Chapter Eighteen

Breakfast this morning is a bowl of Russell and Jed’s granola. The box is almost depleted, so I add it to the shopping list I’ve been keeping on a scrap of paper on the front of the fridge, like Mum does. I also need bread, milk, eggs (because I am a scrambling queen ), biscuits to replace the ones I nabbed from Mum and Dad’s cupboard, and some coffee pods to replenish James’ stock. Although I actively dislike the man, I can’t supress the gnawing guilt of my coffee raids any longer – I had three yesterday while crocheting with Gran, which adds up to about two gazillion guzzled coffees. But before I can head over to the supermarket, I have my first driving lesson to get through. I’m booked in for nine o’clock, which is less than half an hour away and why I’m tipping most of the granola in the bin and my hand is trembling as I slot the bowl in the dishwasher. I’m incredibly nervous, but I’m finally at the point where I’m willing to give learning to drive a go. This doesn’t mean I think I’ll actually be able to pull it off; in fact, I don’t know whether I should laugh or cry at the prospect of me, in the driving seat of a car, attempting to control it. But I have to try. I have to be brave, because standing in the pissing-down rain and freezing my arse off at bus stops isn’t fun, and there’s nothing grown-up about being ferried around by your mum.

My instructor is called Connie, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it isn’t the woman climbing out of the plum-coloured Toyota outside the chippy. She’s quite short, but the blonde beehive hairdo and the heeled Mary Janes give her height a boost. She’s wearing a pink tweed blazer and matching skirt with a frilly-fronted white blouse, and I feel extremely underdressed in my usual leggings and oversized hoodie combo.

‘Cleo?’ She’s striding towards me, hand outstretched, showcasing impeccable French-tipped nails and a massive pink sapphire ring. Her grip is firm but brief as we shake. ‘Hello. I’m Connie, and this is Pixie.’ She indicates the car as she strides back towards it. My nerves are still in situ as I slide into the passenger seat, but Connie doesn’t give me the chance to overthink things as she goes through the formalities before we set off. It isn’t so bad, sitting here in the passenger seat as we drive through town, but I know that in a few minutes we’ll be switching places and I’ll be in control of the vehicle. All too soon, Connie’s pulling up at the side of the road and unbuckling her seat belt, and my nerves shoot up a gear when I realise we’re on Woodland Road, three doors down from Paul’s childhood house. The house I know his mum still lives in. What if she comes out of the house and spots me? Mentions it in passing to Paul?

‘Remember that girl you went to school with? The one who used to have the rainbow hair? I saw her having a driving lesson the other day.’

Because there’s no mistaking I’m in the middle of the driving lesson – the big red L on the roof of the car is a dead giveaway – and I don’t want Paul to know that I only started learning to drive to impress him.

‘Are you ready, my love?’ Connie’s opened the door and has swung her Mary Janes out of the car, yet I’m frozen to my seat, still buckled in, still staring at Shona Franks’ house.

It still has the same red door, with the same slightly crooked number 26 screwed above the brass knocker. I used to slow down as I approached this house, just in case Franko – Paul – was inside, perhaps on his way out and we would bump into each other, but now I want to run away as fast as I can.

‘Come on, it won’t be as scary as you think.’ Connie twists so she’s fully back in the car and pats me on the knee. ‘We’ll take it one step at a time, okay?’

I end up in the driver’s seat, but I don’t really have the chance to feel sick with nerves as there’s so much going on: there are seats and mirrors to adjust, pedals to learn, instructions to try and get my head around. I even forget to worry about seeing Shona going about her business three doors down. And then the next thing I know, we’re on the move. The car is in motion and I’m supposed to be the one in control of it. I’m in the middle of the road – but at least I’m still on the road, I guess.

I’m not good at this. I feel like a buffoon and definitely not in control of the car, but at least my instructor’s here to keep everyone in the vicinity safe. Connie is calm despite the hash I’m making of everything, and she coolly advises and encourages as we move along Woodland Road. We must be travelling at a snail’s pace, but it feels like I’m taking part in a Formula One race (or Mario Kart, Rainbow Road, 150cc, to be more accurate). I only take three positives away from the lesson when I emerge onto the pavement on jelly-like legs:

I only swore once (a teeny ‘Oh, shit’ as we set off for the first time. If Connie heard, she didn’t acknowledge it).

When I saw a squirrel dashing across the road, I didn’t point it out all excited and childlike (as I would under any other circumstance). I didn’t run it over either (does this count as another positive?).

I survived intact, if shaken.

‘See you in a few days, my love.’ Connie waves before rolling the window up again and pulling away.

I can’t wait.

‘I’m proud of you.’

It’s a few hours after the driving lesson and I’m still a bit jelly-like in the legs department. I’ve just told Claire all about it, and she’s somehow translated the horror of an imbecile behind the wheel to something to be delighted by.

‘You wouldn’t be if you’d been there to witness it.’ We’re in the shop’s kitchen, Claire slicing the potatoes into hearty chips while I’m preparing the batter for this evening’s fish. ‘I was all over the place. I can’t steer around corners properly, I can’t change gear, and I nearly gave us whiplash every time I applied the brake.’

