind of way – on the M6 and M1.
From his case Stevie lifts out a small leather box, in which two cut-glass champagne flutes nestle in an inky blue velvet nest. Not that I need champagne. That sole G&T would have done nicely. Then he’s lifting a tissue-wrapped bottle of Krug from the case – it’s properly chilled, he must have only just bought it – and popping it expertly open and filling our glasses.
We kick off our shoes and recline side by side on the bed, holding hands, legs stretched out. The bubbles whoosh to my head, and only momentarily do I wonder if Morgan will remember to lock the back door as well as the front.
Stevie kisses me, softly and slowly, and it’s so lovely I’m barely aware of the distant hum of traffic outside. Another noise starts up – a fan, or an air conditioning unit – then fades from my consciousness as Stevie peels off my dress, followed by the only decent underwear I possess: a black push-up bra and matching lacy knickers. I can’t quite fathom why sex with this man is so thrilling; perhaps because we only see each other around once a week? Or is it his relative youth, his taut, toned body? Or that we mainly do it in hotels? If you add it all up – the weird hotel meet-ups, the fact that I can hardly ever reach him on his mobile – you’d probably say, run a mile, woman, are you a raving idiot? You might even say, would the real Audrey drop everything to rush off and meet her date at a Day’s Inn Motel on the M6?
No, of course she wouldn’t. But I should also add that, before I met Stevie, I had actually given up on being in any kind of relationship at all. I’d started to wonder if I was emitting distinct dinner lady vibes, even when I was all dressed up for a night out. Perhaps, I’d begun to think, the whiff of school canteen macaroni cheese was emanating from my pores, and that was putting men off. For a while, I took to giving