‘It was your first lesson. Give yourself a break. Gently, so we don’t get whiplash.’ Claire grins at me and I stick my tongue out at her. ‘Seriously, you’ll get there. It just takes practice. And think about the freedom you’ll have once you’ve got your licence. You’ll be able to go anywhere. No more being stuck in crappy Clifton-on-Sea.’

‘I like crappy Clifton-on-Sea.’

I mean, it’d be even better if we had a Primark, and a post office that wasn’t in danger of being shut down every five minutes, but we have the beach on our doorstep, the best fish and chip shop in the north-west (the country?) plus a Costa and a Starbucks and a couple of independent coffee shops. What more could a girl ask for? I was desperate to leave town like most of my peers when I was a teen, but I’ll miss this place if Paul asks me to move to Kent with him, but I guess I’ll be able to pop back any time once I can drive.

‘My whole plan was almost scuppered today by that stupid driving lesson.’

Claire looks up from the chopping board. ‘How?’

I tell her about the start of the lesson, of sitting a few doors down from Shona Franks’ house in the learner car.

‘Why didn’t we think about his mum before?’ Claire scoops up the potato wedges and drops them into the bucket on the side. ‘What if she sees you working in the chippy? If you and Paul do get together, she’s bound to mention it.’

I shake my head. ‘I’ve worked here for years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Shona in here. She’s over on Woodland Road, so she probably goes to The Plaice is Right. It’s just around the corner from her house.’

‘Still, you’ll have to be careful.’

Which is another worry to add to the list, along with maiming someone with an out-of-control car.

The late afternoon quickly passes into evening and we’re kept busy with the teatime rush. I pass on my chip-wrapping expertise to Ross, who finally manages to produce a neat package that doesn’t spill its contents as soon as you pick it up. Claire puts a Seventies music channel on the TV bolted to the wall in the corner of the chippy to remind us of Russell, and we sing along to T. Rex’s ‘Get It On’ as we scoop, salt and vinegar, and wrap the chips. Ross doesn’t know the words, but he plays air guitar and drums his palms on the counter with admirable enthusiasm. Russell would be proud.

Riley arrives at the tail end of the teatime rush, and I’m not surprised to see him. He seems to know Claire’s work rota better than I do. He hangs back, pretending to muse on the menu board even though he’s going to order his usual, and would you look at that, it’s Claire who ends up serving him. Clever boy.

There’s a quiet period afterwards. Claire goes for a break in the little room at the back while Ross practises his new chip-wrapping skills on the handful of takeout customers and I wipe down the tables and set the dishwasher going. Custom picks up again later when the local slimming group session ends.

‘Two pounds off this week.’ Babs, as usual, is beaming, and she does jazz hands at me and wiggles her hips. Her joyfulness is why she’s one of my favourite customers, because you can’t be sad while Babs is around. ‘One more and I’ll have hit the three-stone mark. That’s the same weight as my grandson, that is.’ She chuckles as she rummages in her handbag for her purse. ‘I’ll have my usual, please.’

Babs’ usual is half a portion of fish with the batter taken off (‘You’ll have to take it off for me. I’ve no willpower. If it’s there, I’ll scoff it’) and a small serving of peas, and once a month (‘Never, ever let me have them more frequently, I’m begging you’) she has a tiny helping of chips.

‘How did you get on this week?’

Babs’ slimming group friend, Katrina, is next, and she holds up four fingers.

‘Four pounds? Wow. That’s amazing. Well done. Are you having your usual?’

Katrina’s usual is a cone of chips, no salt, with a drizzle of gravy. ‘Are you kidding me? I lost four pounds this week. I deserve a proper treat. Give me your biggest fish, a portion of chips and a battered sausage, please.’

Another slimming group member leans on the counter beside Katrina. ‘I’ll have the same.’

‘Are you celebrating too?’

She shakes her head. ‘Commiserating. Two pounds on, for the second time in a row. I’ll be up to my starting weight if this carries on.’ She holds up a hand. ‘But don’t worry, I’m back on the diet tomorrow and I’m starting “Couch to 5k” again and I’m going to get past week two this time.’ She nods at the condiments on the countertop. ‘Don’t scrimp on the salt and vinegar, love.’

It’s late by the time I lock up the shop. The Fish & Chip Shop Around The Corner may be small and it may still be low season, but it’s sometimes hard to keep up with demand, even with three members of staff, so I’m knackered as I head upstairs to the flat. As exhausted as I am, I still send Paul a message, as I usually do before going to sleep. I’m in bed, Bolan curled up by my feet as I tap out the message. Claire sent me a link to a careers test earlier, and I take it while I wait for his reply. I take the test three times, skewing my answers and downright lying to try to get a result that doesn’t involve social care (not happening) or something cooler than data entry or telesales, but there still isn’t a response from Paul and I can’t keep my eyes open a second longer and I fall asleep without hearing from him.